12. Liam

My phone buzzes in my pocket— again—and I discreetly reach inside to silence it before it catches the attention of the people sitting in front of me. Good thing my calc professor is loud, and most people are too busy taking notes to realize it's gone off for the sixth time in thirty minutes.

I haven't looked at the screen to see who's calling, but I have a pretty good guess. And I can't decide whether I'm relieved or pissed about it.

Fifteen minutes and three calls later, I'm rushing to the hallway to confirm my suspicions when someone knocks into me as I'm trying to squeeze out the door. Since I know without a doubt I am not, in fact, invisible, I whirl on the offending party, only to come face-to-face with the auburn-haired woman Cruz was talking to at the frat party a few days ago.

I vaguely remember him telling me I'd been giving her a death stare—I plead the fifth—but he also said they're friends. So, I bite my tongue and try for a neutral expression, holding my hand out in a little ‘after you' gesture.

She goes first, but rather than bolt down the hallway like I want her to, she turns and watches me, giving me the distinct impression I'm supposed to approach. Small talk isn't really in my wheelhouse today, but I don't need it getting back to Cruz that I was a dick to his friend, so I step forward and wait for her to say something.

"You're Cruz's roommate," she says.

"Yeah." Not warm and fuzzy, but it counts as an answer.

"I'm Dani." She holds out her hand.

"Liam."

We shake briefly before she drops my hand and crosses her arms in front of her chest. "I'm trying to figure out if I've done something to piss you off."

"Why would you think that?"

"Because you were glaring at me Saturday night."

"Not deliberately." Not at first, anyway. When I saw them exchanging numbers, I might've got a little territorial, but I'll never admit that since I'm not supposed to feel that way about someone I'm just friends with.

"So, you look at everyone like you want to inflict bodily harm?"

"It's a habit I'm trying to break."

"You need a lot of work, then."

"Yeah, I know. I'm—" The jarring vibration of the phone against my thigh has me pursing my lips in a tight smile as I pull it from my pocket to check the screen. Dammit. "I uh… This is gonna go on until I answer it, so I need to…" I huff out a frustrated breath. "I'm not pissed or whatever, it's just a…sorry."

I spin away from a clearly confused Dani and stalk down the hall several steps before I punch accept. "What?"

"I've been calling for hours." My mother's lethargic voice slithers into my ear like a tentacle, spreading its gloom throughout my limbs until my body is so heavy with dread it's hard to move. "Why didn't you pick up?"

"You've been calling for one hour, and I didn't pick up because I was in class."

"Why would you be in class today?"

"I'm in class every day. It's sort of how school works." I push my way outside and collapse on the nearest bench before a mixture of rage and despair robs me of my ability to bear my weight.

"Well, I need you to come get me and drive me to the cemetery." She reveals the reason for her call, and it isn't me. I knew that before I answered, but the confirmation still momentarily steals my breath.

"You can't drive yourself?"

There's an exaggerated pause before she virtually slurs, "I don't feel well."

"That happens when you have a diet of wine and pills, but at least you had the good sense not to drive yourself. Just call an Uber."

She sucks in an offended breath. "I will not have some stranger take me to pay my respects to your sister. Or did you forget what today is?"

As if I could ever forget. "Of course, I didn't."

"Then I assume you're planning to visit yourself. Take me with you."

I close my eyes and count to five before answering. "I'm ten hours away. At school."

"What are you talking about? School is less than fifteen minutes from our house. Just come home to pick me up."

"High school is fifteen minutes away. College is ten hours."

"Why are you talking about college? You're just a junior."

"I was a junior when Liz died. That was two years ago."

"Do you think I don't know when your sister died?" She shouts, a sob echoing through the line before she continues. "It's permanently etched in my mind. It's the first thing I see in the morning when I wake up, and the last thing before going to bed. It's all I ever see."

I don't think my mom has strung that many words together since Liz passed, and for a second, I want to linger in this moment. To savor her voice and grieve with her and know that I'm not alone. Then she delivers another blow. "How dare you accuse me of forgetting that."

How dare I?

Liz's death may have rattled my parents to their core, something I naively thought they'd snap out of after enough time had passed, but I'm tired of trying to convince myself this is just a phase. Something they'll recover from. They're so caught up in their coping mechanisms, dad with his work and mom with her pills, that they're moving through life like ghosts. Avoiding anything that might make them feel, which apparently includes their only remaining child.

They may as well be dead too. At least to me.

I'm so tempted to let loose. To rant about every shitty thing she's done and make my mother feel even a tiny fraction of what I've felt over the past few years. But I know my pain won't even make a dent in the whole scheme of things. And even though most days I want to hate her for it, part of me knows she's not in control. She isn't really my mother. Not anymore. And I can't bring myself to strike that final blow.

"Call dad if you need a ride," I grit through a jaw clenched so hard I'd be shocked if I don't crack a tooth. Then I hang up and block her number.

***

Slamming the door to our room, the sound cracks across the space like a gunshot. Cruz jumps in his desk chair, whirling to face me.

"Whoa, Sunshine." His expression turns from surprised to wary when he gets a look at my face. "I haven't seen this level of ‘don't fuck with me' before. What happened?"

"Nothing." I collapse on my bed and curl into a ball like I'm two, squeezing my eyes shut as if that will block out the entire world.

"I thought we agreed you weren't going to do the whole ‘I don't need anyone I can take care of myself thing' anymore."

"We agreed I wouldn't do that if I went to the hospital." My voice is muffled against my pillow, but Cruz hears me anyway.

"It doesn't have to be an emergency for me to be there for you."

"We also agreed you were going to work on your hero complex."

"I reserve the right to be concerned when my roommate storms in here looking like he wants to punch a hole through the wall."

Cracking one eye open, I sneak a peek at Cruz, and find him with his arms crossed like an overlord, testing the limits of how far his chair can recline before the back support snaps. His mouth is set in a firm line, eyes so focused it feels like they can see straight inside my brain, and the effect is one where he appears to be looking down on me despite the fact he's sitting. It's a pretty serious pose for a guy whose insides are as gooey as a cinnamon roll, and I don't know if I should laugh hysterically at the paradox or contritely say ‘yes sir' because intimidating Cruz is pretty fucking hot.

"Well, I reserve the right to be pissed without having to explain myself." I stick with brat since my anger trumps every other emotion I could feel.

"Fair enough." Cruz watches me for a few more minutes—I assume to see if I'll change my mind—before turning back to his desk and whatever homework he'd been doing before I interrupted him, leaving me to stew in peace.

I'm both grateful and disappointed he didn't push my boundaries.

It's not that I don't want to vent about what happened today, it's that I don't know how. I haven't had anyone to talk to in years, longer when you consider that I deliberately tried not to burden my parents while they were rightfully focused on Liz, so internal rants became my norm. And at this point, I've stored up so much shit my thoughts are a rambling, incoherent mess of memories and emotions that don't have a beginning or an end, so I wouldn't have the first clue where to start speaking them aloud. But part of me wants to.

Part of me is so tired of suffering in silence about the shitshow that has become my life, I actually want to bitch about it. I want to open the floodgates and let it out before it has such a hold on me that I get stuck as the skeptical, bitter person the past few years have turned me into. But I don't want the pity that inevitably comes with telling a story like mine. I'd rather people be wary of me than feel sorry for me, and since I've already given Cruz something about me to pity, I don't want to do it again.

Would I feel better after confessing I've more or less been abandoned by my parents? That's a heavier topic. But I might volunteer the knowledge if Cruz keeps pushing me to open up. Fortunately, he lets it drop, leaving me to stay huddled on my bed, replaying the conversation with my mom. Reliving every slight I've felt for the past few years, and going over what I want to say but never will, because I won't get the chance or I won't take the chance when I have it.

Things like, how shitty it is to check out of parenting when I still need them. Or that I miss Liz too. That I miss all of them. And it's their fault I feel so alone.

"Okay, that's enough." Cruz tosses his pencil on the desk and swivels his chair so he's facing my bed. "You're stewing so hard you're making me feel edgy. Get over here."

I prop myself on an elbow to look at him. "Over where?"

Cruz pats his lap. "Right here. I'm gonna get you out of your head."

I snort like he's being absurd, even though my dick perked up from that little gesture. "You think a hand job will magically make everything better?"

"I think it'll make you feel something besides anger."

"I kind of want to bask in my anger a little longer." I'm only part way through my imaginary monologue of things to yell at my parents, and I still have my former friends and teachers to go.

"Well, your basking is making me tense as fuck, and I can't take it anymore. If that means I have to jerk it out of you, so be it."

"Not all problems can be solved with an orgasm, Captain Hand Job." My cock feels like it wants to dispute that, but the only thing worse about training my body to crave an orgasm when I'm pissed is to train it to crave one from Cruz.

He rolls his eyes at me but otherwise doesn't take the bait. "Who said anything about solving the problem? I'm talking about giving you a reprieve. It's worked before, so get over here."

I've never seen Cruz agitated much less bossy, and while a tiny part of me feels guilty for driving him to this, my dick is fully on board with the stern commands he's throwing around, which means even though I should find my own way out of my funk, I'm going to let him do it for me.

I throw my pillow aside and get out of bed, crossing the room until I'm standing directly in front of Cruz with a distinct tent in my pants. A tent that's just about eye level from his spot on the chair. But he doesn't spare it a second glance, spinning me around so my back is to him and tugging on my hips until I fall onto his lap.

Wow. Getting manhandled is sort of hot.

I'm barely seated before one hand snakes inside my sweats while the other shoves the waistband below my rigid length, freeing it from one restraint only to be caught up in another. And by another, I don't just mean a closed fist, I mean the kind of iron grip you'd use to lift a barbell. No cautious exploration, no hesitation, a ‘lets see which is stronger, your cock or my hand' kind of standoff that's so tight it borders on obscene.

A groan that's part excited, part relieved echoes throughout the room as his touch distracts me from the rabbit-hole of self-pity I was falling down. I have a fleeting moment to feel ashamed about resorting to hand jobs from my roommate to feel like I'm not alone before the pressure of his fingers on my shaft becomes my singular focus.

And then he starts to pump.

Long, frenzied strokes that have my hips lifting off his lap, less an effort to chase his hand and more because he's working me so hard he's damn near lifting me off him by my dick. It's like going from zero to light speed in a matter of seconds, and any lingering shame I might've felt over being such a slut for Cruz's hand, evaporates as I marvel at how fast he's moving, and how beautifully filthy it is to watch.

"Holy fuck," I gasp, grappling for the armrests to steady myself. "You going for a speed record or something?"

"Or something." His fist travels the entirety of my length, but it's the little swipe of his thumb over my slit with each pass that has my toes curling in the shoes I never got around to taking off. I'm leaking like a sieve, and he's spreading it everywhere, which only enhances the friction that engulfs me, root to tip.

Though Cruz's movements are aggressive, they aren't unpleasant. Sort of angry, like my mood, and I really get into it, wrapping a hand around his neck for leverage and bracing my feet on the floor so I can really grind into his fist.

Jesus that's intense.

"Damn, you're an eager little thing when your dick's out." Cruz half-laughs, half-grunts.

"I'm not little."

"I wasn't talking about your dick."

"Neither was I." I pant, bucking up into him as hard as I can despite being sandwiched between his lap and his hand.

"Fine, you're little compared to me."

"Mmm," I grunt, too lost to my baser urges to continue this conversation.

I've fucked hard and fast before, but from a sense of urgency, not as an outlet for my emotions. While I'm not sure there's a significant difference, I definitely prefer this version, where my body acts on animal instinct versus fear of getting caught. Somehow that makes the sound of Cruz's fist smacking against my pelvis—and the desperate bordering on unhinged moans coming from my throat—seem carnal instead of merely aroused.

I'm definitely a fan.

"Is this the way you jerk yourself?" I tighten my grip on Cruz's neck as I strain to hump even faster into his hand.

"Too much?"

"Fuck no. Is this how you do it?"

"Sometimes." He presses his lips together, either in concentration or because that's all he's willing to share.

Fair enough.

Cruz's forearm ripples from the effort of working my shaft, but if he's tired, he doesn't let on, pumping relentlessly as I writhe on top of him. My own body is starting to feel the strain, chest heaving so much it almost blocks the view of my swollen purple tip poking rhythmically out from the end of his fist. A quick glance at Cruz's face tells me he's taking in the same view, and while I can't tell if he enjoys it, the fact that he's looking has the tingle of impending release building deep inside my groin.

My head falls to Cruz's shoulder as I moan, "Oh god, I'm close."

No sooner do those words leave my mouth, a warm palm engulfs my nuts and starts massaging them. It"s mostly a gentle touch interspersed with a random, firm tug that draws my orgasm closer and closer to the surface. And I chase it, thrusting my hips like I could somehow shove my cock even deeper into the hand holding it.

My fingers contract behind Cruz's neck as my head rolls back and forth on his shoulder, almost like the energy from my impending release is so big it's invading my limbs, making them spasm and shake like a pressure cooker, getting ready to blow. And then there's a sudden, sharp zing deep in the base of my cock…and I detonate.

The hand that was on my balls clamps down on my mouth in a futile attempt to contain the cry of relief that bursts from my throat. But that's not enough to hold back the pent-up emotions he released with that orgasm, and I moan loudly into his palm as I hump through the aftershocks, unable to quiet myself when my body is unraveling so completely.

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

Despite breathing heavily, my eyelids droop as the adrenaline starts to dissipate, muscles going as limp as if I've just run a marathon. I've got just enough awareness to realize I'm dangerously close to falling asleep on Cruz's lap, and I make a well-intentioned, yet pathetic attempt to get off him.

I barely manage to sit myself upright when my whole body seizes up, and I snap to attention like I've been given a shot of caffeine.

Slowly, to give him plenty of time to think about his response, I turn my head to look at him over my shoulder. "Are you…hard?"