Page 47 of Darkest Obsession

He is such a good fucking kisser.

Chapter Twenty-One

Thomas

I’m fucked in the head. Worse, I’m fucked in the thighs and everywhere else. Kit has headphones on when I get back to the room and he’s humming Hey Jude by The Beatles far too loudly. At least he’s focused on homework or something. I can strip and examine my wounds in peace. I stand in front of my mirror, barely able to move from the impact of Clover’s rough hits. I fucking hate how I look — like a monster.

I take my shirt off and holy fucking bruises. She got me good. I touch the parts of my torso she hit and wince at each bruise. After the third, I press really hard on the one near my oblique muscles on the right side of my body. Fuck it hurts. My lips curl into a smile. She hit me so fucking hard and she liked it. I don’t know why, but I like cleaning myself up, watching the wounds she created. There are more on my legs.

I take my trousers off, grateful that Kit hasn’t turned around to make some stupidly inappropriate comment. Rowing stops me from getting pudgy off dining hall food. The bruises on my thighs are somehow worse than the bruises on my torso. I remember them hurting like hell, but I didn’t intend on turning purple. Those will be there for a while. Fuck’s sake.

“What the fuck happened to you?”

Shit. So much for my roommate’s distraction.

“Nothing.”

“Get in a fight with a bear?”

“Something like that.”

“Want a drink?”

“Yes.”

We shouldn’t drink on a school night, but… who the fuck cares? Kit has unlimited access to liquor thanks to his cousin Crispin and who the hell am I to say ‘no’ to delicious Caribbean rum?

“Roll for us, then,” Kit says. “I need a spliff.”

“Need?”

“Dumped again, mate. I’m sick of it. Is Sylvia single? Think she’d go for me?”

“No.”

“Why not? I’m fit. Aren’t I fit?”

“Kit…”

“It’s not gay to help a lad’s self-esteem, you twat.”

“Bit gay,” I mutter, searching Kit’s desk for weed and papers. He pours us large glasses of Barclay rum with ice from his mini-fridge and I finish rolling us up.

“We can’t smoke inside. We’ll get caught.”

“By who?” Kit says. “Relax.”

“I’ll crack a window.”

I crack the window and sit on the sill. Kit sits at his desk and sips his rum.

“So, roommate. Long time no see. Who do you fancy?”

“I don’t fancy anyone.”

“Really? ‘Cause you’re half-naked and covered in bruises,” Kit answers. “Sounds like a good night.”

I chuckle. “Yeah. Maybe.”