Page 30 of Loverboy

I didn’t so much as flinch at his words. He’d said far worse things to me before from the same place of brutal honesty. I translated the scathing remark the same way I always did.

I’m worried about you.

“What else am I supposed to do?” I asked, sitting up and crossing my legs.

“Take a fucking break, like a normal person.” He rubbed his face, leaving his glasses askew.

My nose scrunched at the subtle jab about being normal. “Have you tried minding your own business?”

“You are my business, dumb ass.”

Brotherly love at its finest. The tough love kept me on my toes, making me value his opinion more than anyone else. Except when it came to the people I should date, there was no helping me in that area. I was a lost cause.

“Quit judging me, asshole.” I huffed.

“No. Someone has to.” He smirked, and I wanted to punch it clean off his face.

“I’m going to order dinner tonight.” Jasper poked my forehead. “And you’re going to eat it. Understood?”

“Roger that, Dad,” I mocked.

“Good.” Satisfied with my response, Jasper left my bedroom and closed the door.

I returned my attention to my phone, which had begun to buzz with notifications. There were more matches on the dating app, and a few texts from friends.

Completely against doctor’s orders—AKA Jasper—I was already plotting the sickest get-together ever. Our house parties were always pretty wild; thanks to a handful of party games we played that almost always spiralled out of control. One time, it had even ended in an orgy, not that I’d participated. If I couldn’t manage a casual hookup, an orgy was definitely out of the question.

In the meantime, I needed to be a little responsible and get my shit together. The bills wouldn’t pay themselves, and Jasper couldn’t pick up my slack forever. The world hadn’t stopped spinning because I’d tried to kill myself, and I had one extra bill this month—a five-hundred-dollar ambulance fee, the little cherry on top of my attempted-suicide cake.

I made decent money as a photographer, and living in a shithole meant rent was affordable, so I had a lot of flexibility to take the time off I needed. A few rapid-fire mini-sessions in a rented space would catch me up in no time. All I had to do was put up the ad, and I’d be on my way.

Or I could die and never have to think about work again.

The dark thought crept in without provocation, impossible to shake off. Though I usually loved my job, right now the idea of working filled me with dread. I still wanted to disappear. There was only one problem, and it had dark brown hair and wore glasses.

What kept me going was the moment we shared in the car outside Mom’s place. It played over in my head on a loop, what he’d said and the way he’d touched the scar on my palm. My skin prickled with goosebumps at the memory. It made me wonder if he’d kept the vial of blood from our pact we’d made as teens.

I remembered that night perfectly.

“You’re sure about this?” I asked, flexing my fingers around the steak knife we’d smuggled from the kitchen.

“Hell yeah, let’s do it.” Jasper nodded, staring at me intently from where he sat cross-legged, two vials with corks between us on the floor.

Usually, the crazy shit was my idea, not his. When he suggested doing a blood bond, my stomach had done a nauseating little back-flip, the kind I usually only got when I asked a girl out. This was a huge deal. Jasper had never cut himself before, which meant he had to really want this. To be real brothers. There was no chance I’d say no. I mean, a blood ritual? Metal as fuck. Plus, I’d get a morbid souvenir to wear. Win-win.

“Okay, I’ll go first,” I announced excitedly. My voice cracked a little with nerves, but whatever.

I held the knife up under the dim light, a shiver of anticipation running down my spine. It wasn’t new. I did it all the time for the emotional release. But this was different. Better. This made my heart squeeze, like he was gonna finally see that I’d do anything for him, cutting myself included. Hell, I’d probably jump off a bridge if he asked.

My hand was slick with sweat as I pressed the knife into the meat of my palm. I ignored the danger signals my brain kept firing off and swiped the blade across my skin, heart beating so hard and fast that I thought it was about to explode.

It was deeper than I’d meant it to be, and the blood quickly swelled up from the cut and pooled out over my palm, dripping down my wrist in a steady line.

There was no release—no pent-up negative emotions that left my body when the blood spilled. Instead, I was a live wire, high on adrenaline.

“Your turn,” I told Jasper, shoving the knife toward him before the carpet got wrecked.

He stared, his gaze flitting from my bloody hand to the knife. For a second, I thought he was gonna back out. My stomach dropped. He wasn’t allowed to ditch me, not anymore.