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More scars or more…him?
I don’t know what he means, but I find myself nodding anyway.
Whatever it is, I’ll take it.
Slowly, he keeps hold of my face and wedges his free hand down between us, boldly palming my cock through my jeans. He strokes me through the material, and a shocked sound leaves my throat before I can stop it, my hips automatically bucking into his.
“Fuck,” I breathe against his lips. “Fuck—”
Something happens then, and he turns to stone against me. His head pulls back and he stares at my mouth, down at the fallen cup next to my feet, then back up to my face, his jaw locked as he studies every inch of me. I blink at him in confusion, my brows lowering at the sudden return of his anger. Not that it ever left, but this feels different. He looks like he’s in pain, his light brown eyes glassing up as he searches mine.
“What…” he trails off, and then my eyes start to water too, the realization of what he’s thinking carving off yet another piece of my heart. “What was in that drink?”
“Nate.”
“Fuck you, Xavi,” he says, his nostrils flaring as he backs away from me. “Fuck you.”
“Yeah,” I whisper to myself, closing my eyes so I don’t have to watch him walk away and shove his way back into the house. “Fuck me.”
* * *
“I think I’m drunk.”
“You think?” I laugh, following behind Easton as he walks upstairs, bumping into the railing as he goes.
“Are you drunk?” he asks.
“Nah, man, I’m good.”
He hums and wraps his arm around my neck, pulling me into him until his cheek touches mine. Not for the first time tonight, I find myself wondering whether he’s just super friendly or if he’s into guys. I know he had a girlfriend, but he could be bi.
I wonder if he’s hooked up with Nate before…
“How old are you?”
“Nineteen,” I answer.
“Shit. I’m a bad influence, aren’t I?”
I smile and shake my head, not bothering to tell him he’s nothing compared to the real bad influences I’ve met over the years. The shitty people I used to call friends, same ones who got me hooked on cocaine and pills when I was barely fourteen years old.
“You’re underage,” he teases, his lips against my temple, and I swear I’m not imagining it this time.
I think he might actually be into me.
“How old are you?” I ask him.
“Twenty one.”
Same as Nate, I think to myself, because every thought I have tonight seems to roll right back around to him. I can’t get him out of my head. The way he was watching my every move at the party. The way it felt to be trapped between his body and the wall.
The way he looked at me when he realized I was sober…
Just as I think it, I round the corner to find the devil himself leaning back against my door frame. He looks tired, his eyes unfocused as he lifts the bottle of vodka he’s holding to his mouth. I haven’t seen him since he left me outside earlier. Carter and Easton were still in the kitchen when I went back inside, but Nate was nowhere to be found. I didn’t know where he went or who he was with, but now I’m assuming he came back here to get trashed on that bottle all by himself.
Easton trips on his own feet and laughs at himself, his arm still locked around my neck, lips on my face. I try to hold him up with my arm around his waist, but I don’t think I’m helping much considering he’s almost twice my size. He opens his mouth to say something to me, shutting it just as quick when his eyes find Nate’s. The two of them seem to have some kind of wordless conversation for a second, and then Easton sighs and lets me go.
“I don’t think he likes me very much tonight,” he whispers in my ear, grinning as he walks backward into his bedroom. “Night, boys.”
