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A deep flush creeps into Liam’s cheeks. “I got carried away. I was grinding on you pretty hard trying to chase my own release.”
Thinking back to—God, was it only a few minutes ago—I remember he was pretty squirmy, and that might’ve been a contributing factor. But it doesn’t feel exactly right.
“I’ve kind of done that before, rubbed on someone, and it didn’t do much of anything. Not to this extent.”
“Was that with a guy or girl?”
“Girl. Why?”
Liam his shoulder in a half-shrug. “Maybe you’re gay ACE?”
“You mean if I were to like anyone at all it’d be a guy?”
“Yeah.”
“Is that a thing?” I’ve never heard that term, although I do tend to actively avoid defining myself. It's possible I didn’t look hard enough.
“It can be your thing, if you think it fits.”
I roll that idea around in my head, and while I can’t say it feels right, I can’t say it feels wrong either. I’ve got too little experience to say for sure, and I’m not sure I’m up for going down the rabbit hole of my sexuality when I’m in a pretty good mood. I’m about to say ‘fuck it’ since my brain hasn’t recovered enough to think this hard when Liam mutters. “My sister died today.”
“What?” Those words are like a lightning bolt to my heart, sending a searing pain through my chest that almost makes it hurt to breathe.
“Not like, today, but two years ago today. That’s why I was so pissed when I came in.” He’s still kneeling between my legs, but now his shoulders are slumped, and he’s looking at the floor instead of at me, which is sort of a godsend.
“I…” My jaw bobs up and down, but no words come out. And it’s not that I can’t think of any, it’s that I know how meaningless they’ll sound, since I’ve heard them before.
I’m so sorry for your loss.
He’ll be missed.
He’s in a better place.
It’s all bullshit, and those words are better left unspoken. But I can’t just ignore that statement, or the fact that he shared it with me. So, for reasons I can’t explain, I cup his head in my hand and guide it to my thigh, letting him rest against me while I hold him there.
Some time later, long enough that the daylight is waning and casting shadows across the floor, I give the back of his head a gentle squeeze. “Let’s go get a drink.”
Chapter fourteen
Liam
As a general rule, I don’t like drinking away my emotions. Or using substances to ignore them. That’s my mom’s M.O., and I’ve got no interest in turning into a zombie. But after the mindfuck of giving my roommate a blowjob and telling him about Liz, I could use some alcohol.
The walk to the bar is mostly silent, I’m assuming because both of us have some pretty heavy subjects on our mind, and I’m curious to see if a drink is supposed to help us talk about them, or help us forget them.
I know trying to label himself makes Cruz a little anxious, so the fact he suggested this little field trip could mean he needs some liquid courage to get through a conversation about what the whole dick-sucking thing means. Or he could think I need one to talk about my sister. Maybe it’s both.
As we reach the bar it occurs to me neither of us is in our right mind since we’re attempting to get a drink at a place you need to be twenty-one to enter. But the bouncer waves us in without a second thought, and when I lift a brow in silent question Cruz simply says, “Football.”
You’d think that means he’s been here before, and while I won’t claim to know every little detail of where he goes during the day, I’m fairly certain he’s never stepped foot in this place. At least not since I arrived on campus. Either he knows it from living here over the summer, or his performance on the field is already translating into special treatment.
A few months ago I’d have scoffed at that, but now I’m grateful for it.
The bar is dark and moody, the kind of place college students go to for the cheap beer rather than the ambiance, the floor permanently sticky from years and years of absorbing spilled drinks. It’s mostly empty since it’s barely six p.m., yet the music is just loud enough that I can’t hear Cruz ordering our drinks from the booth I pick in the corner, which will give us the privacy I have a feeling we both want.
He hands me a cold beer, its bitter taste lingers on my tongue as I quickly take a sip while he slides into the seat across from me. For the better part of ten minutes we sit quietly, sipping on our drinks while absently watching a handful of people come and go. And despite the fact he’s usually the talkative one, I’m one who breaks the silence.
“She was six.”
