Chapter 16
EMILIO
My dick is still wet when the bathroom door slams behind us.
Not in a sexy way. I barely got a crutch out before Mas is shoving my ass out.
As if I’m not clunking behind him, slipping a little on the tile because gravity hates me and because my cast is stupid and because the universe is cruel and unfair and also possibly jealous of my dick.
Massimo storms into the bedroom. Shoulders roll up to his ears like he’s doing shoulder shrugs, but without the weight.
“Bro.” I’m huffing and puffing, breathing hard because that bathroom sex should honestly count as cardio. “Hey. Slow down. Damn.”
No answer. He yanks a towel off the bed like he wants to strangle me with it. I scratch my chest. My heart’s beating all weird. Not from the fucking. Okay, partly from the fucking. Mostly because Massimo’s acting like someone hogging the squat rack for too long.
“What’s your problem?” I ask, hopping over to him. “Why’re you acting like a little bitch?”
Mas whips around so fast I literally flinch. His jaw clenches hard like his teeth will break and fall out of his head. Like a Greek statue, but a very pissed-off edition.
“You ruined everything,” he grits out.
I blink. Then look around the room. Look at the bathroom door where the shower still runs. Everything looks fine to me.
“How?” I lift my arms like Jesus, asking God why he gets the shitty assignments. “How did I ruin anything? She literally said, “Your turn, Nene.” I didn’t force her. She wanted the Dimas double feature. Director’s cut. IMAX experience. Why are you mad at me?!”
Massimo laughs, but it’s not a good one. It’s hollow and icky. His face turns into that of an evil villain, the Joker, and not the cool one like in The Dark Knight, but the super old, bad one with some dude named Jack in it.
“You told her to move in.”
Ah. That. Okay, yes, I said that. In the heat of the moment. While coming hard enough to see my future in her body. In her pussy that was gaping wide fucking open as I pummeled her.
“But bro,” I argue, hobbling toward him, dick still half when thinking about her creamy donut hole. If only she’d let me stuff my cream in there. “You were thinking it. I see the way you look at her. Googly eye and shit. I was just being emotionally honest! Everyone says women want honesty!”
Massimo drags both hands down his face like he wants to peel it off.
“Emilio. She panicked. Did you not see that? She wasn’t blushing. She wasn’t turned on anymore. She was scared. She shut down. You pushed too far.”
My chest twists. I don’t like it.
“Bro . . .” I scratch my head, confused how this is my fault.
All I did was say what he didn’t. “I didn’t mean it weird.
I just meant it like we like having her here.
And she looks hot in our house. And she’s soft and smells like papaya or some shit.
And I want to wake up to her every day. That’s not crazy.
Fuck, you’re the one who loves her. Hell, maybe I could love her too.
I already love her fast ass and DSLs. Did I tell you how hot they looked wrapped around my . . . no, not the time?”
Massimo’s head snaps up, murdering me with his look seven ways to Sunday.
“Not crazy?” he repeats quietly, almost dangerously like that damn Joker again. “Not crazy to try to tie her down when she’s barely letting herself stay for lunch?”
My stomach drops. Oh fuck. He’s scared, like really fucking scared.
And now I’m scared, because if Massimo, the stable one that has shit all figured out, is scared, then maybe this is worse than I thought.
But instead of saying something helpful, I choose humor.
My go-to when shit gets real, and I don’t want to deal.
“Bro, you’re just mad because she orgasmed harder with me.”
He lunges, ready to pulverize me and not her ex. I try to move back, but my shit slips on the floor because the universe hates me and wants me dead. His fist misses my face by millimeters. The wind from his punch caresses my face. That would have hurt badly if he connected.
“ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!” he roars, winding it back again for a second attempt. “AHH WAIT, brO. CALM DOWN. MY RIBS. MY LEG!”
He stops with his fist ready at my face. Breathing hard. Eyes wild. Chest heaving. Like an angry, horny bull.
“You think this is about sex?” he snarls in my face, and his breath makes me want to vomit. How did my angel let him kiss her with that rank ass shit happening in his mouth?
“Well . . . I mean . . .” Fuck. Shit. I swallow. “Partially? Maybe? Probably? I don’t know, man. You’re the one who started this. You picked her. I’m just backing your play like brothers do. You’re the one making it all complicated and shit! Does she even know about Cecilia?”
Mas grabs his hair, pacing now. So, he didn’t tell her yet. Well, now who’s fucking shit up?
“You don’t get it. You never get it.”
That hits harder than his punch. We’re close.
Too close, some say. Like that fuck Darko Dommy, but what does his grumpy ass know?
His family is totally fucked, from what I hear from the guys.
My family is perfect, close, and awesome.
I know everything about my brother, but even I don’t know what cheap shot he’s getting in or why.
“Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?”
He stops again. Doesn’t turn around. Just stands there, his shoulders tight, fists tight, everything tight.
“You treat everything like a game.” He sighs, sounding like a woman giving birth or something. “Like a joke. Like nothing matters. Like, your actions don’t hurt people. But they can, and you will. The shit you say pushes her away. She’s just going to go back to her life and cut us out.”
My windpipe closes. My ears clog, and I suck up the snot in my throat to clear both.
“What . . . what do you mean ‘cut us out’?” I ask, confused and defensive because hello, I’m too delightful to push anyone away, especially my hot angel who fell from Puerto Rican heaven. If I ever meet her parents, I’m thanking them for making that masterpiece.
Mas finally turns. His eyes are all glassy. Not crying. He’d stab me before crying, but close.
“You don’t listen. Not to me. Not to her.
Not even to Ryan, who’s literally dedicated to your healing.
” I’m not that bad. Ryan and I just bullshit back and forth, but I eventually end up listening to half of what he says.
Nah, maybe less than that. “You bulldoze. You joke so you don’t have to feel anything real.
And when someone actually does like you, you ruin it by forcing too much too fast.”
Weirdly, I feel that one in my bones. My ribs hurt. My cast hurts. My dick hurts from post-sex sadness.
“I didn’t—”
“You did.”
His voice cracks, about to cry. It’s the crack that kills me. Massimo never cracks. Shit. Something terrible slides through my body. I think it’s worry or fear. It’s odd and new, and I don’t really feel it. I don’t like it.
“And we’re going to lose her if you don’t stop.”
“Bro . . .” My voice drops, real quiet. “You think she’s gonna leave us?”
He doesn’t answer. That’s the worst damn answer of all. I wobble to the bed and sit. My cast sticks straight out like shooting the bird at me. I might even deserve it this time.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” I mumble, staring at the line of dirt where my cast ends by my toes.
It’s sort of gross, but Ryan said it happens to everyone.
“I just . . . I don’t know. I said stuff.
I say lots of stuff. And she was moaning, and I was moaning, and I didn’t want it to end. So yeah, I said what I felt.”
Mas pinches the bridge of his nose.
“It felt right to you. Not to her.”
I swallow hard. Paco waddles into the room because he loves me and knows I’m emotionally dying and in need of my support animal. But he immediately trots to Mas.
To my brother.
The betrayal hits me like a Mac truck.
“Wow,” I whisper, dramatic as hell. “Even our son hates me.”
Mas rolls his eyes. “He’s not your son.”
Paco barks at me. As if he’s siding with my brother. Damn, everyone hates me.
“Yeah, okay, I get it,” I grumble. “Fine. You hate me, Paco. Everyone hates me. I’m the villain. The Joker in this story, but I am better looking than Heath Ledger. Blah blah. Doesn’t matter, little dude. My own brother hates me more than my own son.”
He exhales, the towel now around his waist, while my dick is softer than an old grandma’s tit. Sticky and stuck to my leg. He flops down by me. Exhales loudly but not on purpose. More sad or mad or both.
“I don’t hate you.” His tone is less mean. I lean into him, put my head on his shoulder, believing him. He tilts his head against mine. It’s quiet. Just the sound of the shower and Paco snoring in the pit of my brother’s dirty shorts.
“And Sofia doesn’t hate you,” he adds, like he’s trying to believe it himself. “She just needs space.”
Space.
I hate space. Space sucks. Space is where friendship and relationships go to die. He knows that. I know that. Paco knows that.
“So, what do we do?” I mutter, scratching my chest.
Mas lifts his head from mine. I straighten up. Roll my shoulders back. My post come bliss is gone as fuck. And the source of it wants fucking space.
“We give her room to think. We stop ambushing her emotionally and sexually. We stop overwhelming her with us, with everything we want.”
“You mean I stop being me?” I mumble, scratching at the plaster even though I know I can’t get to the itch underneath.
My stomach hurts. My chest feels weird. I don’t like any of this.
“Is this how you felt with Cecilia? All hot and weird. Worried and wanting to say just fuck it. Let her go. We were fine without her. But then that sucks and makes it hurt right in here.”
I stab my chest, rub the area that feels not right.
“I don’t want it to hurt in here, Mas. I don’t want to be like you. Crying over a girl who doesn’t want me. Is this how it felt? Make it go away, bro.”