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Oh, I fucked a trans guy and touched the scars to prove it.
“Ever thought of bottom surgery? Cute little dick and all, but a little more girth wouldn’t hurt.”
And we are so done with this transaction.
I don’t utter a single ‘sorry’, ‘thanks’, or ‘see you later’. I yank my boxers and shorts up, toss my discarded tee over the mess on my chest and stroll my happy ass out of the closet like I didn’t just get off one of the most insufferable meth heads I’ve ever met.
Back in my room, my suitcase is already primly packed, and by that I mean I’ve got a week’s worth of dirty clothes crumpled up and tossed in, ready to hit the basement washing machines of Queer House. I don’t remember what the actual building is called, but that’s the name most of us have dubbed it.
In only a few short hours, Blair will be here to pick me up, and as much as I’ve hated every second of being here, at least I’ll get to go back and set up my half of mine and Atty’s room and get back some degree of normalcy.
I may have botched our relationship with that stupid dare, giving him an ultimatum between my brother and me, and then nearly offing myself with a lethal mix of drugs and alcohol, but I’m hell bent on making it up to him.
Three months in this rehab center—with my cocktail of medications finally plateauing the mudslide of chronic illnesses in my mind—and there are a few things that are abundantly clear.
Number one, mending mine and Atty’s friendship is my top priority. Falling in love with him was a colossal mistake. I’m going to have to train my heart away from it if I want to salvage us.
Number two, there’s a desire inside me I can’t seem to satisfy. One that manifests to the thoughts of rough, calloused hands on my body and something hard and thick in my holes. I’ve never indulged the fantasies before, figuring they were some fucked up trauma response, but the ache has gotten stronger since I’ve acknowledged the foreign attraction coursing through me.
Just a few hours, and I can start putting my life back together. I can stop listening to the voice in my head that hisses all night long on how I’m worthless and may as well wither away in here.
That everyone is better off without me.
Because even if I hate myself, there’s at least one person on the outside who can’t help their thoughts coming back to me. Who is at least as miserable as I am every single day because willingly or not, they were part of the darkest moment of my life.
And they didn’t do a damn thing to help me until it was too late.
Chapter 2
Shiloh
“What the hell do you mean I’m not rooming with Atty?”
Blair and Atlas share a glance, and then Atty plops down beside me on the sofa. He reaches for my hand, and if I hadn’t been starved for affection the last three months, I might have yanked it away.
Instead, I grip it back. Maybe hard enough to bruise a few knuckles.
“I’m going to stay here with Blair and Noah.”
My jaw aches from how hard I’m grinding my molars together.
“You said that wasn’t happening.”
Atty sighs, turns my hand over and draws little stars over my palm with his pointer finger.
“I know. A lot happened, Loh. You overdosed. You almost died on me. I don’t know that I could survive losing you.”
“Then why?”
Blair steps over, kneeling in front of me, and it’s like I’m five years old again being told my mother isn’t coming back. It’s like being fifteen and shaking like a leaf as I try to give my first dose of testosterone, only to have Blair come and take the needle from my hand and do it himself. All while reassuring me that there was nothing wrong with me.
Even though we both know now that wasn’t true—it just had nothing to do with being trans.
“Shiloh.” Blair takes my other hand, and the nostalgia almost isn’t enough to quell the rage rattling in my ribcage. “The school had some concerns. About your health. About coming back.”
I dig my fingers into the back of his hand, shaking my head before he can get another word out.
“They can’t kick me out. It’s not… My meds are working now. I’m sober. They can’t do that.”
