SULLIVAN #2
Chelsea is a hell of a kisser, and that’s what got me hooked on her in the first place, but kissing Knight is on a different level.
He’s hungry and aggressive, but then it’s like he realizes how aggressive he’s being and puts a leash on himself, and then he drops the leash again.
It’s a roller coaster of a kiss where half the time I’m bent backward, and the other half I’ve got him shoved against the rickety old house.
I’m fucking dizzy from it and hard again, but this time I don’t want to jerk off.
I take hold of his face and manage to break the suction between our mouths to say, “You keep this up, you’re gonna get fucked.”
He groans, and his mouth crashes into mine again, tongue taking me over and sending me backwards. Then he whimpers and pulls away, his forehead thudding against mine. “Fuck, you’re so goddamn sexy.”
I smooth my hands over his head, thinking maybe that will settle him down. Settle us down.
“Sorry,” he says.
I press a soft kiss on the tip of his nose and immediately regret it because his shoulders relax completely, like it meant something to him. “It takes two to make a kiss like that happen,” I say.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Thanks for thinking I’m sexy.”
He laughs softly. “You’re welcome.”
“I’m not the only guy who’d keep your secret, you know?”
“But you will, right?”
“I have so far.”
“Are you really gonna let me help you with algebra?”
“As long as you don’t actually expect me to learn algebra.”
He smiles.
“Yeah, you can be my tutor, champ. You gonna invite me to your fancy house? Sit me down at your kitchen table?”
He grins. “What movies have you been watching?”
“Never college porn,” I say with a smile, and it makes his smile widen.
“I have access to a lot of houses this summer. Some of them might even be nicer than this one.”
“I highly doubt that.”
“I mean you’re welcome to come to my house if you want. But there’s a lot of people there this time of year.”
“Right,” I say. “The twins.”
“The twins, my sisters. Uncles visit randomly. You never know.”
I can’t even imagine a house like that. “Sounds fun,” I deadpan, but I bet it really is. Fun, I mean.
“You’re welcome any time.”
“I meant fun for you.” I ease myself out of his grip and off his lap. “Is that offer to take me to my car still good?”
“You’re leaving?”
“Unless you want my dick in your ass and you have lube, then yes, I should probably be going.”
He gawks at me.
I grin. “I take summer vacation very seriously.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Think about it? I’ve gotta have some way to pay you to take my algebra tests.”
“It’s not—I’m not—”
“Relax. I’m kidding.”
I’m not actually kidding, and I’m pretty sure we both know that based on the look we’re sharing.
Do I know what I’m doing? Not really. Did I realize how trapped I felt last week and how goddamn good any taste of freedom would feel? I don’t think so. Not like this. Not like Knight who’s good and kind and safe.
“Okay,” he says softly.
We don’t talk anymore as I get all my shit and take it to his fancy Lexus, which he tells me is his mom’s.
He waits for me to be buckled up before he turns on the car, then puts his arm across the back of my seat.
He turns his head to look out the rearview as he backs down the overgrown driveway even though a high definition version of it is displayed on a huge screen on the dashboard.
During all the orgasms out back, it got really dark with no moon or anything. “I parked off Shore Drive,” I tell him.
“No problem. Some reason you didn’t just drive right up to the house?”
“Yeah. In case someone showed up with a gun.”
He laughs.
“Why the gun?” I ask.
“Oboes sound creepy in abandoned houses.”
If he were a little harder to like, that would be helpful, but of course he isn’t.
I tell myself it’s because he’s not famous enough yet.
Once he gets to where he’s playing on TV every Saturday, surely he’ll turn into an asshole or some version of one I don’t have to worry about.
But then I remember what he said at The Front about all the kids who are trapped by their circumstances that he wants to help, and I don’t think it’s possible for someone who thinks like that to be an asshole.
It only takes a few minutes for his car to get to mine. He helps me move my stuff into the Audi, which I hope he doesn’t ask about.
He doesn’t.
When all my things are inside, and he closes the rear driver’s side door, I put my hands on the car, one on either side of him, caging him in.
Before he can say anything, I kiss him because I can and I want to, and he wasn’t going to do it first. “Can I have your number?” I ask when I pull away.
He blinks away the daze in his eyes and says, “Uh, sure.”
I get my phone out of my pocket and type in the number he gives me. I send him a text, and his phone chimes loudly from somewhere on him. “That was me,” I tell him.
“Right. Hey, can I ask you something?”
“Sure. Can’t promise I’ll answer, though.”
“How should I be thinking about this?”
“About me? However you want to.”
“But like…what’s the truth?” he asks.
“You tell me, QB. But I’d suggest not thinking too hard about it.”
“Got it.”
“I’ll text you when Algebra starts,” I say.
“Okay.”
“And you have my number,” I remind him.
He nods. I kiss him again, softer and slower this time, wanting to hear that whimpering moan again. After a few seconds, he gives it to me, and I pull slowly away. “You can use it whenever.”
The click of his swallow and the firmness of his latest erection are intensely satisfying in a way that I usually only find a perfect harmonic to be.
“Until then,” I say as I back off.
“Good night,” he says, voice husky and low.
It takes a lot not to drop to my knees, unzip his pants and take care of this one thing for him before he goes.
It’s what I want. Badly. But I have to tell myself there will be a next time.
If not with him, then maybe one day when my life doesn’t feel like such a nightmare, I can have whatever I want.
The next few days leading into the weekend are boring with the occasional spikes of adrenaline accompanying the handful of texts I get. Chelsea prefers to communicate with actual phone calls, so the texts are all from Adrian.
When I got the first one after that night at the abandoned house, my stomach sank when I saw it wasn’t from Knight, which confirmed the one thing I wasn’t sure about. I want him to text me.
It means, of course, that all Adrian’s texts are now met by my nervous system with anticipation and a rapid heartbeat at the sound of the chime, and then dread at the sight of his name.
Long story short, he’s on my ass about my algebra grade, which he finally saw once I left his house. Since he pays my tuition, he insists on access to my grades.
I sent him proof that I’d registered for an online summer course, and he confirmed I wasn’t lying by logging into my school account.
The class starts next week, and it’s not six but four weeks long.
My only hope of passing it is full on cheating.
As brilliant as I may be about music, math has always shut off my brain, no matter how hard I try to focus.
I get by in other courses because there’s almost always something interesting to latch onto, but I can’t find that with math, even when it’s very, very important to the big picture of my education.
If it was required for my literal survival, I still don’t think I could muster the interest required to get me through it.
In the meantime, I’ve gone back to the old house every day once my mother and Emma leave ours for the day.
I think about Knight intermittently, but my time there is mostly consumed with music.
Occasionally, my mouth will water at the transient memory of Knight’s cock inside it—that silky-smooth, stone hardness on my tongue nudging down my throat, and I’ll stop playing whatever instrument is in my hand or set down my pencil to cup my dick and wait for the uncomfortable lust to pass.
The music is the point, though. I work like I’m on the verge of a breakthrough, which I may or may not be.
I’ve had this fire in my veins before—this feeling that a revelation is at hand if I can just keep going long enough to reach it.
Most often, it comes to nothing. And sometimes, it results in a piece that will make Adrian gasp.
This thing I’m working toward—a complete project—has yet to materialize.
My brain is too crowded with theories and the work of all the composers who came before me.
College has cluttered my mind. The more I know of the work of others, the less I’m able to distinguish myself inside it.
Is this derivative? Has someone done this before?
Am I unintentionally copying the work of greater musicians who came before me?
I understand now what I need from this summer—besides a passing grade in algebra. I need to remember my own point of view. To strip away all the work of dead men and find myself in the spaces between the notes.
It might not come easy. Nothing seems to anymore.
It’s Sunday, and it’s the day I’ll see my father. Depending on how the visit goes, it may be the only time I see him this summer. Depending on how he’s doing, it could also be the last time I see him.