Chapter 9

My grade glaresat me from the screen, but no matter how long I try to stare it down, wishing it would magically change, it stays put.

“Can you believe this shit?” I’m talking to anyone who’s willing to listen as I throw imaginary daggers at Brixham’s online assessment page.

When no one bites, I huff and look around at my group of asshole friends. Obviously, they’re only assholes because they’re not tripping over themselves to lament about what a fucking boomer Professor Rice is.

Another huff, and I finally get Kieran’s attention.

About freakin’ time.

“What are you sulking about?”

I narrow my gaze at him, offended that he thinks I’m sulking. That’s so not it. I’m… incredulous, dammit, and put out. I worked my ass off on that assignment.

Sort of.

I may have left it to the last minute, but life’s apparently a balance that I’m shit at maintaining.

Between other assignments, basketball games, practice, hanging out, making my awesome alcoholic shots, and dealing with the bullshit from back home, honestly, I’m impressed I handed the damn thing to Professor Rice on time.

Let’s ignore the fact that I’m missing something super important from that list and swiftly move on.

Back to the screen before me.

But my grade just isn’t going to cut it. If I get another result this bad, it’s going to impact my GPA.

Rather than argue with Kieran about how I am absolutely, nuh-uh, no way sulking, I instead focus on the real problem. “Professor Rice is a twatwaffle.”

Dean, who’s sitting between Kieran’s legs, snorts. “Twatwaffle. Nice. It’s been a day since I heard someone use that.”

I give him an up-nod, happy he can appreciate where I’m coming from.

“And why is Rice a twatwaffle, exactly?” Kieran pushes, not giving me his full attention, since he’s stroking Dean’s hair like he’s a pet or something.

Admittedly, Dean is kinda cute. He’s also our mascot and kicks ass doing dance-offs when dressed as Bryson Bear. But still, I’m the one having a dilemma. Complaint… whatever.

“She gave me a C-minus for my business start-up project.”

Kieran arches a brow at me, and I can see the switch as he falls into team-captain mode. “Isn’t that the one you had to stay up until, like, 4:00 a.m. or something to get finished, as you decided it was the perfect time to go to the Iota Sigma Delta party just two nights before the assignment was due?”

Fuck it. I totally called him slipping into mom—captain, whatever—mode. I just knew he was going to point that shit out to me.

It’s not like it was my finest idea, since I did in fact know I had an assignment due, but seriously, my balls had been at the point of passing for a new Smurf character. And my dick had been close to chafing from all the attention my hand was giving it.

It may have also had something to do with me holding Bentley close and losing myself in the peace only he can offer.

Plus, there was the whole thing of my hand not being able to kiss me, making me unravel and lose my mind with each touch and moment we were together.

If my hand had the power to do that, life would be a whole lot less complicated.

But of course it isn’t.

Instead, for the past seven months, as much as I’ve tried to resist, only one person has had the power to make me see stars.

My throat dries from the memory of two nights ago. If I could have gotten away with it, I wouldn’t have brushed my teeth, hating that I had to wash away the taste of Bentley.

And fuck, now all I can think about is the next time I can take his mouth, lick his cock, fuck his?—

I clear my throat. My dick hardening is a sure road to disaster.

Unable to resist, I glance around the room, acting as casual as possible. It’s all bullshit. I’m totally checking out Bentley, wondering what he’s doing, if he’s list?—

Our gazes connect, and for the briefest of moments, I take my fill. It’s risky doing this. Dangerous as fuck. It tears to shreds all my “I was drunk and don’t remember a thing” excuses I play in my head.

At least I don’t have to lie to his face anymore.

Does that make me feel any better? Not especially.

Truth is, I hate what I’ve done to him. What I’ll continue to do for as long as he’ll let me.

Before I tasted him, I never thought I could be this selfish, this spectacularly awful, and the shittiest of friends.

Goes to show what I know.

His storm-gray eyes don’t stray from mine. His light skin flushes, and fuck it, so does mine. I’m sure it’s not obvious to anyone else but Bentley. But he’s mapped out every inch of my dark skin. Every part of me that can flush, he’s seen and been responsible for.

I still when an emotion crosses his features that has me catching my breath. Disappointment. It hits me square in the gut. I don’t know why he’s allowed this thing between us to carry on for so long, but there’s something in the way he’s looking at me that tells me he’s wondering the same thing.

My stomach cramps at the thought of losing him. Like the pussy I am, I drag my eyes away, focusing on Kieran and pretending what I saw on Bentley’s face isn’t real.

“I still spent hours on the assignment. And you know how Coach has been riding our asses—no offense, Tiller.” I scrunch my face in apology as I glance at Coach Maple’s son, who’s also recently become one of the assistant coaches.

Thankfully, he’s a cool guy and not that much older than us. And he and Leon just work.

Envy stabs my gut, a pretty familiar sensation of late. Coach Maple accepted Tiller and Leon’s relationship with only a little exasperation, which was actually nothing to do with his son’s sexuality.

“None taken.” Tiller salutes me with his tea. Yes, tea. Because that’s what our senior household has become. A bunch of loved-up couples—with the exception of yours truly and Bentley, which we’re absolutely not going to analyze or overthink—who drink tea and hot chocolate in the evening and have early nights unless we’re studying.

“When’s your next assignment for Rice due?” Tyron’s deep voice pulls my attention to him.

I hesitate, glancing at Logan. He looks thoughtful as he sits quietly, watching the interaction. Tyron, the resident genius—as in legit huge-IQ brainiac—goes above and beyond all the damn time, truthfully.

His question is undoubtedly going to be the beginning of an offer to help me, but he’s already stretched crazy thin. And from the look on Logan’s face, it’s clear he agrees.

I may not be as smart as most of my friends, but I’m pretty good at reading body language and situations. Growing up with a dad like mine, I kind of had to be.

“After Thanksgiving, so I’ve got time.”

“I can help. Let me know what course numb?—”

“Nah, man,” I’m quick to say. “Thanks, but I’ll study and get it done.”

He nods at me. “Okay, but if you change your mind….”

“It’s okay, Ty. Other than the trip back home over Thanksgiving and the fistful of games we have, I don’t have anything going on. I’ll make it work.”

Because that’s the truth of it all.

Kieran, as always, was right, calling me out on my shit about complaining.

My not-so-stellar grade is all on me and my screwed-up brain and out-of-control emotions.

Figuring it’s best to change the subject, since no sympathy is coming my way anytime soon, I turn to Dean to ask him what he’s set up for the Virginia game in a couple of days. But I slam my lips together.

Kieran’s got his face pressed to Dean’s neck, whispering, or licking, or whatever the hell he’s doing. Envy is an ugly thing to have swirling in my gut, but it’s a stubborn gremlin that seems to be my companion.

The worst thing is, I only have myself to blame.

The mountain of issues trapped inside me leaves no room for a snowball, let alone me actively dealing with anything.

I’ll only admit it to myself, but I’m shit-scared of the avalanche that will 100 percent bury me if I do.

But fuck, do I want.

I want Bentley. Want to be able to hold him like the guys around me. To hold his hand whenever I wish.

You can.

I sigh, my attention snagging on Leon’s quiet voice.

The asshole stands, hand in Tiller’s as, with no stealth whatsoever, they leave the room.

Fucking hell.

The rest is inevitable.

The couples all but stumble out of the room, clutching their laptops and notepads and eye-fucking their respective partners.

Which leaves me alone with my best friend. With the only person to ever know me inside and out. The man who makes my heart stumble and wish for everything.

I don’t know how long I can keep doing this to him. To me.

Before looking at him, I need to arm myself and relax into the “before we started fucking around and I realized how goddamn perfectly we fit in every imaginable way” version of me.

Still glancing away, I start speaking. It’s easier this way. If not, I’ll get lost in staring at him and forget that I need to simply be his friend. “Are you still gathering notes for your field study?” I finally make eye contact, fighting hard to ignore the flush of awareness I always feel under his attention.

“I’m about finished.” He closes his laptop and cracks his neck. Bentley’s been working his ass off on his project. It’s worth a lot of credits for his Bachelor of Landscape Architecture degree.

I try to ignore the stab of guilt for waking him up the other night. We’ve both got so much going on and need all the sleep we can get.

A real man would step up and stop being a pus?—

I fight against the words drilled into me since I was old enough to open a bottle of beer for my dad. Which was five, in case you were wondering, because yeah, despite him being an asshole and Mom and I moving halfway across the state, he retained visitation rights. Sure, it wasn’t very often that he saw me, and he pretty much stopped when I was ten, but it had a lasting effect.

Listening to poison will rot away my soul. My sense of self.

I know this and remind myself of it.

But still, there’s a semblance of truth in my dad’s scathing words. If I swap out “real man” for “honest” or “good,” then I wouldn’t be far off.

These days, I’m neither of those things, even though I desperately want to be.

“I can help you study.” Bentley’s soft words catch my attention, and once again, I realize I’ve drifted off. At least I wasn’t ogling him and drooling.

I’ll take it as a win.

“Only if you’ll let me help you with your project.”

His lips twitch, and I roll my eyes, shaking my head.

“What? I can handle a shovel and a stabby thing.”

“Fork.” Amusement colors his words, the sound rolling over me like a comfortable caress.

“Whatever. My guns will come in handy for more than shooting hoops.” I bounce my brows and make a show of kissing my right bicep.

Bentley snorts and launches a pillow at me, because somehow during the past few months, we’ve apparently also become a house that has fucking throw pillows. “You’ve got a deal, but no touching plants or trees.”

I’m all wide-eyed innocence. “Me?” I push out a heavy huff of fake bemusement. “You’ll find it’s Leon who killed those flowery things, thinking they were weeds. I was just an innocent bystander. Wrong-place, wrong-time scenario.”

“Uh-huh. Still the story you’re sticking with?”

“Until I’m in the grave,” I say, not taking my eyes off him as he stands, his white tee rising just so to reveal a sliver of skin that I’ve run my tongue over so many times, the memory of how it tastes pushes to the front of my mind.

By the time my gaze settles on his face, he’s peering down at me.

Usually, Bentley takes it easy on me, giving me a free pass by playing my bullshit game. But that’s absolutely not the case now as he stares at me, eyes all heat and lust. Awareness buzzes along my skin.

Would it be so bad if I just took what I want without playing the game?

Desire sparks in the air, so intense that I can almost see a soft glow arching between us, latching on and tethering us together.

Bentley breaks the spell, his voice gravel when he says, “You want me to help you study now?”

I want that so badly, the thought of not following him to his room makes me want to scream and tear my hair out.

He can see the war. The worst thing is, on some level, I know he understands it—or at least as well as an outsider with a non-fucked-up family can. He’s the only person who does. The only person who knows the truth. Well, some of it, anyway.

“Sammy.”

Fucking hell. My breath hitches.

I’m doomed. Honest-to-God dead.

“Please come to my room.”

This is the first time he’s asked me. Ever. He’s always understood my reticence.

Whatever he sees in me that’s shifted, I kind of hate him for.

Because the asshole is right.

I want to go to his room, the only thing clouding my mind being lust and the sugar from the killer hot chocolate Tiller made me.

I can’t speak, afraid my voice will crack.

So I don’t. I don’t even have to nod as his lips lift just a fraction, and he leaves the room, not looking behind him. Knowing I’ll follow.

Fucking Bentley and his mind-reading Obi-Wan powers.

I close his bedroom door behind me, the lock engaging and sounding loud despite the heavy pounding of my heart.

And as I stare at him, his back toward me as he busies himself with emptying his pockets, I think maybe for a while, I can pretend everything is okay and this is my real life.

I don’t want to think about tomorrow.