Maybe this is like that hippie crap about manifestation where they claim the subconscious can’t distinguish the negative from the affirmative. ‘I can’t do it’ has the same meaning as ‘I can do it’, or some shit like that, because it’s all about the feeling behind the words. I’m probably talking out of my arse. Who the fuck knows? Amy told me all this shit one night while she was riding me dressed up as Tarzan’s Jane. Forgive me if my brain wasn’t keeping up. I was Tarzan for the night.
But maybe that’s what this is. Maybe my subconscious can’t tell a dick from a pussy. Sex is sex, right? Or perhaps my brain thought,You fucked Jane, so you might as well give it to Tarzan, too.
Nope, hell no! I need to get out of here.
With my mind made up, I escape the room as if running from a swarm of rabid bats. I need to sort myself out with a hard fuck and a high-stakes football game to purge some of the testosterone pumping through my veins.
Mum smiles at me over her shoulder, stirring a pan as I enter the kitchen.
Don’t worry, my erection deflated at an alarming rate the moment I heard her singing to Paul McCartney.
“I’ll help set the table,” I offer, opening the cutlery drawer.
“How did he seem?” she asks, dish towel flung over her shoulder.
Horny.
“He seemed fine,” I reply, placing the forks and knives down, feeling my cheeks heat. “He was asleep when I got in.”
“It’s a big change. Poor guy.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask what happened to him, but I’d rather talk about anything else than the latest object of my cock’s fixation.
While I finish setting the table, Mum discusses her plans for an upcoming church fundraiser. I’m only half listening, my ears pricked for any creaking or shuffling sounds of him coming down the stairs.
Five minutes later, Dad enters the kitchen and kisses Mum on the top of her head. When she asks him to call Neriah and Arkin down so they can join us, my heart thuds harder, but before I can gain a handle on my nerves, Mum shoves me onto my chair with a hand on my shoulder. “Sit,” she orders.
While she plates the food, the others join us at the table. Neriah dips her garlic bread into her lasagna and takes a large bite, ignoring our dad’s glare. “We haven’t said grace yet, young lady.”
She rolls her eyes, and I smile, but then I get caught in Arkin’s blue irises. Dad says grace, and we tuck in. For the duration of the meal, Arkin eats like he worries he might not see food again anytime soon, the corner of his mouth stained with sauce as he takes a large bite of the garlic bread.
Mum beams, pleased he enjoys her cooking, and holds out the breadbasket. “Help yourself to more.”
Arkin looks at no one while he eats, but I can’t seem to take my eyes off him. While my dad discusses the upcoming game and our chances of beating our rivals, I find myself glancing at the mysterious dark-haired stranger at our table who hasn’tspoken a single word since he entered our home. In his short time here, he’s fucked his hand, slept, and ate a lot. The man has no issues looking after his basic needs: sex, food, sleep.
When my dad turns his attention to Mum, I open my mouth to say something to my sister but frown instead when I see her watching Arkin. What the hell? I nudge her with my elbow, a question on my face. She peeks at him again and reaches for her glass of water.
Conversation flows around us as we finish eating. My sister keeps stealing glances at Arkin, unaware that I’m growing more and more uncomfortable by the minute.
The moment she thanks Mum for the food, I follow her upstairs to her bedroom. She turns to close the door, but I push my way in, catching her by surprise.
“What the hell, Zach?”
“I saw you looking at Arkin.” I keep my voice low in case he’s outside in the hallway and shut the door.
“I wasn’t looking at him,” she answers, her brows pinching.
Why am I so fucking frustrated?
I scan her messy room and the fantasy posters on her purple walls, which depict everything from fairy castles to mermaids. Rubbing my forehead, I try my hardest to remain calm. “We don’t know anything about him, Neriah. He could be dangerous.”
She huffs a breath and plops down on her four-poster bed. The purple curtain has been tied back to reveal the skull pattern on her bedding. She smooths it now, looking smaller than I’ve seen her before.
“He’s just interesting.”
Hesitating, I sit beside her. “Interesting, how?”
She shrugs, avoiding my gaze. “He’s different, you know? I’m different.”
