Chapter 15

Fifteen

Ezra

M iller ghosts me when we get home.

I don’t blame him.

It was bullshit what I tried to sell him: that I left the hospital to get his food. I fucking fled the place, then I sat out in the parking lot because I couldn’t go back in.

Only assholes act like this to other people. Only fucking dickheads treat the person they like most in the world this way.

The best thing I could do for Josh Miller is stay on the outskirts of his life. Let him do his thing. Finish up the year and go to college. Let him meet a good guy who can be good back to him. Someone who doesn’t have to lie about his past for evermore because he’s got secrets no one can ever know.

I convince myself that it’s good I had the moment at the hospital. It reminded me of who I am.

When he gives me a small, polite smile a few hours after we get home from the hospital—we’re passing one another, coming and going from the kitchen—all it does is confirm what a good guy he is. He seems chill but sort of sad. Or maybe that’s just bullshit, and I want him to be sad that I’ve gone distant toward him.

I don’t go onto the roof once he’s in bed. Even though the only thing I want is to sit by his window and smoke until my chest aches less. I don’t even let myself sleep until nearly sunup because I know for sure I’ll wake up screaming. Before I even think about shutting my eyes, I lock my door. My dreams are just starting to go sideways as my phone alarm goes off for school. It works out perfect; I didn’t get enough shuteye to wake up screaming.

I make sure I’m downstairs waiting when he comes to get some breakfast. I give him a polite nod and try to act both chill and nice. Then I pull out my physics textbook and ass-plant on the couch till he comes through ready to leave.

I play “Hotel California” for him on the drive to school and say, “See you at lunch” as he gets out of the Jeep. Then I sit in it a few more minutes chewing Bubble Yum.

I don’t let myself think about the night before last in his bed.

It’s better to feel nothing for him. It was better when I was a fucking asshole.

Josh

Ezzie boy’s not sleeping. I’m pretty sure on Tuesday morning when I see his red eyes in the kitchen, but I’m positive on Wednesday when I go down to get breakfast. There are donuts on the kitchen island and the time stamped on the box’s top is 5:52, which means he got one of the first batches of the day. Ezra’s sitting at the table holding a book, looking more zonked than I’ve ever seen him, with one hand clutching the long flop of hair over his forehead as he peers down at the pages .

When he notices me, he looks up, lifting his brows. “Got some donuts.” His lips twitch like maybe he wants to smile, but tiredness drags at his face.

“Sweet. Thanks.”

The box reveals that only one donut is missing; I spot it in front of him on a plate. So, he hasn’t eaten it yet.

I watch as he ruffles his hair, blows a breath out. He seems weary…or maybe grumpy. I decide to try to sort out which one.

“Whatcha reading?”

“ The Fountainhead for Ms. Karm. AP English,” he says.

Hearing the low rumble of his voice makes my throat seize up, but I somehow manage to speak normally. “You like it?”

“No,” he says.

“Yeah?”

“No.” He laughs, not looking back up. It’s a dry sound.

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Eat your donut, Miller.”

I laugh. “What? You eat yours.”

“I don’t want it.”

“Why’d you get them if you didn’t want to eat a donut?”

“Well, we’re out of eggs and waffles. Your mom told me I should go to the store the other day, and I didn’t.”

“Neither did I.”

“You can’t drive,” he points out.

“I have legs.”

“The store’s a mile away.”

“And?”

Ezra rolls his eyes. “Eat your donut.”

I make a face at him. “You’re not my dad.”

He snorts. “Would your dad tell you to skip breakfast?”

“Why don’t you like it?” I’m talking about the book. Just being annoying, really.

“Why don’t you like donuts , Miller? ”

I stuff the donut into my mouth. “You happy?” I ask through the mess of dough and sugar.

“Yep.” He smirks for a second, but he doesn’t look up.

In the car, he turns the radio up and all but ignores me.

“See ya lunch,” he mumbles as he gets out of the Jeep first. He leaves me to lock it. I notice he was in such a hurry, he couldn’t even say “at” lunch. As it happens, I don’t see him at lunch—for the second day in a row.

Bumble has hit his stride with lecturing, so in physics, Ezra and I barely speak; he arrives a half minute after the bell rings and Bumble is still going strong until the last millisecond of class. After school, Marcel walks to the parking lot with us, so he carries most of the conversation. In the Jeep, it’s radio again—this time some bumping rap.

When we get home, I go to my room and don’t come out except to get in Jenna’s car to go to Sonic.

Thursday is the last morning Ezra and I are alone before my mom and Carl get home. I walk into the kitchen to find Burger King croissants set on the island. Bacon, egg, and cheese. I frown at Ezra, sitting at the table just like yesterday.

“How did you know I like this?” I ask, waving at the croissants.

“ESP,” he says, not looking up from his book.

I unwrap one and take a big bite. So damn good and greasy.

“Whatcha reading?” I ask after I swallow.

“ Lord of the Rings .”

“What about The Fountainhead ?”

“Trash,” he says.

“Harsh critic.”

“Harsh book.”

Damn, I kind of want to read it now to see what he hates so much.

“You didn’t answer me,” I point out, “about the croissant.”

“Lucky guess,” he says .

There’s an apple on the table by him.

“Wait, are you eating an apple? Or a croissant?”

“Maybe both,” he says, not looking up. His tone is hard, sarcastic.

He’s got on a white T-shirt and navy basketball shorts and some white sneaks. His hair looks damp. I know he’s showered because the tub was wet when I got in it.

I can’t help sneaking a look at his muscular legs under the table.

“Thanks for getting these,” I tell him.

“Sure.”

Thursday is just like the two days before. Bass-heavy music on the ride to school. He gets out first and hurries off to...wherever. I guess Coach Nix's office. He's missing again at lunch. I bite the bullet and ask Brennan, who tells me Ezra’s been leaving school for lunch.

"Gettin' them blue Icees," Bren drawls with a grin.

I feel weird as I walk slowly toward physics. Like there's something small and heavy in the pit of my stomach. Logically, I know he’s put the brakes on things with me, but…I don’t know. I guess I still feel hope.

I find Ez sitting on his bar stool, looking tan as fuck and bulky in that snug white shirt. He's got Lord of the Rings in one hand. My stomach gets the heavy feeling again. Clearly, he just doesn't want to talk to me.

"Bookworm," I say as I sit down.

"Ever read this?" he asks.

"No. Should I?"

"Guess it depends."

He doesn't say more, and a second later, Bumble arrives early. He lectures for the duration of class, and I notice Ezra barely takes notes. Disinterest, or is it that he already knows how to do the work?

He's in my head all during band. I even fuck up my cadence on a song because I hear someone shout, "Masters!" from the football practice field.

I'm in a shit mood as I trudge to soccer. I'm not aware that football practice ended early until I notice lots of people on the sidelines of our field. And one of them is Ezra.

Motherfuck me.

He's wearing a gray sleeveless shirt and black shorts, plus the peach ball cap. He looks like someone oiled him up, his muscles gleaming in the sun. It's hella hot this afternoon.

I'm over-conscious of him watching us play when Brian Beeson passes me the ball and Freddy Haywood tries to kick it out from under me. I keep it away from Freddy, but then Eli Stephens comes in from the other side and tries to steer it back toward Brian. Freddy kicks as Eli kicks, which makes the ball fly up in my face.

Damn thing hits me right in the nose, and I can feel it's gonna bleed before the blood starts pouring.

Fucking perfect .

I hear Coach’s whistle peal. Freddy is all in my business, saying, "Fuck, dude!"

"It's fine." I ball my shirt up from the bottom, folding it over my face so Marcel, whose squeamish ass is right there on the sidelines, doesn't lose his shit from seeing the blood.

"Miller?" Coach's hand is on my shoulder. He's saying something I can't process because at that second, I hear Ezra shout, "What the fuck , Haywood!"

Freddy says something, and Coach says, "Pull the shirt down."

"It's fine," I tell him. "Just bloody."

"Go wash up," Coach says after a second.

I get a few back slaps as I walk off the field, and I hear Eli say, "I’m sorry, man."

"It's all good.”

I keep my face hidden behind the shirt—even though that means my subpar abs are on display. Whatever. Who cares if Ezra sees they're not as cut as his are? Dude clearly doesn't want me anymore. And that's good. Because he's my stepbrother.

Jeezus .

I'm reaching for the handle of the door that leads toward the locker rooms when a tanned arm swings into my field of vision...followed by Ezra right in front of me. "I got it," he says softly. He opens the door, holding it from behind so I can't see him as I step into the air-conditioned hall.

I don't want to turn around to see if he's following me. Football and soccer—really all the guys' sports—share a locker room. So, he could do it if he wanted to.

"Thanks," I call, hoping that he's turning back, or that he will.

"No problem." His quiet voice is right behind me. I inhale and try to stop my body's hair-trigger reaction. But it's no use. I can feel him in my circle of space, feel the warmth of him in the air passing over my bare lower back.

"Lemme get this other one," he tells me, opening the locker room door.

For a second—anger.

I don't need your fucking help. Fuck off . I want to say those things. But it's petty bullshit. I want you to suck my dick and sleep in my bed . I'm a fucking stage-three clinger now. At this moment, I feel mad at him for that, too.

"Thanks bro,” I try. “See ya out there."

Is that the tone I'd use if I had never had his dick in my mouth?

"I'm gonna shower too,” he says.

I don't look behind me as I head toward my locker. His is somewhere off to the left; I know because I've seen the strip of tape with MASTERS written on it.

I drop my bloody shirt now that I'm facing my own locker, noting that my nose feels okay. Nose stuff just bleeds. No bfd .

Got some spare shit in here—always. I don't like to be in sweat-soaked clothes.I pull out one of the grocery bags that's knotted at the top and carry the thing over to the showers. And he's right there. He's standing in front of the stalls with his eyes on me like he's trying to suck my soul in through his pupils.

"Nose okay?" he asks.

"Smell some sweaty dickface by the showers." I won't let myself look at him as I push one of the stall doors open.

I'm pulling the thing shut when his hand closes around it. His eyes hold mine. "You wanna go home after this?"

My heart thumps offbeat as I try to make my face look neutral. "I guess."

He nods. He lets go of the door. "Let's stop for some food," he says.

And then he's in the stall beside mine. I can see the side of his head and his shoulders above the stall's side.

What the fuck is he doing? He tips his head back, rubs his fingers through his hair, and I'm hard. It’s instantaneous. Fuck .

I rub the bridge of my nose, but it doesn't really hurt. I turn my face to the shower, fixing it so I can't see him. For the rest of the time I'm washing, I have to angle myself away from him. I'm not sure if I can get my dick down without jerking it. But I think about not being able to drive at college, or about having a seizure on the soccer field, and that gets it bendy enough to at least fit into my boxer briefs.

I'm drying myself with a towel at the same time he is.

Fuckkkit .

"Whatcha wanna eat?” he asks, like we’re besties. “What about some of that chicken from the one place?"

"Wyatt Raye's?" I manage.

"Yeah."

"That's fine."

I reach for my clothes bag at the same time Ezra steps out in his towel. He gives me a tight smile.

"Lookin' good, DG."

"What?"

"You're putting on muscle."

"So are you."

He smiles.

"Don't comment on how I look," I mutter. I can't stop the words from leaving my mouth.

"Why not?"

A burst of rage moves through me. "Don't start this shit."He’s just playing games—again.

I get dressed as fast as I can, finding Coach to officially tap out at practice and then walking to the Jeep, where I lean against the passenger’s side door, trying not to get a hard-on from the way my shorts are pressed against me. My dick's gone into overdrive since he stopped messing with it.

"No chicken," he says as he gets in the car.

As he backs out of the parking spot, he murmurs something. Pretty sure it’s, "This is for your own good."

"What is?" I snap.

"Minimizing time with me."

"Oh, like how you showered right beside me just now?"

"It was a weak moment.” He turns out of the parking lot and onto the road. “I didn't touch you, did I?"

"No?" I gesture at my boner.

"Now you're fucking with me,” he says.

"I'm just fucking sitting here."

"Not for long." He whips the Jeep into the old ballpark, comes to an abrupt stop beside some bushes, and jerks my pants down. Then he takes my dick out of my briefs and gobbles it down.

"Oh shit. Shit ." He's doing it so hard and...fast. My body shudders at the onslaught of his lips and cheeks and tongue.

"Slow down,” I grit. “Or I'm gonna..."

Come .

I come so hard, it makes my heart race. Ezra swallows every drop, and when he lifts his head, his eyes are dark and heavy-lidded.

"Now who's sitting there all innocent?" His voice is low and rough.

I’m expecting him to drive us home after he pulls out of the parking lot. Instead he takes us to the cemetery. He parks near the wall we climbed before and tells me, "Get out for a second."

He’s got his hand down over his dick, which I realize is tenting his pants. "What, so you can jerk off?"

"My balls hurt like hell, and you can't touch it,” he snaps.

"Why not?"

"Because I don't want you to." His hand comes over his face.

"You don’t want me giving you a blow job?"I grin, suddenly feeling wicked.

"No." He blows his breath into his hands. My stomach drops, cause I could feel this coming.

"What is it? This thing run its course, got boring?"

"Get out, please."

"You didn't ask me,” I say, referencing what he just did at the old ball park. “Maybe I shouldn't ask you either."

He moves his hand off his face, giving me a wary look. "You should."

"Can I blow you, Sir Masters? I'll do a real good job. I promise."

He throws the Jeep into reverse and peels out of the cemetery, the Jeep’s tires kicking gravel and dust up behind us. As he hangs a right onto the narrow road that runs through the historic district, he shifts his hips, and I see his dick pushing at his shorts.

As he goes for the compartment where he keeps his ear buds, I reach over his lap, sliding my hand into the leg of his shorts. He ignores me—stubborn fucker—as he drives toward the house. I start to tug on his balls…push them aside and brush my finger over his taint. His hips jerk .

"Pull over,” I tell him with trepidation. I’m so fucking confused and consumed. “Up here on the right, pull over at those townhouses and park under the weeping willow behind them.”

I’m shocked when he does what I say, steering the Jeep so far under the willow that he almost hits its slim trunk.

I find his dick harder than I’ve ever felt it—a turbo cock with bulging veins and a big, fat head. I look forward to how I know the thing will hurt my throat. When I go down on him, I do it just the way that he did back at the ballpark: with no fucking mercy. I blow him like a machine, going at him hard until his body spasms and he blows with a low groan.

I swallow it all, and lick around his head when I’m done. Then I tuck him back into his boxers, straighten his shorts, and lean my head against my headrest.

After that, he's quiet. I think of asking why he’s fighting this—when we both clearly want it. What does he think he’s proving? He can have the best intentions in the world, but at the end of the day, he’s still jerking me around. And off. But more around. For the first time ever, I have the thought that I’m not sure how long I can stand it. Wanting him…and getting pushed back. Craving what we had briefly, and getting angry blow jobs instead.

My chest feels tight, my throat too thick, as he parks in the driveway. I get out without a glance back. As I walk up the porch, I hear him peel off.