9

-North-

WHEN WEget to the car, I curse. Of course Mal can't drive, he's wasted. And I can't either. Even if I wasn't drunk enough to be over the limit, I don't have my license. Driver's ed was not my strong point in high school.

Shit, it looks like we're gonna have to walk it. Mal's place is on the other side of the campus, an hour away from here. Mal leans his weight on me, and I struggle to hold him up; he's made of pure muscle and heavy as fuck. There's no way I'm going to make it to his place.

Which leaves us with one option. As much as I want to avoid it, we'll have to go back to my dorm.

I cast a look back at the pristine Porsche sitting in the grubby parking lot. Sorry buddy, I think. We'll come back for you tomorrow. I hope it survives the night.

It should be a twenty-minute walk to my dingy dorm room from the bar, but with Mal leaning on me the whole way, swaying and pressing his face into the side of my neck, it ends up taking us forty. His hands roam over my body, touching and grabbing everything they can, trying to get in the front of my pants and mumbling something about peaches into my neck.

He has to be the lightest weight drinker I've ever met. The featherweight champion. Who'd have thought big scary Malcolm Blackwood would be brought down by four shots?

I'm not even slightly upset about having to leave the bar early, because it's my fault he's like this. I feel so guilty, and the urge to protect him, take him home, and wrap him up in blankets is all-consuming.

When we finally get to my dorm, I let us into the tiny room and steady him toward the bed, kicking crap on the floor out of the way as we go.

He flops his butt down onto the bed so hard I'm surprised it doesn't give under his weight. His cowboy hat is somehow still on his head, and he tips forward precariously, going face first toward the carpet until I grab his shoulders and brace him with my chest, pushing him up again.

"Whoa there, cowboy," I say and I wrestle him down into a lying position on the bed and take his hat off, but he snatches it back out of my hands.

"That's my little hat!" he growls.

I laugh and hold my hands up. "All right, all right, sorry. you can keep it. I thought you didn't like it."

"Of course I do, it's a little cowboy hat. Cowboys are fucking cool."

He jams the hat back on his head, making his dark hair poke out at all angles. Then he lunges and grabs my shoulders. I almost go tumbling right on top of him but manage to catch myself against the wall.

"Hey, what are you doing?"

He pulls on me again and he's so strong it almost dislocates my arm. "Come on, North, let's fuck."

I manage to escape his grip and bat his hands away when he tries again. "We're not having sex, Mal."

"Why?" he whines.

"Because you're drunk."

He pouts. "No, I'm not. You're drunk."

His words come out slurred and I raise an eyebrow at him.

He grumbles. "Do as I say."

"No."

"I'll punish you for this."

"Uh-huh, sure."

I should try to get his cowboy vest off, but that means going into the horny Mal danger zone, so he'll just have to sleep in it. Instead, I carefully press him down onto the pillow, keeping the hat in place, and pull my blanket up around his shoulders until he's snug.

"You'll be sorry!" he declares as he nestles down. "Dildos in every hole! I fucking mean it. Nostrils, ear holes, everything."

He shouldn't be so adorable when he's threatening me. I can't help laughing until my eyes water and I have to wipe them on my sleeve. When I'm done, Malcolm's eyes roll up to me without moving his head, like he's afraid to move.

"The room's spinning, North."

"Yeah, it'll do that, buddy. Just try to relax, it'll pass."

His eyes roll around again, taking the space in.

"This room is tiny. And it smells like feet. You should live with me instead."

My heart stutters in my chest, and the last traces of laughter cut off abruptly. Even though he probably doesn't even know what he's saying right now, the thought of officially moving in with him makes my heart do a little dance. I'd give anything for him to ask me that when he isn't drunk out of his mind. Still, it's nice to hear.

"That'd be lovely, Mal," I say in a soothing voice.

"You're really hot. I like your eyes. They're so nice. And you're nice."

Another non sequitur. "Thanks," I say softly.

"You're so nice. You're almost too nice, actually. It's like, whoa there, stop being so fucking nice."

"Is that a bad thing?" I ask.

He shakes his head, barely keeping his eyes open. "No. It's really good. But it makes me feel bad."

"Why?"

"'Cause I'm not nice."

I tilt my head at him. "I think you are."

"Yeah, well, you must not know me very well," he says sadly.

I sigh. "You're not half as mysterious as you think you are, champ," I say. "You are nice underneath this sexy bad boy act you do, you just don't want anyone to know it."

He blinks at me slowly like he's trying to process what I just said, then his face creases and he looks away and rubs a hand across his eyes.

"It's easier that way," he murmurs. "Nice people get fucked." Then he looks back and waves an unsteady finger at me. "Case in point."

I can't argue there, I'm lovable as hell and I get fucked a whole lot. "Yeah but what if they like getting fucked?" I counter.

He barks out an abrupt laugh and flops his hand back down onto the bed. "Touché."

He looks like he's about to drift off, and I know I should let him, but I just can't help digging, because something about what he said is niggling at me.

"Mal, where did you get that little nugget of shit wisdom? That nice people get fucked?"

"My dad," Mal says. "I know, he's an asshole. You don't have to tell me."

That surprises me. Not that his father would say something like that—some dads can be incredibly shitty—but that Mal would even talk about him. He's never mentioned his dad once in the entire time I've known him. Do I think it's weird? Sure, but I haven't exactly given my full family history either. Our conversations don't tend to involve talking about ourselves very much.

His father is a bit of a mystery to me. Other than the fact that he's filthy rich I don't know anything about him, and I don't believe any of the stupid rumors about selling illegal guns to the Mafia either.

The urge to keep asking questions is strong, but I can't do it now while he's drunk. That wouldn't be fair.

"I'm sorry he's an asshole," I say.

Mal shifts, his shoulders alone almost span the width of the small bed. "Yeah, me fucking too."

And with that, his eyes drift closed, clearly done for the night. I sit down on the foot of the bed, pull his feet into my lap, and start working his boots off. He doesn't move as I tug at the laces.

I wonder what kind of childhood he had, or what his relationship with his parents is like. I don't talk about my own family a lot, but I still visit them at least once every few weeks. Now that I think about it, I can't remember him ever doing the same, or his family visiting him either. I don't even know if he has any siblings. The woman in that photo in his bedroom must have been his mom, but maybe his parents aren't together anymore if his dad is an asshole.

Unanswered questions bubble up inside me and there's so much I want to know about him, but it'll have to wait.

I get one boot off, set it down on the floor, and get to work on the other.

"He gave me the scar. Did you know that?" Mal mutters into the blanket.

I stop with his boot halfway off his foot and look up at him. His eyes are still closed, his face blank. He said it so quietly I'm not sure if I heard it right.

"What?"

"The scar," he murmurs. "Happy fucking birthday, sport. This year you get stitches."

My stomach drops through the floor. No, I can't be hearing this right. I shake my head. "The scar on your back? Your dad did that?"

He just lifts his arm up and flicks his hand in a lazy whipping motion. "Crack."

I stare at him, my chest tight as I ask, "Was it an accident?"

Now he opens his eyes and stares up at the ceiling, and I realize with a jolt that they're wet. He's crying. A smile spreads across his face, wide, tight, and strained. "Nope."

"Shit, Mal." I don't know what to say, but I feel sick. His dad gave him that massive scar. Why? How? The questions linger on my tongue, but I can't ask them, so I just stare at him instead, my mouth hanging open. He closes his eyes again, but the smile stays in place as a tear leaks out of the corner of his eye and traces down the side of his face.

"D'ya see why I'm so fucked up now? So, so fucking fucked."

Oh god, Mal is crying, and I don't know what to do. I want to wrap him up in a big hug, and If this was anyone else I wouldn't even hesitate. But he doesn't do hugs, he doesn't do cuddling. I don't know if that's just part of his tough-guy front, or if he actually doesn't like it. Without knowing his history, I have no idea. Would trying to hug him now trigger him in some way and make him feel worse?

I've never seen him so vulnerable before and it makes me feel useless not knowing how to help him, how to make him feel better. My throat is so tight it makes me choke.

"I'm so sorry, Mal," I say.

His eyes crack open again and he looks at me.

"What for?" he sounds genuinely confused, like he's already forgotten what he just told me. I hesitate.

"It doesn't matter," I say softly. "Just get some sleep."

He watches me for a moment, eyes groggy and fuzzy.

"This is too hard," he says.

"What is?" I ask, now dreading the answer.

"Wanting you. It's too much."

I bite my lip. I don't know how to comfort him, and the guilt is killing me. I should never have made him come out with me, I should have accepted that he didn't want to, but I was selfish, and I just couldn't let it go.

"I'm sorry for pushing you," I say as I ease his boot the rest of the way off and put it on the floor. Then I carefully put his legs back on the bed, cover them with the blanket, and stand up.

"Get some sleep. There's water on the side, and a bowl here in case you need to puke. I'll sleep over here on the floor, ok?"

"Don't go." He shoots up, nearly toppling off the bed, and I freeze.

"I'm not leaving, I'll just be down here," I say.

That settles him a little, but he still looks at me with wet pleading eyes. "I don't want to sleep on my own. Will you stay with me?"

The lump in my throat grows. That's almost exactly what I said to him when he stayed with me that first night in his spare room. The night he marked my body for himself. And now he's asking me as if he's not sure what the answer will be. As if I would ever say no.

"Of course I'll stay with you." I sit on the edge of the bed. "I'll do whatever you want, Mal. I'm here for you."

"Can I have a hug?" he asks.

It hits me like a punch in the heart.

I claim I know him, but that's bullshit isn't it? Because with those words, so lost and unsure, it suddenly becomes clear just how much he's hiding behind the front he puts up. Under the bravado, the cold carelessness, the pathological need to control everything, this is what's there. The photo I saw in his room flashes through my mind. The shy little boy with the tentative smile in that photo is still here, right in front of me. He's bigger and rougher and a little bit broken, but it's still him.

And fuck, it hits me like a bolt of lightning; I'm going to protect him from everything and anything I can. Even if I have to protect him from the monsters inside his own head. Because I love him.

"Sure, Mal," I say gently. "You can have a hug if that's what you want."

He moves over and I slide in beside him, making the bed springs clunk, and wrap my arms around him. We barely fit in the bed together, and I'm half hanging over the edge, but I don't care. This is exactly where I want to be, and I'm never going to leave. He curls up and rests his head against my chest. Can he hear how fast my heart is racing?

"Sorry I'm so weird," he whispers. "Do you still wanna be my boyfriend?"

I close my eyes. God, I wish he wasn't drunk right now. I wish he meant all this stuff he was saying. I want it so badly it hurts.

I run my fingers through his hair. "Yes. I do."

"Ok," he says. "And you're a fucking hot cowboy."

He won't remember this tomorrow, but I smile. "So are you. You're the yee to my haw."

He lets out a long breath, hmm-ing contentedly and I settle in, stroking his hair and enjoying the moment.

Then he lurches up, leans over the edge of the bed, and pukes his guts up.