5. Huckslee

Huckslee

I hate these pills.

Swirling lights from the speaker reflect on my ceiling, melding into an explosion of color and sound. ‘Routines In The Night' by Twenty One Pilots echoes softly around the room, the melodic beat helping to ease my pounding skull and racing heart.

These pills always give me a headache. To be honest, I don't know if they even work. I try to calm my breathing as I lay on my back on the bed, hoping the darkness of my room and the meds will lull me to sleep.

Dad doesn't know about them, and neither does Logan. I'd made the appointment as soon as I'd turned eighteen, no longer needing parental permission to see the doctor. Hiding it only makes the anxiety worse, though.

I have everything a kid could ask for—a loving father and an amazing best friend who's always there for me. I live in a fancy house and have a car, plus a potential football scholarship as long as I keep up the hard work.

So why do I always feel like I'm fucking drowning?

Because you'd lose it all if they knew who you really were , a voice whispers in my head. And I can't tell it that it's wrong.

There's a part of me that fears coming out to my dad and Logan. Because they're religious, and this is Utah. Sure, I have people at school I hang out with at lunch. I get along well enough with everyone on the football team, but none of my friends at school are really anything more than that—school friends. Logan and Dad are the only two people I care about, and the more I feel like I have to pretend with them, the more messed up my head gets.

Having my fucking enemy in my house at all times doesn't help with that, either. I feel like I'm constantly on edge, waiting for something to happen, like a fight or one of his shitty pranks. Keeping a steady eye on him at all times is giving me ulcers, I swear.

And it makes me so damn tired. I can't sleep, can't relax. The need to act like I'm the happy-go-lucky kid everyone believes me to be is exhausting. Something has to give. I don't know how long I can go on like this. I just want it to end.

With a heavy sigh, I roll onto my side and close my eyes. In all honesty, I didn't even want to go to Christian's stupid party. I only asked if I could come to keep up appearances.

Hide that I'd rather be here, in my room, miserable and alone.

I want to sleep. I really do. But who knows when Taylor will be home, and even though my door is locked, I don't trust that asshole. Just last week, he tied a string outside my room, and I tripped over it first thing in the morning. And then put saran wrap under the toilet seat so that I pissed all over myself. Not to mention the constant gay jokes.

Fucking prick. The only time it seems we aren't at each other's throats is when we're racing on the track in the backyard. In Delaware. Which isn't often these last few months, almost like he wants to be a douchebag to me.

Well, except for that week when he first moved in.

Tucking my fist beneath my chin, I force my body to relax as I remember that morning after the wedding.

There's a soft scratching at my door, drawing my focus from the comic strip I'm trying to draw. Listening intently for a moment, I hear nothing, so I return to the artwork in front of me. I rarely get time to draw anymore since summer is usually my only reprieve. Once school starts, all my time is filled with football, swim team, motocross, and church shit. The motocross, I enjoy, but the rest of it? Let's just say that the thought of my freedom ending has me in a sour mood this evening.

The scratching comes again, followed by a loud meow and a low chuckle that sends goosebumps over my skin. Putting down a colored pencil, I stand and stretch. After I showed Taylor the track and we'd raced last night, we'd gone to the store to buy supplies for his cat. It had been weird because he'd actually been tolerable to be around, but I chalked it up to the effects of the second pain pill he popped before getting in my car. After that, I'd spent the rest of the night and all morning in my room. Having him here is throwing me off. I'm not sure how to handle it .

A thump hits my door, and annoyance has me huffing as I throw on some pants before checking on the noise. Upon stepping into the hall, I look down to see Lasagna chasing a red dot. Taylor sits on the floor just inside the doorway of his room, holding the laser pointer for her, a black tank top hanging off his lean frame depicting an image of MewTwo and Beerus from DragonballZ locked in a space battle. He's also wearing sweats, his bare feet tucked beneath him, dark hair mussed as if he'd just gotten up from a nap.

My heart leaps when his gaze meets mine, his forearms bulging as he flicks the laser pointer. A crooked grin curls his lips, but it doesn't reach his eyes.

Fuck, why?

Why does he have to be so gorgeous?

"Hey," he says, watching me sit cross-legged in front of my door.

"Hey." I look away, avoiding the ring of bruises that I caused on his arm. The sight of them still makes me feel like throwing up despite the ones on his face. We sit quietly, watching Lasagna go crazy for the red dot.

Taylor is the first to break the silence, clearing his throat. "What are you up to in there?"

His eyes flick over my shoulder, but I ignore his question, instead holding out a palm for the toy. "Can I try?"

He tosses it to me, and I catch it midair, chuckling at Lasagna as she jumps to try and catch it herself. She's really a cute thing, albeit scruffy. Her pupils nearly consume her amber eyes, little chirping noises twitching her whiskers when I point the dot at the ceiling.

"How old is she? "

"Eleven." He pauses for a beat. "Maisie got her for me a year before she left."

I turn to him and see his cheek resting on his fist, hair falling into his eyes as he plays with the string of his sweats. There's something heartbreakingly sad about his expression, the way his shoulders curve forward as if he'd curl in on himself if he could.

I don't know if it's the wedding or the pain pills, but I've never seen him this way before, and I don't know how to respond.

"I'm sorry," I reply softly, bracing for the inevitable lashing he's sure to give me. ‘ I don't want your pity ' or ‘ fuck off ' are sure to follow, but after a solid minute of flinching...they never come.

He shrugs, not meeting my eyes. "My father is an asshole. He was abusive to her, so I get why she left. I don't think she ever wanted to be a mother. I just..."

He trails off, but I can hear the words he's trying to say.

I don't get why she had to leave me, too.

Lasagna continues to meow as I sweep the light over the wall, another awkward silence settling over us. He shifts uncomfortably, almost like he's going to leave, but something in me desperately wants him to stay, to keep this open flow of communication between us after so many years of cold cruelty.

So I open my mouth.

"That picture downstairs that you were holding yesterday," I start, "the one of my mom at the beach? It's the last vacation we took before... before she died. The last time I truly saw her healthy." Taylor slowly settles back down on the floor, and I take that as a cue to continue.

"She was diagnosed with breast cancer shortly after my sixteenth birthday. I guess she had a lump for a while, but she ignored it because she didn't want to bother anyone." I scoff, even as my throat closes. "Can you believe that? To be so sick yet worry about how it will affect everyone else? Anyway, by the time she finally made it to the doctor, it had metastasized. Spread everywhere and took over most of her organs. In little under two months, she was just… gone."

It's quiet in the hall, and I don't think Taylor's even breathing. I keep swinging the laser around, though I'm not seeing it. I'm reliving the worst year of my life.

"At first, I was angry. So fucking angry with her because how could she? Dad and I needed her, but she ignored her health like that? I thought it was selfish. Like she somehow let the cancer spread on purpose. For a long time, I felt like it was my fault. I must have done something, right? For her to have wanted to leave us like that?"

"You did nothing wrong, Huck," Taylor murmurs, and I give a jerky nod.

"I know that now. But at the time, I couldn't see it. I was... consumed by grief. And it was worse for my dad, but he had to put all his effort into keeping his teenage son from falling apart." I laugh bitterly. "Church was always hard for me, but it was impossible after that. How could a God exist when diseases like cancer take away good people? People who are kind, faithful, loved by their communities, and all-around good."

My voice cracks at the last word, and I swallow hard, falling silent to collect myself momentarily. Taylor says nothing, but I can feel his eyes on me. I don't meet his gaze, unsure if I could handle what I'd find there.

Inhaling a shaky breath, I keep talking. "Anyway, I didn't mean to make this about me. Now that I've had time to come to terms with my mom's death and some therapy, I understand that she did the best she could. She was only human and thought she was doing what was best for Dad and me. I'm sure your mom felt the same way. Maybe leaving you with your dad wasn't the right choice, but she thought it was better for you at the time. For whatever reason."

Fuck, I didn't mean to get all sentimental. But those words from my therapist helped me, and I hope they'll help Taylor, too. Even after everything that's happened between us, I can't help wanting to take away his pain.

I toss the laser across the hall to him, and he picks it up, turning it over in his hands. When his eyes lift to mine, I feel like I've been hit in the chest at the anguish I see beneath their depths.

"Sometimes bad things happen, Huck." He sighs deeply. "And God has nothing to do with it. Sometimes, shitty people are just shitty people."

My phone dings loudly over the speaker, alerting me to a new text, and I flop onto my back with a growl of frustration. Sleep is a cold, hard bitch these days.

With one eye open, I unlock the screen to find a text from Royce. Sitting up straight, I'm suddenly wide awake, excitement quickening the blood in my veins.

Royce: Hey :)

Me: Hi (: What's up?

I lick my lips, leaning against the headboard to make myself comfortable. Royce is a guy from another school nearby. We'd hit it off during a competitive swim meet at the start of the year. In more ways than one…

Royce: Oh, just bored. Thinking of you ;)

Me: Yeah? What about me?

Royce: Remember your birthday ;p

Me: Of course

How could I forget? We'd finally agreed to hang out near the reservoir the night I turned eighteen. Things had gotten heated, we'd kissed...and for the first time, I'd known what it felt like to have my dick in someone's mouth. In a guy's mouth.

Royce: I want to do it again sometime…

Me: Mmm, me too. It felt so good.

Royce: I'm glad you liked it. I was nervous lol you're huge

Well, if that isn't an ego boost.

Me: You did amazing ;)

In all honesty, the blowjob felt mid. Not that I had anything to compare it to because, well, I don't. But his tentative nature and teeth made getting off a little tricky.

I'm not going to say that, though.

I'm not a complete asshole.

Unlike someone…

His following text is a picture of himself from the chin down, torso on full display in a low pair of briefs, and my cock twitches in my boxers. He has a lean swimmer's body, all toned muscles and dark brown skin. No hair, obviously, because of swimming. And though I'd prefer a little, the sight of his next picture, which outlines his hard dick in his underwear, has mine rising toward my belly button.

Royce: Send me something to keep me company. I'm lonely ;D

Pulling my cock out, I press the record button as I slowly stroke myself from base to tip. Some low-fi pop song filters through the speaker, and I meet the tempo with my hand, pleasurable waves clenching my muscles with each slow pass.

Ending the recording, I hit send when the front door slams shut, echoing throughout the house. My breath catches as I scramble to pause the music, listening for Dad and Maisie in case they're back from their date.

Instead, all I hear is a grunt and a series of thumps as someone tumbles down the stairs.

"What the fuck?"

With my phone still gripped in my hand, I tuck myself back into my boxers and launch off my bed, yanking open the door just in time to see Taylor lying at the bottom of the stairs, grumbling into the tile.

As I climb down the stairs toward him, my phone immediately drops to the carpet. "Did you just eat shit, dude?"

He raises his head and squints at me, licking his lips, a dark bruise blooming on his cheekbone. "Where've you been?"

My hands grip him under the arms as I haul him up. "Did you break your face on the steps?"

"Nah. Christian clocked me," he laughs hoarsely, burying his face in my chest with a deep inhale.

"What? Why?" I pull him up the stairs, struggling against his weight as he leans on me. I'm not exactly weak—football and the swim team keep me fit. But the way he's putting his full weight on my shoulders has me fighting to stay upright.

"Caught me with my dick down Tatiana's throat." His glassy eyes narrow as he glances at me sideways, and my brows shoot to my hairline.

"Seriously?"

"Yeah. S'okay, though. I punched him when I caught him with Salem. We're solid."

Well. That's...fucked up.

"You guys seem like great friends," I mutter sarcastically, tugging him up the last few stairs.

His answering chuckle brushes along the crook of my neck, his breath smelling like smoke, liquor, and vomit.

"Christian's m'best friend. I love that guy so much."

His speech is slurred, and I fight a smile when we step onto the landing. "Okay, Romeo. Let's get you to bed."

We barely take a step before I feel his body go rigid against me. He stops with such force that I lose my grip on his arm, spinning around to find his eyes laser-focused on the ground. It takes me exactly two seconds to figure out what he's looking at, but it's too late.

"Who's fucking dick is on your phone?!"

I feel all the blood drain from my body as we dive simultaneously. Like an idiot, I'd left the phone unlocked when I'd dropped it to the ground, and the video of me playing with my cock is on repeat. I almost have the phone in my hands when Taylor yanks me back at the last minute, climbing onto my chest. We battle for a short second before it's in his hands, and my throat closes in terror.

Fuck.

"Give it back, Taylor!"

"Aw, lil' Hucksie's got a boyfriend." He sneers down at the screen, thumb swiping as he no doubt reads through my messages.

I grab for the phone again, but he lifts it out of reach. "Give me back my fucking phone!"

"This what gets your dick up, bro? Who is this guy, anyway?"

Digging my heels into the carpet, I lift my pelvis and rotate until I have him pinned on the ground beneath me. He tucks the phone against his chest, snickering as I try to pry his arms apart.

"Give me his number." He wriggles beneath me, trying to free himself. "I'll show him what a real cock looks like."

"I doubt his phone can even zoom in that far."

Taylor blinks, lips twitching before his features twist into a nasty scowl. "Tell me, does the good Bishop know what his precious son does in the middle of the night? "

Whatever anger I felt completely dissipates as ice forms in my veins.

"No. And you can't say anything, Tay."

"Oh?" His lips curve, a cruel glint darkening his blue-green eyes. "I think this will make a great conversation over breakfast."

My hand strikes out to wrap around his throat, squeezing as I lean down toward his face. "You say anything to my dad, and I'll tell Coach about the weed you sell in the second-floor boys' bathroom."

No, no, no, no . This isn't happening. My heart is like a battering ram in my chest, threatening to break from my ribs and leap onto the floor.

Taylor snorts, flashing his teeth, and I've never wanted to knock them out more than this moment. "You think I actually give a shit about football? Try again."

"Then I'll tell your mom," I shout desperately, still clawing at his fingers with my free hand for the phone.

He curls upward, so close that our noses brush as he laughs in my face. "Nice try. She could give two shits about me. You got nothin' on me, Fuckslee."

My vision goes red. He hasn't used that name since I asked him to stop. For once, I thought he'd be decent and care about someone other than himself, but I was wrong. Taylor fucking Tottman is a selfish piece of trash, and if he tries to take me down, I'll make sure he crashes and burns along with me.

"You're wrong." Leaning all the way forward, I flatten my body to his, lips brushing the shell of his ear. "You say anything, and I'll tell everyone about the kiss. "

He shudders, an audible swallow flexing his throat as his hands grip the front of my shirt. "What kiss?"

"You know what kiss."

Taylor goes boneless beneath me, releasing my phone, and I pluck it from his palm while my cheek brushes against his. "Remember the one we shared under the bleachers in PE three years ago? When I told you that I liked you, and you–"

Before I can finish, he throws me to the side with such force that my forehead splits open when it hits the door jamb. Searing pain blurs my vision, white spots dancing in my eyes. I blink rapidly, realizing after a moment that I'm pinned on my stomach with a knee pressed agonizingly between my shoulder blades.

Taylor's harsh inhale echoes off the hallway walls as he pulls my arm backward until I yelp, something wet trickling into my eyes. The scent of his liquor breath stings my nostrils when he twists, bending my elbow unnaturally until I hear something break, and I bellow into the carpet.

"You ever bring that shit up again," he hisses, "I'll fuck you up, Huckslee. I mean it."

The venom in his voice makes me quake, my lungs struggling to expand from the total weight of his knee on my back, contorting my arm like he wants to rip it from my body. Real fear sluices through me as the seconds tick by and the longer I struggle to breathe.

Finally, the weight lifts. Sharp, burning pain shoots up my forearm when Taylor releases me, and I crawl to my knees with a wince. Cradling the aching limb against my chest, I dazedly look up at my stepbrother. He stands above me, glaring down with such hatred that I'm rendered speechless .

"Keep your fucking queer hands to yourself."

Those words cut me to the bone, hurting deeper than the gash on my brow or the twisted arm. His lips curl with disgust before he whirls toward his room, slamming the door behind him. Tears that were welling behind my lashes spill forth, soaking my face as sobs wrack my body. I try to move my arm, but pain shoots up to my elbow, and I can't.

I can't move. I feel like I can't breathe. All I can do is sit here and cry.

Like a fucking weakling.