“So, yeah. Like I said, you can totally punch me.”
He’s still talking, blabbing a little, but my mind is somewhere else. I avert my eyes from his face and say the first thing that comes to my mind amidst his ramblings.
“You’re sure you didn’t sleep with her?” The words come out sharper than I intend.
Even though I never felt murderous towards him for sleeping with her, hearing him say that changes the whole picture. It reframes everything. I find myself wondering why Sandra would do this. Why not just tell me she wants out of the marriage instead of fabricating a lie?
“I’m pretty sure I would remember if I’d slept with her, and I don’t appreciate her putting me in that position.” This time I can hear the anger in his voice.
There’s something about him that I cannot quite put my finger on. He is nervous, of course, that much is obvious. His shoulders are still tense and his hands keep fidgeting. But there’s something else underneath that. He keeps talking, words spilling out in uneven sentences. I should probably say something, but all I can think of is that he’s so . . . beautiful.
That thought stops me cold. I stumble back without meaning to, my throat suddenly dry and I remember I haven’t even told him why I wanted to speak to him in the first place.
“Uhm, I wanted to tell you to stop running away after training. There’s no reason you can’t hang out with the team.”
“I can?” His eyes light up immediately. It’s such a simple reaction, but it smacks me square in the chest. A shiver runs through me without warning, starting in my arms and trailing down my back.
My brain stutters, then stalls completely.What the fuck is happening to me?
I want to say something. Anything that sounds normal or sensible, but my mouth feels dry and empty. All I manage is a stiff nod because speech has abandoned me completely. The room suddenly feels too warm. I need space and air. I reach behind him, fingers fumbling for the door handle, but before I can turn, his hand closes around mine and my whole body seizes. His fingers are warm and firm, not too tight but not letting go either.
I am aware of the way he’s looking at me, like he’s trying to read something on my face. My pulse jumps, loud in my ears, and I stay still, caught between the urge to pull away and the strange need to stay exactly where I am.
His lips part slightly as he licks them, just enough to make the movement noticeable. “Thank you for not hitting me. I will mingle with team,” he says, voice earnest. Then he steps back, gives me one last look, and leaves.
The door shuts behind him, and I stay where I am, staring at the wood. I let out a shaky breath I did not realise I am holding. There is something unexplainable going on in my chest, making it beat at a scarily fast rate. I stare down at my sweatpants, at the bulge that I refuse to acknowledge and squeeze my eyes shut.
No. No, no, no . . .
I am not—I am not hard. I am not turned on by Austin Coker. It has to be something else—we were talking about Sandra. Yes. That’s the safer explanation. The more acceptable one. But even as I’m telling myself that, I’m not sure I believe it. Heat coils through me, my body feeling alive in ways I have never felt. I feel restless, like I can’t get comfortable in my own body until I find release.
My hands itch at my side, and before I can think, they’re moving on their own, pushing down my sweatpants and fisting my dick. I thrust into my fist quickly, my hands shaky as I keep stroking. But it is not enough, I want more.Oh God. I bite down on my bottom lip as I smear precum down my hard length and continue stroking myself from tip to base. A whine tears out from the back of my throat, and my knees buckle. I stumble towards the bed, gripping the edge to steady myself. But I can’t stop fucking into my fist.
I try to think of Sandra. I really do. I force her face into my mind, but it is wrong somehow. The details blur and shift. Her eyes aren’t black as usual; they’re dark brown with gold flecks. Her cheeks are sharp where they should be soft. Her lips . . . I shake my head, but the image doesn’t go away.
My hands move between my thighs, my head dropping back as I keep jerking myself off, hard and fast. I hate that it feels so good. I hate that I can’t stop. My mind screams at me to stop, but my body ignores it until my balls draw up and I come harder than I ever have.
I slump back against the pillows, my chest heaving, staring at my sticky hand, guilt and shame warring in me.
What the fuck just happened?
4
AUSTIN
—Stressed Out
by Twenty One Pilots
I am pacing.I never pace.
My bare feet are dragging soft lines across the cool tiles in my hotel room as I talk to Sandra on the phone. Back and forth. Back and forth. My mind is spiralling and looping, doing that fun thing where it refuses to land on anything useful. I mentally kick myself for letting Sandra drag me into this mess.
I have deep respect for Johnson. Always have, he’s literally a hero in my eyes. And my respect for him just tripled with the way he handled our encounter just now.
Except at the back of my mind, I think he doesn’t believe me and it’s a trap.
I was going to talk to him eventually, but when I saw him on the first day of training, I panicked. And now, like always, my thoughts don’t stay where I put them. They start drifting and then get stuck on him.
