2. Head Against the Wall

CHAPTER 2

Head Against the Wall

Everett

I splashed my face with cool water, washed it clean, and stung myself with the aftershave. Lifting my torso upright, I looked at the mirror and the ghost that looked back at me. His cheeks were sunken, dark circles blotted around his eyes, and his blond hair was a mess of locks standing in different directions. At least I'm shaved , I thought victoriously.

It was no laughing matter. For the past three or four days, dragging myself out of bed was enough to celebrate.

Even thinking about my bed made me want to return to it. I had my phone there, my laptop, my tablet, my Kindle, and my paperbacks. I had a pantry full of snacks I could drag into my room so as not to starve. If I were really dedicated, I could spend the entire day without running into another soul. God knew the penthouse was large enough that we barely ever crossed paths by chance. My parents were occupied. They had always been occupied.

I might have jinxed myself there.

Just as I dragged a pair of shorts on and pulled the bathroom door open, I heard them. Mother and Father, discussing something quietly.

The bathroom door opened, and their words fell away. Mother looked at me, her pointy chin lifting, head tilting a little on her long, slender neck. "Well, look who decided to wake up. And it's not even noon yet."

"Leave the boy alone, Lavinia," Father said in a high and raspy voice. It was the voice he used to control a room.

"He's hardly still a boy, Harold," Mother said.

"Precisely," Father agreed while I stood there like an idiot. "He is a young man, and it's perfectly natural that he should be a night owl. Tell us, son, have you been with Annabeth last night?"

"Sure." I hadn't seen Annabeth in three months. "Is there coffee?"

"Am I a maid now as well as a mother?" my mother asked.

I ignored it and proceeded to inspect the coffee maker. There was enough for three-quarters of a mug, and I emptied the pot.

"And put a shirt on. You're not at a beach," Mother said tightly.

I slurped hot coffee. "I forgot to bring it."

"Leave him be, Lavinia," Father droned on. "The young, they're so in love with their own youth. It's natural."

Mother turned away as though looking at me made her uncomfortable. "What should I tell Maria, then?" she asked my father, who frowned in confusion. "About lunch, Harold."

"Oh, no, I will not stay for lunch," Father replied. "I must meet Jacobs from Urban Planning, and if all goes well, I won't be back before dinner."

"Will you eat anything today?" Mother asked, her head directed halfway between my father and me. That was as far as she would look. I couldn't find it in myself to care.

I shrugged.

"What is the matter with you?" Mother asked in a tight huff. "Can't you speak?"

"Lavinia," Father said, although it was more habitual than intended. "I must go." He picked up his things from the kitchen counter and stood up. "You should invite Annabeth to dinner one of these days. She is a fine girl, Everett."

"Will do," I said and slurped some more, stalking back to my room.

The last time I had spoken to Annabeth, it was to break up with her. It followed a very strict pattern of dating a girl for six weeks and discovering that it wasn't meant to be. In those six weeks, we would go on dates, we would share a kiss, she'd tell me I was a great listener, and things would progress in a way that inevitably led to much more than a peck on the lips. I'd done that. I'd done a lot of it. I never wanted to do it again. Not with girls who meant nothing to me, no matter how much I tried to make myself feel otherwise.

Yesterday morning, I saw the twins at the church again. She had worn a white and gold dress, and he had worn his white shirt, but his pants had been dark green instead of last week's blue. Throughout the Mass, I had given up on looking at her. He had pulled my attention away from her way too many times, although he didn't know I existed.

And it wasn't anything about him exactly. I'd looked at him because he sat right before me by some chance. Whenever my gaze settled on him, anger bubbled deep in my stomach. Anger and hatred, just like Roman Cross had said.

He knew.

I didn't know how he knew it, but he knew exactly what it felt like. We've all been there. Every single one of us . But I couldn't accept that as truth. None of them had been in my shoes. Had they had to live the way I lived, they wouldn't be dancing their hearts out every goddamn night.

Whatever the case, Roman Cross had scratched the surface enough to see what was beneath it. Hatred. So much goddamn hatred existed in me that it weighed me down. Literally. It rested on my chest every morning, and I couldn't lift myself out of the bed.

I sat in my desk chair, drinking my coffee and staring at the dead screen of my laptop. I wondered what I should wear today. It wasn't like I had anywhere to go. Since graduating from college last year and taking some time off, I'd retreated from all my old circles. At first, it had been the fear of falling into the depravities of my fraternity that had motivated me to never bring down the walls between myself and them, but later, it simply became a habit. When I was alone, nobody tried digging too deep to know me. And when no one knew me, I could be sure my secrets were still mine.

Picking up my phone, I scrolled through photos of people I followed. Good Catholic girls and pious boys, college acquaintances, family members. Then, on a page that didn't consist of those I followed but was created by an algorithm based on what held my attention, fashion models strolled the runways like peacocks or photographed themselves at all the world's most visited beaches.

I wondered if I'd soon visit those places on my own. In December, on my twenty-fifth birthday, the trust fund my father had set up for me would finally be released. I wouldn't need to declare my expenses to my parents anymore. With twelve million dollars in my pockets, I'd be able to go to Mykonos and see all those pretty boys sunbathing on the beaches. I'd go to the Amalfi Coast and lounge in a line of bronze, sweaty guys whose only job in life was to look pretty. Nobody could ask me to justify the bills.

To be perfectly honest with myself, I knew that looking at them like this wasn't just to get a better sense of fashion. If I wanted to settle that, I could just hire a stylist. My father was a New York developer responsible for some of the most luxurious locations in the city. There wasn't a physical problem that his money couldn't solve. The truth was that—and I often lied to myself about it—I liked looking at them. I liked this moment of fear, of outright panic, of sweat breaking over my palms and my stomach feeling hollow when I scrolled too deep and ended in this wild loop of topless guys flaunting their swimming shorts or underwear.

Lucifer is testing you , I told myself, but the words rang so hollow and fake that I knew they meant nothing to me. He is tempting you with these irresistible things so you will sell your soul to him. But I didn't believe it. Not truly.

I had lost my faith at the start of college. I didn't know it until much later, but those were the days that had eradicated what little had been left of my beliefs in a higher power. Dean had done it, although he hadn't been aware of it. He wasn't the first or the last guy I had felt this twisted thing for, but he was the one whose touch seared me the most. It was a literal touch that had done it, as if Lucifer's long finger had reached right where my heart was and burned my faith out of me.

Dean and I had been close friends for the first few months of college. It was a friendship that came quickly, explosively, like something you never thought could happen to you. We both enjoyed baseball, worked out a lot, read the same books, and liked Elvis and the Beatles when other students listened to foul music. It was an easy friendship. Except it wasn't exactly friendship at all. It was more like an infatuation.

And Dean was aware of it sooner than I had been.

It had happened in the locker room after a workout. We had just showered and began to dress beside each other when he hesitated. He turned to me, stood a little too close for comfort, and said he really liked hanging out with me. Even then, I had felt the heat come into my face, but I was too stunned to pull away until he pressed his hand hard against my bare chest and leaned in.

I'd freaked out, leaped back from him, and stared at him wordlessly as all the disgust and shock ripped through me. My face must have shown enough of it for Dean to understand.

He apologized hurriedly, then surrendered to anger as if he had the right to be angry. He cooled off from me because I wouldn't let him touch me.

Liar , I snapped at myself. He cooled off because you looked at him as if he'd just stabbed you .

My lips curled into a sneer as I remembered it.

Dean fucked off from my life that day, but he had left me a devastated wreck. I thought it was losing a friendship that hurt so much, but I still prayed every night for God to take away these feelings.

He hadn't been the first boy I looked at with longing, and he sure as hell wasn't the last, but when Dean gave up on me, it hurt the most. I missed him every day; I missed his laughter, stupid jokes, and casual confidence.

God didn't take the longing away. He didn't remove the desire to go back in time and let Dean touch me however he liked. He didn't heal me, so I turned my back on Him. What difference did it make? He had abandoned me, and I decided He wasn't real.

But it was too late to reverse all the damage. My parents had brought me up by microdosing guilt into my life, and it was something I could never break free from. Even scrolling down the rabbit hole of shirtless models advertising shorts and underwear filled me with enough bitterness that I thought it might kill me.

Day after day after day, I walked in the dark, banged my head against the wall, and wished there was a way to pretend I was normal. To pretend so hard that I believed it. Because it didn't matter whether He existed or not, my parents, my old friends, and everyone we knew believed. And they had no room in their lives for someone like me.

Those who were like me congregated elsewhere.

Roman

I finished my Wednesday morning shift at Neon Nights, where I picked up odd hours at Mama Viv's convenience to pad my wallet when I had to. I didn't mind the work, but I had better things to do with my time. On this particular Wednesday, I hurried to Wall Street in my worn-out jeans and a black T-shirt.

By three in the afternoon, a significant crowd had gathered on Wall Street. There were quite a few familiar faces, although most were strangers to me even after nearly two years of joining causes and movements I believed in. I was often invited to these events because I had introduced myself to the right people early on. To me, it didn't matter if I earned some connections for networking. I was doing just fine in that department with more friends than I could count off the top of my head. What mattered was that I showed up.

Five minutes past three, there was a tiny, palpable relaxing of the traffic, just enough for a dozen of us to step onto the street and not get run over. Whistles appeared in mouths around me to attract the attention of the drivers. In less than thirty seconds, two dozen of us were in the middle of the street, staging a die-in on Wall Street.

I lay on my back and held my breath for a moment.

Our planet is dying.

We can't keep wasting electricity on your artificial intelligence.

You profit while we drown.

Car horns filled the air.

Adrenaline rushed into my bloodstream. My chest rose and fell swiftly, and I held on to the bare, hot street like letting go meant I would fall off the face of the Earth. The protesters around me seemed just as excited and frightened. None of us were new at this. You didn't join an effort you believed in and got sent to do a die-in on your first day. We were seasoned environmentalists with a long list of peaceful protests behind us. Failed, all of them. Failed whenever we pressured for change because they could always squeeze one more quick profit and let the Earth pay the price.

Minutes stretched out indefinitely. They felt like each carried an eternity of suspense and torment.

"Get your fucking asses off the street," someone shouted from a car.

"I'm going to be late for my meeting," someone else said.

"…fucking bunch of crybabies…"

Martha lay next to me and laughed. "We struck a nerve, I think."

I turned my face to her and grinned.

She was a forty-year-old lesbian who had been doing this for over twenty years with her partner. I'd met her at Neon Nights, and our fates collided almost like it was some grand platonic romance. She had been my ticket in.

"Are you coming tonight?" I asked.

"If we don't get arrested," Martha said.

I snorted. I could outrun the cops any day. Cops weren't my problem. That honor went to the beefy buttheads that liked to stir shit and make our protests look less peaceful. Whenever we staged a march or a picket line, these jocks with their mothers' socks pulled over their round faces came and started smashing things. More than once, I'd gotten my lip split or my torso bruised.

It didn't matter. My body would recover. I was not so important to stay away out of fear of getting kicked around. What mattered was that someone had to stand up to the spoiled assholes who cared nothing about the future generations. They would long be dead, in their silk bedsheets and on their mile-long superyachts, by the time our society disintegrated.

For them, it was all great because those who suffered the consequences right now were halfway across the world. Well, it wasn't great for me. I denounced them. Even if I had to spend a night in jail or get a black eye.

A few more minutes of commotion produced an outpouring of security personnel guarding the stock exchange. I found it hilarious that the traders and bankers weren't worried about hurricanes, droughts, wildfires, deforestation, deep-sea mining, and the ever-increasing emissions, but they feared a bunch of protesters lying on the street, blocking traffic. Not that they were afraid we might do something, I supposed. They feared the unthinkable. They feared the stocks ticking downward for a hot minute.

When the sirens announced the NYPD's prompt response to our die-in, protestors scattered. I was among the last to pick up and run, hot on Martha's heels.

"Don't forget about tonight," I shouted after Martha in a fit of laughter because we had gotten away. A moment later, we separated, slipping into different alleys and running for a good hiding place.

A mere few minutes later, the police were far behind me, so I blended in with the crowd. I walked for a while, then slipped underground to wait for the next train home. The financial district was overcrowded with people in suits. It made me squirm. I didn't like being such a fish out of the water. Even the subway was full of aspiring bankers.

So when I left the subway and emerged at the edge of Hudson Burrow, it felt like home in all the right ways. This was where I belonged. Sure, it had a coat of grunge to it, but home wasn't just something where all the bricks were intact. It was the people you knew, the places you went, the habits you developed. As I passed Rashid's grocery store, I waved at Mr. Rashid's son, Zain, who delivered fresh produce to Mama Viv's place. He was a black-haired youth with equal parts Middle Eastern and Latino genes shaping a handsome, unforgettable face. And just around the corner, my hairdresser was standing in front of his tiny parlor, smoking a joint, laughing at something on his phone. Three stores down, a new tattoo parlor was being prepared, and a moving truck had delivered some wall decorations. I lingered around for a few moments when I realized all the paintings that were unpacked and scattered around the parlor were male nude portraits. Whistling to myself, I wondered if all this queerness in Hudson Burrow would drive my rent up.

With the exception of the Rashids, I was pretty damn sure everyone here was gay. At least a little gay, I figured. Even those who act like they come around just to observe . The thought was only partially amusing. That handsome fuckup belonged precisely where I had been keeping him this entire week: out of my mind.

Few people managed to return to me so stubbornly as that one. And not because he was hot as hell in a jockstrap. Well, that was part of the reason, to be fair. But the real reason I couldn't shake off that sour sneer of his and the hungry look in his eyes was because he clearly needed something he could only get in Neon Nights.

Hungry didn't begin to describe it. It was starved, that empty gaze of his.

It was really annoying, truth be told, that I was still thinking about it. I didn't know the guy's name or his story, but I knew I had handled it all wrong the first time we'd crossed paths. I had just been in a fight with Tristan, who had run off from Mama Viv and the neighborhood. I had been lonely, hurt, slightly horny, and I saw a sexy stranger brooding by the door. What was the boy supposed to do? I tried to flirt with the guy, but he freaked out, threatened me, and ran away. Not exactly the kind of response I was used to when I flirted.

I tried to fix that nasty mess. I tried to offer a hand of friendship, but my touch seemed to disgust him as much as he disgusted himself. Oh, it was clear to me then. It was clear because I had lived through that particular hazing. Not everyone did, but I'd survived the years it had taken me to accept my sexuality. I hadn't always been a hoe. There was a time when I had been a timid creature with nobody I could talk to. A family in the Midwest that cared little and less about what I had to say so long as I did my chores and not another queer person in a hundred-mile radius was all I had growing up.

And I'd hated myself. I was sick of myself every time I daydreamed about boys skinny-dipping in the local lake or classmates changing in the locker room. The older I got, the more disgusted I was with myself until, one night, I cried into my pillow for what felt like hours, and my parents simply went quiet downstairs as if not to disturb me. They never checked in on me, never asked. And I knew then that I was on my own.

It didn't matter if they knew, suspected, or cared. It didn't matter if it hurt them or anyone else that I was besties with all the girls and daydreamed about guys instead of things being the other way around. Who I was didn't matter to anyone but me.

And that was why I had tried to speak to him the second time. That was why I couldn't get him out of my head.

Lane was seething in the living room when I entered the apartment. "'Sup?" I greeted him.

He clenched his teeth, the muscles in his cheeks flexing. "Hey," he squeezed.

"All good?" I asked in passing.

Lane snorted. "Rosy."

I checked the time. Five in the afternoon meant that Oakley was probably doing his solo yoga in the room and didn't want to be watched by his roommate. So Lane stared at a dead TV screen and argued with Oakley mentally.

Deciding to steer clear of that box of horrors, I slipped toward my room. The noises coming out of Tristan's room meant he had company, and it was wiser for me not to knock on the door. He and Cedric had been inseparable all these days since their return from Verdumont. Tristan had taken Mama Viv's offer to take over the Neon Nights kitchen upon our current chef's departure, so Tris was more present at the bar than ever before. Cedric, in turn, was also around, but he wasn't allowed to wash the dishes. It should be noted that Mama Viv still slipped from time to time and directed Cedric to hurry up and help Zain with fresh produce, but she would buy His Highness a drink afterward.

Tonight's show at Neon Nights was a Freddy Mercury tribute night. I could already see Mama Viv shredding her rendition of "The Show Must Go On" after all the guest queens had taken their turns lip-syncing. Not Mama Viv, though. She sang, she danced, and she acted, though the last of her official training had happened over forty years ago.

When the party started, the usual suspects filled Neon Nights. Mama Viv was hiding in her dressing room, waiting for the big moment at the end of the tribute hour. Cedric and Tristan were so madly and blatantly in love that I didn't go near them for fear of third-wheeling by accident. Instead, I sat at the bar and chatted with Bradley about his kid. At some point, Martha and her partner arrived, and I was glad to know she hadn't been caught today. The thing about these harmless stunts was that nobody really went after us if they couldn't catch us in the middle of the act. Issuing warrants for a slight disruption to traffic was too much work. We were free to fight another day.

Oakley showed up a little while later, sullen and in a hurry to have a drink.

Then, when I lost track of my thoughts, I felt it. It was like someone softly exhaling over the back of my neck. It wasn't the weight of his gaze or the warmth of his body. I couldn't feel either of those, not literally. It was something abstract and indescribable.

But when I turned, he was precisely where I knew he would be.

The handsome fuckup stood by the window nearest to the door, his gaze on me, his lips pressed into a tight line, and his eyebrows lifting so slightly that it might not have happened at all.

He waited for me.