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"Sorry," he rasps as he leans his head against the headrest. He puts a hand over his face, clutching the T-shirt to his bare chest. He's breathing hard, and I can see the muscles of his abs flex.
I jerk my eyes away.
"You should drink some water." I'm holding his drink out, but he doesn't take it. He cracks his window first.
"Are you hot?" I ask.
"What do you think, DG?"
He takes his drink from my hand, and I watch him chug some in the rearview mirror as I point us toward home.
"You need to get looked at. Seriously, dude."
"What will they do for me?" He lowers his hand from his face, so I can see his dark eyes and flushed cheeks. His hair is damp. He runs a hand back through it, swiping it out of his eyes. "I'll sleep it off."
"I don't think you're supposed to sleep. Also—"
"I'm not going."
I sigh as I turn onto our street. "What am I supposed to tell your dad and my mom? Nothing? What if something happens to you?"
“What if something does?” He smiles weakly at me in the rear-view. "Nobody dies from a concussion, DG."
"It's like...unethical for me to not tell them."
"Ah, ethics. An Eagle Scout is always ethical."
"Don't be a dick. I know it’s your thing, but it won't work. You need to let me take you. Or you need to go with your dad." I hang a right into our driveway, and he sits up straighter.
"How about this, then? If you tell, I'll tell." Ezra arches one of his dark brows. "What do you think about that?"
It takes me a second to realize what he’s saying. After that, a moment to find words. "That's fucked up, you know. That’s…just wrong."
He snorts as he throws his car door open. "Yeah? Not everybody gives a shit."
When I get inside, he’s nowhere in sight. I assume he successfully dodged my mom, because she comes into the foyer as I hang my backpack on the hook, and she’s clearly in greeting mode.
“Hi, honey. How was your day?”
I frown at the tiny plastic bag of screws and small parts she’s holding.
“I’m assembling a new bookshelf for Ezra,” she says.
“Really?”
“Well, he needs a good one. I talked with him the other day about reading, and he likes all the classics. He said he left most of his books at his mother’s, but every student needs a bookshelf.” She smiles. “How was your first day of school, honey?”
I tell my mom it was great. I don’t tell her a damn thing about dickface.
“Have you seen Ezra?” she asks.
“Pretty sure he went straight upstairs.”
“Surely he must need some sort of after school snack…”
“He might be showering from football. I think they had a hard practice.”
“Well that’s not very first-day like, is it?”
Yada yada—she asks a few more questions, and I quickly answer—and then I’m heading upstairs, eager to see if dickface keeled over before he got to his room. I find his door locked, along with the bathroom door on my side.
Motherfucker.
I go back to his bedroom door and knock a few times. “If you shut yourself up in there, I’m telling them. I don’t care what you do.”
That’s when I hear the distant sound of someone puking.
Ohhh.
I go to my bathroom door.
“Hey, angel face.” I press my mouth into the crack between the door and door jam. “You okay in there?”
I think I can hear him breathing. Then the sink is running. A minute or so later, he turns on the shower.
“Tell me you’re okay, and I’ll fuck off.”
Annnd of course he doesn’t. This prick never makes it easy.
I pick the lock with a clothes hanger and stand there at the door, trying to decide what to do. I have to either tell my mom or check on him. He might be fine and just a stubborn ass, but what if he passed out or something?
I knock one more time, and then I open the door.
I find him standing on the bathmat wearing nothing but a tan line. For a long second, I can’t even get my eyes to blink. He’s long and lean and built and…long. Jesus, he’s hung like a bull. I realize he’s scowling like one, too.
“Take a picture, DG.” His voice sounds hoarse. He wraps a hand around his cock, which only makes my dick get stiffer. “Or maybe you’d rather draw one.”
He’s sneering at me again, but he looks like shit. His hair and face are wet, as if he just splashed them in the sink, his eyelids heavy like he’s half asleep.
Still, I’m not letting him pick at me again. I make sure my voice is firm as I say, “I came in to check on you, you chickenshit.”
His glazed eyes narrow. “I know that’s not true. As soon as you heard the shower, you were picking the lock to get an eyeful for your sketch collection.”
