KNIGHT
Chapter Eighteen
Things fall apart fast when they fall apart.
It starts with losing the bowl game on New Year’s Day.
It’s followed very shortly with Blake’s public announcement that he proposed to a longtime girlfriend I didn’t even know he had.
He’s only twenty, so I saw none of this coming.
Spring semester starts with me in a shitty, angry mood because I’m not allowed to be depressed.
It hurts, and it’s humiliating. Wanna know who never lost a bowl game? Yeah—I’m the first of my line to accomplish that.
And the thing with Blake? He posted the announcement on his socials.
I gave the post a like, and I haven’t heard from him since.
He ghosted. I’m lucky, I guess, that he didn’t block me.
Well—lucky isn’t the exact word I’d use, but since he’s my biggest competition, it should theoretically be helpful if I can keep up with his game.
He’s a thirst trap, though, and my pathetic ass still jerks off to some of the workout reels he posts.
None of this came up when we spent a weekend in a motel together over the short Christmas break.
Not one goddamn time. He fucked me like I was the only piece of ass on the planet, and while neither of us issued any proclamations, he was not shy about doling out praise and compliments—also a lot of gratitude—like for my existence.
What I feel about him now is some toxic combination of devastated and enraged.
There’s some fear in there, too. Like if I make one wrong move, he’ll out me, and that thought has tempted me more than once, in my darker moments, to send him the pictures or even the videos of him I took while he was sucking my dick.
If I’m going down—so will he, so to speak.
And he might be able to pretty it up with a hot fiancée and say he was only experimenting, but it would ruin his future the same way it’d ruin mine.
I haven’t done it yet, and I tell myself he’s unhappy.
Deeply unhappy with this stupid direction he decided to take his life without ever once bringing it up to me.
I’m still a little obsessed with him. Still check his socials more than once a day.
Still think about him almost constantly.
And when I’m not thinking about him, I’m thinking about Sullivan.
Sometimes about what he told me about other guys on my team, and sometimes just about him.
But for whatever reason, thinking of Blake hurts less than remembering Sullivan, which makes no sense at all.
Being burned and ghosted twice in a row has got me comparing what happened with Blake with what happened between me and Sullivan.
It’s not easy to compare the two, but there are a couple of major similarities.
Both of them used me. Both of them took advantage of how far back in the closet I’ve shoved myself, relying on that fact to protect themselves.
Both of them dropped me without a second thought.
But then I think, well, Sullivan’s not exactly in the closet anymore, is he? Not if he’s selling blow jobs and God only knows what else out of the bedroom in the house he shares with Chelsea and that other dude.
I’m at the gym one day in March—Spring Break has come and gone.
I went home for the week, but I stayed with my sister Kora and her family rather than subjecting myself to my father and his particular brand of well-intentioned discouragement.
I swear, even showing my face around him brings up that fucking bowl game, and I replay every single thing that went wrong, which technically had very little to do with me, but I’ve still decided I could have fixed everything single-handedly—even my best running back’s torn ACL… if only I were pre med.
Our defense had fucking sucked. And yet, if I’d been able to help the offense get into the end zone more often, we still could have outplayed Pittsburgh.
Still—the outcome of the game made it look like the other quarterback had his shit together, and I was outmatched.
The one day I spent at my parents’ house was all right, though.
My dad didn’t bring up football at all, and in retrospect, I kind of wonder if that was worse than if he had.
The free weights in the gym are right next to the treadmills.
Two guys are talking loudly enough to hear themselves over their pounding strides and the whir of the cardio equipment.
They’re talking about a party on Oak Street.
The location, along with the vaguely coded language they’re using, means it’s one of those parties.
I spent plenty of time after the one I went to trying to figure out how word gets out about when they’re happening, but I never could, and I didn’t want to ask anyone because it’s kinda like I said the first time.
I can’t be going to those. I can’t get caught there if something goes down with law enforcement or whatever.
When I get home from the gym, I hole up in my room and try again to track down the source of the information.
It has to be online somewhere, right? While I’m great at stalking Blake, finding any information about campus prostitution quickly proves impossible.
My failure makes me frustrated, and it’s also got me thinking way too hard about Sullivan sucking dicks. Sullivan in general.
I’m not helpless, though. I’ve got his phone number. My dick hasn’t known anything other than my hand for months, and I blame it for the text I send.
me
How do people find out about these parties?
He takes his time returning my message even though I saw it got read right away. It’s a while, but less than an hour before he responds.
Sullivan
There’s a private group online. But also there’s one every weekend, so no big mystery.
Every weekend?
I have a hundred questions.
Me
Are you always there?
Sullivan
Why? Miss me?
Me
That was a yes or no question.
Sullivan
Yes.
Me
Got it
Sullivan
Are you planning to stop by again?
Me
I can’t be seen at one of those things
Sullivan
Except that one time?
Me
Didn’t really know what I was getting into that time
Sullivan
Really???
I glare at the phone because how does he even know that? I’m getting angry, and I don’t even know why.
Me
I definitely didn’t know you were part of it
Sullivan
That’s a better kept secret. You guys are all so freaked out by your own needs, it’s like you’ll barely admit them to yourselves.
I don’t love being lumped in with every repressed dude on campus, but I can admit that his use of the word “need” does make my dick perk up.
Me
What are your needs?
Sullivan
Making money
That pisses me off, too.
Me
That’s it, huh?
Sullivan
Can I ask why you’re on my ass about this? We haven’t talked in months.
Me
Sue me for being curious.
Sullivan
What’s wrong?
The question feels like a direct attack.
Me
Nothing. Why?
Sullivan
You’re being kind of an asshole, and that’s not like you.
Me
How would you know?
Okay, maybe I see his point.
Sorry. I’m not trying to be.
Sullivan
What are you trying to do then?
Me
Maybe I want to make an appointment or whatever
I stare at the phone, instantly wishing I could take back the text, but also—my heart is in my throat as he types a response.
Sullivan
What happened to the boyfriend?
I clench the phone in my fist, barely managing not to hurl it across the room.
Me
Does it matter?
Sullivan
Oh, okay. So you don’t want this to be friendly. My mouth costs fifty bucks to use for fifteen minutes. And there’s no appointment necessary. You just show up and wait your turn.
Why that gives me a painfully stiff erection, I’ve got no clue. But two things stop me from taking him up on the half-assed offer. One—I’d want more than his mouth. And two—I can’t be seen at that house.
Unfortunately, I’m so turned on and simultaneously drawn back to him, I don’t think I can let this go that easy.
Me
Do you ever arrange to meet anybody outside the parties?
His response makes me a little sick.
Sullivan
Sure
Me
Does it cost extra, or what?
Sullivan
Yeah, of course it’s extra. It increases my risk exponentially.
Me
Even with someone you trust?
Sullivan
Ha. Who the fuck can I trust?
Me goddamnit. Why the hell would he think otherwise?
Not for the first time, I realize there’s something seriously wrong with Sullivan Scott.
Whether it’s some condition he was born with like his musical skill, or it’s something he’s acquired from having a shitty life, I don’t know, and he’ll likely never tell me.
Not that I can blame him for that. It’s not like there would be a point in getting to know him better.
I had to keep myself from falling for him with both hands last summer, and if he’d kept seeing me when we got back to school, I’m pretty sure I would have gone ahead and fallen anyway.
But he’s changed, and I guess I have, too, because I’m more than willing to give him some cash to meet me some place private and allow me the use of his mouth. I wouldn’t even need the whole fifteen minutes.
Me
I’ll pay. Just say where and when.
Sullivan put all the parameters of when and where to meet on me, and I understood why when I realized how hard it was to find someplace private on a campus this big, this full of people—in a town that’s beginning to recognize me.
His house is a hell no. Mine is an even bigger hell no.
A motel is a maybe, but what if someone saw me there?
Campus is completely lacking in empty buildings, and there are students and faculty everywhere.
All it leaves me with is my truck. Growing up, I never saw myself as the type of guy who would own a big ass pick-up truck, but when I found out I was going to college in the Ozarks, it seemed like a good idea, and it turns out, I like it.
I took a day off classes to drive around, looking for someplace remote and private.
It wasn’t too hard one once I got out of town.