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"Because of all the bigots?" he asks.
I smile, even though there's nothing funny. "Not all of them," I tell him. "Only some. Everybody has their baggage."
"What's your baggage, perfect boy?"
"Is that a joke?"
"Well, you can't be part of Team No Homo. So I guess that's something. But what else isn't picture perfect? Even your name sounds like a hero. Josh Miller—it’s like Clark Kent.”
I clench my jaw, sore from the seizure. "You don't know shit about me, Ezra. Not even one thing."
"I know you like when I lick your little slit. And if I run my tongue around the rim of your dickhead, it starts leaking. I suck it like a popsicle, and your hand in my hair will pull, but never too hard. Perfect gentleman, you are."
"Yeah, you know what my dick likes,” I say, feeling my throat ache. I swallow hard. “I'm not a dick."
"Touché." He takes the right just after Fairplay BBQ, turning onto County Road 9.
"Why do you want to be a slut, Masters?” I ask. “What about that question?"
He grins, looking genuinely pleased with himself. "Do you consider me your slut, Millsy?"
"I think you're a twisted fucker. I think you do it for the power feeling. Maybe all your mom's boyfriends were assholes."
"They were husbands, dipshit." He says it casually, keeping his tone even.
"Maybe that, or maybe you're gay just like me."
Even in the dim glow of the dashboard lights, I see his jaw tick as his hands tighten on the wheel. Knowing I’ve made my mark offers me no satisfaction. If anything, I feel even more pissed off; it’s anger that comes from knowing that he won’t be honest.
"You think I won't push because you’re driving and I’m sick or something?” I ask. “I'm not sick. This is my brain on life. So let me say it for you, Ezra. I think you're a big, cocksucking gay fag just like I am. I bet if I put a dick in your ass, you'd fucking love it. Everyone knows cocksuckers like a big dick in their asshole."
He whips off the road so fast I’m positive we’re going to roll right off the shoulder, flip into the pine forest below. But the Jeep jolts to a clean stop. Then he's out. He's stalking around the car’s hood, a shadow in gold light. He's on my side, four or five feet away from my door, facing the thick woods. His shoulders heave as he lights up a cigarette. Another second, and a puff of smoke drifts up toward the bright moon.
He’s breathing hard. Because I upset him. I watch as his hand sifts back through his hair. Then I shut my eyes because fuck that shit. Anger tightens my chest—that it’s all a fucking game to him.
I take a few deep breaths and open my eyes. Find him lighting up another smoke. Okay, so he’s big-league mad. I’m not feeling bad for that. I called him out and shook him up—like he shakes me up every fucking moment that I'm in his presence.
I guess I miss him throw the smoke down, because the next second he's passing like a shade back through the headlights, sliding back into the driver’s seat. His face is perfectly impassive as he puts the car in drive and pulls onto the road. Actually, it isn’t. His features are set like stone now. Hard—as if he’s pissed off.
He has no right. Like I ever did a fucking thing to him except be nice and get head-fucked.
I remember clocking him, and that’s a vision I like right now. When it’s clear he wants to drive in silence, I say, "You smell like an ashtray.”
He slits his eyes in my direction, narrowing them at me for a long, heart-pounding moment. "You must really feel like hell, Mills." It’s quiet and earnest, taking me off guard, so I can’t help but lash out again.
I laugh like he’s lost his damn mind. "I feel perfect."
"You're a guy who plays the cello and does Boy Scouts. I guess I can get you mad, though," he says, sounding thoughtful.
"Oh yes, only you. So special. You know all my dirty secrets."
"I know everything I need to. I was having fun making you squirm, and you enjoyed it. Don't pretend you didn't want it."
Is he talking about our nighttime adventures in his bed? Why is he using past tense?
"Don't pretend you cared whether I did,” I fire back.
He laughs, the sound soft and derisive. "I went slow every time. Except that night on the roof. I took it slow so you could push me away, but you didn't want to do that, did you? You pushed my head down. You made sure to stuff my mouth full of your dick because you wanted that shit. It was worth the shamed feeling you had when I would send you out of my room."
