Confessions of a Bad Boy(77)
I lean back and rub my brow.
“Fuck, dude. I had that black eye for more than a week.”
Kyle shrugs nonchalantly.
“But at least you passed the test.”
I glare at him, then break out into a laugh.
“Dude, I love Jessie. You could have broken my legs and I’d have crawled back to her.”
A couple of asada taco plates appear in front of us, loaded up with sides of rice and beans, lettuce, tomato, and guacamole. There’s also a plate of nachos covered in melted cheese, pico de gallo and jalapenos. It’s become obvious by now that pregnant Jessie has a brutal appetite, but the truth is, I find it pretty cute.
“What are you guys talking about?” Jessie says, reaching for the food before she’s even sitting down.
“Uh…nothing much,” I say, glancing at Kyle. “Just life, love, and the problems we all face.”
“Oh,” Jessie says, as I snatch a nacho from her hand and put it in my mouth. “It sounds like one of your videos.”
“My old videos,” I correct. “I’ve got nothing to confess anymore.”
The idea comes to me sometime in the evening, the house still full of boxes, Jessie gone to catch up with Lorelei and her other Thursday night friends. Maybe it’s just a new way of scratching an old itch, maybe I just find it easier to say certain things this way, or maybe it’s just nice to have a diary of some kind – but whatever it is, I go into the room where we’ve set up the computer, where the evening light casts window-frame shadows across the wall, and sit down in front of the monitor, clearing my throat and fixing my loose painting shirt.
I turn on the webcam. This time I put my face in the frame. This time I’m not worried about the lighting. This time I don’t figure out what to say beforehand. This time it’s just me, being real, being honest. I take a deep breath, check the camera one more time, then hit record.
“Hey. I don’t know when you’ll see this, or what you’ll think when you do. It’s kinda strange to think about. But anyway, it’s me, your dad…and there are a few things I want to say…”
THE END
Afterword
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If you liked Confessions of a Bad Boy, check out this excerpt from THE BET.
My muscles scream, chest on fire, nerve endings twitching like a million thunderbolts across my torso. I can feel the beads of sweat on my forehead running down my tensed neck. I glare at the fluorescent light on the gym ceiling, feel the cold metal of the bar against my chest.
That twinge in my triceps should worry me. Gotta meet Jax at the club for drinks in a couple hours. Maybe it was a bad idea to do this big a lift at the end of a workout. Last time a lift went wrong I messed up my thigh so bad I was finger-f*cking girls for a month.
Thoughts bear down on me like a load of bricks, pressing down on the ends of the bar, making it even heavier than it really is.
Don’t think, Brando. Just f*cking lift.
I repeat the words like a mantra. A rhythmic drumbeat that focuses my mind. I exhale as I push, the rush of adrenaline leaving no room for thoughts, the heat burning all doubt out of me.
Don’t think. Don’t think. Don’t think.
As I pump the bar up and down it feels like I’m lifting the entire building, like I’m trying to push a planet away from my chest. I feel like I’m calling on strength that doesn’t belong to me, strength that comes from the same deep pit of hell the pain in my muscles comes from. I exhale and my breath comes out with a long, low grunt.
The pain and the heat and the testosterone and the adrenaline swirl inside of me, and I direct it all against this f*cking barbell.
When my set is finished I have just enough energy to bring the barbell back onto the claws. My fists sting as they let go of it, palms almost melded to the metal. I drop my arms and breathe deeply for a few seconds before sitting upright. My blood pumps, veins throb, and I feel the satisfied ache of a post-workout high seep into my skin.
“Pretty dangerous, benching that much without anyone spotting you,” a throaty female voice says from behind me.
I look up. The gym is almost empty except for a guy listening to his headphones as he runs on a treadmill in the corner. I save myself the trouble of turning around to see her and just look at the reflection in the wall-sized mirror in front of me.
“Looks like you spotted me just fine,” I drawl, eyeing her in the glass.
Even by gym standards, she’s unbelievable. She’s in tight black spandex pants, with nutcracker thighs and hips that seem custom-made for my hands. Her sports bra is so tight she may as well be naked, and the thought instantaneously sends about a million X-rated images through my mind. Judging by the hungry look in her eyes, I know exactly where this is going—but I’m enjoying the foreplay, so instead of just cutting to the chase and inviting her to suck my dick in the locker room, I grab the barbell and force myself through one more punishing set of reps.
It takes everything I have to keep my arms steady, my muscles screaming all the while, before slamming the bar back onto the rack and sitting up.