11. Huckslee

Huckslee

T aylor is smoking weed in the house again.

I can smell it, wafting down the hallway. Usually, he opens his window, but he's probably drunk. He's been drinking all week.

Shaking my head, I lean back over my desk as the sounds of laughter from downstairs filter up the stairs. Dad's annual New Year's Eve party is in full swing, the one night out of the year when he indulges in wine. Since it's the first year with Maisie, her friends are over, too. He invited us to come down and play board games, but I wasn't in the mood. Neither was Taylor.

Glancing over at my phone, I resist the urge to pull up his message thread. He's been texting me all day like a drunken idiot from his bedroom, but I haven't responded. Focusing on the panel for the comic I'm working on, I try to block out the memory of what he did to me in the bathroom yesterday, but it's been at the forefront of my mind since I opened my eyes.

Steam from the shower fills the bathroom, thick and heavy. The heat from the water feels good against my skin as I stand under the spray, letting it roll off my back. It soothes the slight ache in my arm that's been present ever since Taylor held me under in the pool. I know I should be worried about it—fractures can be delicate. But the pain has been serving as a reminder this past week that what happened wasn't in my head.

Tipping back my chin, I run my fingers through my wet curls, closing my eyes as I remember what it felt like when Taylor touched me. Everything has been so confusing between us. We've barely spoken since I kicked him out of my room, and the few times I've caught him in the kitchen or passed him in the hallway, he's been plastered. Dad ungrounded us for the Winter break, and Taylor spent Christmas at his dad's, plus a day in the mountains with his friends. Not having him here was a welcome reprieve from the chaos of feelings that cyclone inside me whenever he's near.

Five months ago, his status in my life was clear. Public enemy number fucking one. Then he kissed me on the track, which threw me for one hell of a loop. Still, he was the bad guy—my bully. But then…

I don't fucking know what he is to me anymore. Everything changed that night in the pool, at least for me. For him? He made his intentions clear the morning after when he cringed at my touch. What happened between us altered my fucking brain chemistry, but to him, it was a game. Another way to mess with me .

Pounding on the door breaks me out of my thoughts, and Taylor's angry voice invades the bathroom.

"Huckslee! Open the fuck up, man. You've been in there for forty-five minutes!"

Are you kidding me?

"Go away," I growl, reaching for my body wash, but the banging intensifies.

"I'll kick the door down, dude. Swear to God."

I can hear a slight slur to his speech even over the shower, and with another growl of annoyance, I leave the water running as I step out. Wrapping a towel around my waist, I yank the door open to see an irate Taylor standing in the hallway with his arms folded, his dark hair a mess. He's wearing a new shirt with a zombie unicorn holding a severed arm in its mouth on the front. He wears the weirdest fucking t-shirts.

His eyes take in my bare torso, sweeping from the V in between my hips up to my neck when I swallow. It's a slow perusal, and the way his cheeks slightly flush sends a flow of blood to my groin. When his eyes jump up to mine, they're glassy and unfocused, his pupils blown out.

"I need to brush my teeth." He rushes in almost frantically, and I grimace when the smell of whiskey hits my nose. "Maisie's making me help decorate for their stupid party."

And he needs to hide the alcohol on his breath. Right.

Turning around, I make my way back toward the shower. "Make it quick."

He scoffs, but I ignore him as I close the shower door and whip off the towel. My cock is semi-hard now at the nearness of his presence, and as I wash my body, all I can think is, thank fuck for frosted glass. I hear the cabinet open, and the sink turn on, so I tune him out while I wash my hair.

Several moments later, the shower door opens, and I spin around in shock to see Taylor stepping over the lip of the tub, fully clothed.

"What the fuck—"

His mouth slams into mine, and for a moment, all I can do is freeze. His arms wrap around my neck, sealing us together as his tongue brushes the seam of my lips, seeking entry.

I know I should push him away because he's drunk, and our parents are home. And he's my stepbrother, and he's dating Salem, and he's Taylor. There are a million reasons why this is wrong.

So why does my mouth part for him, a groan leaving my throat at the first touch of our tongues? Why do my palms come up to cup his chin, tilting it to give myself deeper access while he holds on to me for dear life?

Why do my eyes sink closed as I savor his taste—mint with the slightest trace of whiskey left?

Why is this happening to me?

My teeth catch his bottom lip, pulling a whimper out of him. He thrusts against me, and I can feel his hard dick inside his basketball shorts rubbing against mine. The friction is delicious, little zaps of pleasure skittering across my shaft with every roll of his hips. We devour each other, entangling and melting together until his ending and my beginning fuse.

He moves backward until he collides with the shower wall, bracing himself between it and my chest. When I open my eyes and pull back to breathe, the expression on his face almost sends me to my knees. He looks fucking wrecked, lips swollen and jaw red from where I gripped him. His eyes look more blue in this moment, darkened with anguish and brimming with…

Tears.

My heart skips a beat.

"Touch me," he whispers desperately before I can speak, pressing his lips to mine. "Touch me, Huck."

But I hear the uncertainty in his voice. His body stiffens, and his fingers twitch nervously against my neck, almost like he's forcing himself to do this. It feels like a kick in the chest.

"You're drunk, Taylor." I go to pull away, my face hardening with disgust at myself for letting him play me like this again, but his hold tightens, and he presses his face into my shoulder.

"Please, Huckslee. I need you."

"Let me go."

He shakes his head, hair tickling my chin, before grabbing my hand and placing it on the waistband of his shorts. I try to back away again, but when his fingers wrap around my cock, any fight left in me goes out the window.

"Do it," he whispers, kissing the side of my neck as he strokes me slowly. "I want you to do it."

So I give him what he wants, despite every warning bell blaring inside my head. Despite the sinking feeling in my gut screaming at me that this is a bad idea, I slowly slip my hand into the hem of his shorts and wrap myself around him.

And fuck, he's enormous. Bigger than what I initially thought when I'd felt him with just material separating us. He gasps against my wet skin as I work my hand from base to tip, running my thumb over the slit of his swollen crown. He hisses, shuddering, but doesn't raise his head. Doesn't pull away. So I take that as my cue to continue, jerking him inside his shorts while he jerks me. Our heavy breaths fill the shower, both of us fighting to keep our groans quiet. His tongue darts out to lick his lips, brushing against my throat, and I decide that I want those lips on mine before I come.

However, when I pull back to lift his face to mine, what I see stops me completely.

Taylor's lips are tight, his eyes squeezed shut, and his brows furrowed as if this is physically painful for him. And right at that moment, I realize that his cock is going soft in my hands.

I'm on the other side of the shower in an instant, my back pressed against the opposite wall, embarrassment flooding my cheeks.

"Wait, Huck—" He steps toward me, shame filling his eyes, but I hold up my arm in a defensive gesture as I shake my head.

Am I that ugly to him? Is my touch so revolting that it makes him look like he wants to vomit? My stomach churns at the thought.

"Leave," I try to snap, but it comes out hollow. My throat feels like it's on fire.

"Please, Huckslee, I don't—" He thumps the back of his head against the wall twice. "I don't fucking get it."

A harsh, disbelieving laugh leaves my mouth, realization dawning on me. I don't need to ask him what he doesn't get because I already know. I've been nothing but an experiment to him, a test subject to quench his curiosity. He used me.

Maisie's voice comes from the bottom of the stairs, and we both freeze .

"TAYLOR! Did I say five minutes or five hours? Get down here now."

"In a minute," he shouts back, his eyes watching me cautiously.

Pointing my finger toward the door, I bare my teeth at him. "Get out. For good this time, Taylor. Touch me again, and I'll hurt you."

Because I will, so help me, God. I'm done being his punching bag. For almost four years now, I've dealt with this.

He opens his mouth as if to protest but thinks better of it when he meets the resolve in my eyes. The outrage. The pain.

Nodding resignedly, he licks his lips slowly as if to savor my taste one last time before stepping out of the shower.

"I'm sorry, Huck," he whispers, then he's gone—leaving me to pick up the pieces of myself in his aftermath, like always.

Raised voices draw me out of the memory, and I blink into my sketchbook. My neck is sore, fingers cramped where they held the colored pencil in a white-knuckle grip.

Jesus. How long have I been sitting here like this?

Another string of angry voices comes from behind my door, this time much closer, and I frown as I turn in my seat, listening.

Maisie's shrill shout hits my ears. "I will not live under the same roof as another drug addict!"

What the hell?

"It's fucking weed, Maisie, not heroin," Taylor snaps in reply, and my breath catches.

Oh shit.

More words are exchanged between them, drowned out by the dread now pounding in my ears, and when I hear Dad bellowing loudly, I'm off my seat and out the door in the blink of an eye.

"You will not talk to my wife that way!" Dad is shouting into Taylor's open door, face red, and I don't think I've ever seen him look this mad. Maisie is beside him, equally as enraged.

"I will not have this in my home, and if you continue to act this way, you will leave."

I stiffen, confused about what the fuck is happening and wondering how the hell I'm supposed to stop it.

"I don't want to fucking be here anyway," Taylor shouts back, shoving past my dad into the hallway. He doesn't even look at me as he passes, so I catch him on the arm when he reaches the stairs.

"What happened?"

I don't know why I ask. It's pretty fucking obvious his mom smelled the marijuana just like I did and came looking.

"Get off me." He rips his arm from my grip, speech as slurred as it was yesterday, and I'm frozen on the stairs in bewilderment as I hear the front door slam shut. It echoes loudly through the quiet house, making me realize their party must have ended while I was lost in my head. Had it struck midnight already?

"Dad, what's going on?"

"Go to bed, Huckslee." Dad is leading Maisie down the stairs, and I can't help but notice that he looks more upset about what just happened than she does. There's an odd glint in her eye, something close to relief. It sets me on edge.

I follow them down into the living room. "Did you just kick Taylor out? "

Maisie answers, her thin lips pursed, "he needs to understand that there are consequences for his actions."

"I'll not have drug use or abusive language in this house." Dad takes off his glasses to scrub a hand down his face. "We gave him multiple chances."

"What? When?"

They've caught him smoking before?

Why didn't I know about it?

Dad gives me a weary sigh. "It's late, Huck. Go to bed."

"But..." I feel so completely lost right now and unsure how to feel. "What about Taylor?"

He stares at me for a long moment. "Give him the night to sober up. I'll call him in the morning and see if he's ready to have an adult conversation without slinging insults."

My blood boils instantly. "He insulted you?!"

"Go to bed, son."

There's a finality in his voice that has me spinning on my heel and heading back toward my room, head swimming.

When I reach my room, I open Taylor's texts to send a message.

Me: What the fuck did you say to my dad?

He never reads it.

And the hatred I'm feeling at everything he's done festers. So I text him again.

Me: You know, my dad's done a lot for you that he didn't have to. You treat him and everyone around you like shit. Maybe you should just stay gone.

He never reads that message, either .

Looking back, I probably should have taken his silence as a warning. Taylor never ignores my texts. But I'm so done with him, and all of his bullshit that I take one of my meds to calm the thoughts that are opening a black pit inside my head, ignoring the feeling in my gut that's screaming something is very, very wrong.

Hours later, after falling into a restless sleep, Dad throws open my bedroom door, startling me awake. He flicks on the top light and rushes in, a phone pressed to his ear with panic in his voice. "Huckslee, did you give Taylor your car keys?"

"What?"

Quickly jumping from my bed, I pull down the blinds to look down into the driveway. Sure enough, my Honda is missing.

"Huck." Dad's hand lands on my shoulder, and when I take in the alarm in his eyes, it feels like the ground just opened up and tossed me into free fall. "Son, there's been an accident."