Hostile(4)

In true typical bro-fashion, he grabs his junk with one hand and flips me off with the other. “You fuckin’ wish your dick could be anywhere near mine.” He doesn’t mean it in any other way than talking shit. I know that, but still. I tense up a little. Not that I want anything to do with his dick. I really, really don’t.

That’s just . . . yeah. Yuck.

And not because of the dick part. Because of the Josh part.

“Pass.”

We continue down the hall to our first class of the day, and he says way too loudly, “You never stick your dick anywhere, man. A guy can’t go that long without getting his dick wet. It’s unnatural.”

A teacher passes by, scowling at us but not saying anything, and I glare at Potter. “Seriously? Tell the whole world, and you know nothing about my dick.”

He gives me a look that says “Really?” And I wince because I know there are a lot of rumors around the school about me. Rumors I’m sure he thinks must be true.

“Whatever, man. Just fuck Crystal. She’s good.”

“You ever hear about not kissing and telling?” Because how fucking cliché can he be? Talking about all your conquests. I want to lecture him about how damaging that can be. About him shutting his mouth, but I know it would fall on deaf ears. He won’t listen. People don’t change.

And this is high school. It’s even worse than the real world for changes to be made.

Just a few more months, and I’ll be out of here.

I try like hell to remind myself of that as I take a seat next to him, and he starts talking to a few other guys that are again—friends by default.

But my eyes eventually land where they always do. On the boy with sandy-blond hair and piercing green eyes. He’s thin and kind of lanky, a few inches shorter than me and a hell of a lot smaller in frame. But he exudes attitude and has a “fuck off” vibe I can’t bring myself to ignore.

I want to know his story.

Everything about him. But all I’ve managed to get out of him over the past three years have been a couple of grunts and one “move” when my friends and I happened to be in front of his locker.

I think he has a new tattoo on his arm. His left arm is nearly covered in ink, so I assume he has pretty cool parents if they’d sign the release form in high school and allow him to get that many tattoos. Mine would flip.

I wonder where else he has them.

“Lancaster.” I pull myself from the Rhett fog and try to focus on Chad—yes, that’s his actual name.

“What?”

“I asked are you ready to fucking party tonight, or what?”

As if there’s another acceptable alternative. I stretch my long legs out under the way-too-small desk they make me cram myself into and nod in the cocky manner they’re all used to from me. “Of course.”

“Hell yeah.” That appeases him, and he goes back to flirting with the girl next to him.

Which only means I’m free to resume staring helplessly at Rhett. Which I know I need to stop doing. Although, maybe that would turn the rumors a different way.

Because the rumors are out there, but they’re not even close to the truth.

That I have a girlfriend in another state. That I’m dating a classmate’s mom. That I’m fucking a teacher—a female teacher.

Everything but the actual truth. A truth I’ve hidden for years. A truth that burns deep in my soul, but no one expects because I’m the all-American golden boy who has everything. The big house. The private school education. A fantastic throwing arm. Top grades. Good looks. Large, muscular body. Everything.

And I must just be a gentleman. That’s why I don’t flaunt my hookups, or no one has ever heard of me hooking up with any of the girls at school. Or I must have a lover who I keep secret.

All the rumors. Everything but the actual truth . . .

I’m gay.





FOUR





“Come on, Grayson . . .” Crystal nips at my ear, practically sitting in my lap. “You know you want to go upstairs with me.”

I really, really don’t. Not one part of me wants to go upstairs with Crystal. And it’s not that I don’t like her as a person . . . She’s actually really cool. We’ve had some pretty long conversations about music and what she wants to do in college—she wants to be a veterinarian. We’ve been in the same class since kindergarten too. Most of us grew up together, going to the same country club functions and self-indulgent “charity” events our parents often throw. So, we’ve been around each other plenty. And I like talking to her when she’s just being herself. The girl who quietly whispers her future dreams of having a small vet clinic in a small town.

But this version of her? Where she thinks she’s only tits and a piece of ass? Yeah, I hate it. I hate it for her and for me.

And I get it. I do. She’s the head cheerleader. She’s gorgeous and rules the school. And no one knows she’s smart. Because no one bothers to get to know her at all. They see her perfectly styled blonde hair and beautiful face. Perfect body and designer clothes. The brand new Jeep she got for Christmas this year. And they assume she can’t have a thought in her little head.

“Hey . . .” I put my hands on her shoulders and push her back slightly to look into her pretty blue eyes. “How drunk are you?”