Chapter 15

15

Troy

When I finish my swing, Glen’s still fishing through the bag for a driver.

“I’m glad you could make it today,” he says.

“Happy to join you.” I fucking hate golf, but spending time with him really matters to Mom. And I’m glad it’s just the two of us since I hate it even more when it’s with a bunch of his snooty coworkers.

“Sorry we didn’t come sooner,” he says. “Got behind at work last month, so I’m glad we made it out here before the holidays.”

“Not a problem.” Hell, I assumed he’d forgotten he’d invited me, but now that I’m here with him, there’s something I have to get off my chest. “You really should consider inviting Atlas to come out sometime.”

I tell myself it’s because my stepbrother deserves to suffer through this too, but I know the real reason I’m pressing: because Atlas is the one he should be inviting, not me. And it seems that no matter how many times I bring this to Glen’s attention, it doesn’t change anything.

Maybe because he’s not really listening to anything I say.

“Eh, he wouldn’t enjoy this.”

Why the fuck do you think I enjoy it?

He begins his swing but stops himself and looks back to me curiously. “Oh, your mom tells me…”

Not for the first time, I’m waiting for him to say, You’re fucking around with my son.

You know, the things you expect to hear from your stepdad, like:

Did he blow you?

Did you like it?

Did you lick the shirt he came on?

Yes, yes, and yes. Get off my dick, Glen!

Of course, he’s not gonna say any of that. And even if he does, that’s not what we were doing. It was one time. One weird, wild…hot time.

“…you aced your Thermo test you were so on edge about,” Glen finishes.

Why did he have to say edge?

It makes me think of how his son tortured me…made me practically beg to come.

After Atlas finished that epic BJ, I didn’t know what the fuck to think…hell, I could barely formulate responses. And then I was just watching him like a creep, dumbfounded as he jerked off.

He invited me to help him out—why hadn’t I?

I could have had that beautiful cock in my mouth. It reminded me of when we were in high school, fighting over the PlayStation 3: “No fair! I want a turn!”

Then why had I told him no?

I know the answer. Even after what he’d done, part of me still thought it was a trap. Like I’d start sucking him off, and he’d go, Hahaha. This was all to show you that you wanted my cock so bad. Got ya!

Or worse, that after we finished, he realized he’d made a horrible mistake, taken a bet way too far.

But God, I wish I could have tortured his cock the way he’d tortured mine. Could have made him beg to let him come.

I’ll have to get him back for that later.

Later?What the fuck? There isn’t going to be a later!

Or is there?

Atlas clearly enjoyed himself, and I enjoyed myself…much more than I should have.

It isn’t just about the BJ, though. Atlas is queer. Maybe bi, but for a guy I’ve never had much in common with, we apparently have more in common than either of us realized.

Although, I’ve considered he was just trying me on for size. Seeing if he would like it. It’s possible, likely even, that it was just a hit-it-and-quit-it thing for him. From everything I’ve heard, that’s his MO.

Fuck, will not going down on Atlas be one of the biggest regrets of my life?

If I never get a chance to taste his cock, at least I got a little lick of the cum on his shirt. I knew it was a weird thing to do, but I told myself tasting him was only fair since he’d tasted me.

“Troy…”God, my name’s never sounded as good as it did slipping out from between those wet lips, watching him spray across his stomach.

And now I’m getting a semi.

While Glen’s still facing away from me, I adjust. I imagine Atlas standing next to me, teasing me, “You getting hard over me with my dad on the eighth green?”

“It’s the sixth, thank you very much.”

“What’d you say?” Glen asks.

Fuck, did I say that out loud? Really need to watch my mouth. This isn’t the time to be blurting out certain things I can’t get out of my head.

“I was making sure we’re on the sixth green,” I explain.

“Yeah,” he replies, repositioning himself for his swing.

“Even if Atlas doesn’t love golf, I think he’d appreciate the invite.”

“You just don’t know him as well as I do.”

I beg to differ, Mr. McCallister.

“Besides, it’d just turn into a fight. Always does.”

That, I believe.

Glen takes his swing, and his ball flies across the grass. He chuckles, clearly pleased with himself before we move along, like I didn’t say anything at all. Glen’s selective hearing is something of an art. I don’t know how Mom can stand it.

When we finish this hole, Glen says, “I think that’s all I have time for today. Is that all right?”

“Totally understand,” I say, suppressing a sigh of relief.

“Good game, Troy.” And then, of course, he reminds me of the disparity between our scores—in his favor, or he wouldn’t mention it. I figure we’ll head to the cart and then back to the clubhouse, but he says, “You know, what you were saying about Atlas.”

So he was actually listening? Damn.

“I know you mean well, but he has an entitlement issue. Thinks the world owes him something. Doesn’t owe any of us anything, and he’s just gotta get that into that head of his.”

My chest tightens, fist balls up.

I want to say, Well, I bet you didn’t know your son volunteers to help people less fortunate, and every time I hear you talk about charity, it’s only as a deduction, so maybe he gets how the world really works better than you do. Maybe he’s not like you thought at all.

Maybe he’s not like any of us thought.

I have to admit, before he revealed his activism, I never would have guessed. Not that anyone has to be a certain kind of person to help people, but it sounds like this is something that matters to him, and he’s never mentioned it. And clearly, he didn’t want to mention it to me. At least not until the other night.

We finish up, and it takes me about thirty minutes to get from the course to campus. I’m eager to get out of my polo and jeans and into a crop top and gym shorts. That done, I collapse onto my bed.

It’s nice having my afternoons back now that I don’t need to be working through all that crap with Ash. He’s still helping me, but the recent test has given me confidence that I’m at least caught up with the rest of the class, so it’s not the three-times-a-week cram study sessions they were.

I whip out my phone, and without thinking about it, I’m on Instagram, checking to see if Atlas is active.

He’s not, but if I send him a DM, maybe I can change that.

Why do I even want to message him?

I know the answer: since messing around, I have so many questions.

Why this particular charity? How long has he been involved with it? Has he messed around with other guys? Did he like having my cum on his face?

Okay, maybe that last one I’ll keep to myself.

But I’m not just curious about his interest in men; I’m worried. How long has he known this about himself? Is it scary? Is he struggling?

Didn’t seem to be struggling with anything the other night. Seemed totally cool with where he’s at, but with Atlas, who knows?

As much as we dick each other around, I hope he knows I’m here for him if he needs me.

Of course, when I DM him, I can’t say that kind of shit, so I opt for the asshole comment I’d normally make: Your mouth getting lonely?

Why am I grinning over that? Not that clever.

I wait…and wait.

He’s probably working or hanging with his friends.

Atlas: Doubt it’s as lonely as your cock.

Atlas: You tell Glen about what we did?

Me: Yup. Took it pretty well. *eggplant emoji* Said it was the least you could do to help me figure out Thermo. *sweat droplets emoji*

Atlas: *crying face emoji* Glad I could help.

Atlas: So golf was good?

Me: As fun as always.

Even as I type that, I feel guilty that I was taking up time with his dad that should have been set aside for him…or at least for both of us.

Me: That bachelor auction.

Me: Had some questions.

Atlas: I’ll shoot you an email about it.

Me: That’d be good, but I figure I’ll want to talk to you about it too.

Atlas: Looking for an excuse to see me again?

Maybe.

Me: Colin’s team is in St. Louis, and Alpha Theta Mu has a big party next weekend, so this one’s gonna be chill. Would be a good time to chat.

Atlas: Chat…yeah, I bet that’s what you want.

Me: You’re insinuating I want something else from you, but I’ve been in therapy long enough to know when someone’s projecting.

Atlas: I know projection too. Saw you do it all over yourself the other night.

I laugh.

Me: Fucker.

Atlas: Admit it. You’ve been thinking about it ever since.

Fuck him. Fuck him. Fuck him. I hate it when he’s right. Although, that’s not exactly true. I didn’t hate it when he was right about blowing me. That was one of the times I was very happy to be wrong.

Me: Maybe my cock misses your lips. Just a bit.

As soon as I hit Send, I regret it. I shouldn’t have admitted that.

Atlas: Weirdest thing. My lips have been tingling a lot lately.

Me: You suggesting they’re psychic?

Atlas: Could be.

Me: Or just hungry for my dick?

Atlas: Maybe you should ask them next time you see them.

Me: I was thinking about heading to McDonald’s later.

For the first time since we started chatting, his response is delayed. Why did I send that?

Atlas: Are you telling me because you need a guardian present so you can go inside the playhouse?

Me: Ass. You know damn well McDonald’s doesn’t have a playhouse.

Atlas: Don’t call me an ass. Not my fault they don’t have a playhouse.

I roll my eyes.

He still hasn’t responded, and my nerves are on edge. I can see he’s typing, and I’m waiting for: No. Busy. Can’t. Some dismissive, one-word reply, like when he’s tried to get out of dinners with the fam in the past. Instead, I get:

Atlas: Sure, we can have a Mickey D’s date.

He’s obviously joking. Or is he? I thought he was joking about the BJ, but I was wrong. Very wrong.

I decide to play along like it’s a joke, since that’s what it has to be, right?

Me: You think you’re the first guy to trick me into a date after tasting this D?

Atlas: Maybe you can tell me all about it over fries…

“Date,” I mutter with a huff. Not that a real date with him would be such a horrible idea.

What am I even talking about? This is Atlas! My asshole, jerk Atlas, who’s been little more than a thorn in my side since freshman year of high school. My little fucker Atlas, who’s practically been my sworn rival since we started reveling in each other’s missteps and swapping insults. My intriguing Atlas, who’s got my mind spinning, and whose joke about a date has me more excited about fast food than I should be.