The Not-Outcast(77)

Another thrust, slower and farther than he’d been and I was pushed over. I fell over the edge, my entire body exploding in his arms. The edges of my eyes blurred, but I kept seeing him. Watching him. He held my gaze as he waited for me, then he moved in and out until he groaned, his head falling to my shoulder as he was coming with me.

I couldn’t move.

I didn’t want to.

We were in a cocoon and it was perfect.

Then I heard against my neck, his breath tickling me, “I love you, too.”





38





Cheyenne





I wasn’t a snack person, but I woke up with racing thoughts a couple hours later and I knew I was done for. I had to get up, eat some sugar, and head back to bed. Sometimes it was the only thing that worked. Cut’s arm was laying over me, so I slid out, felt around for my phone and found the rest of my clothes.

I’d learned that Cut didn’t usually sleep hard, but he always did after a game. I wasn’t too worried about waking him up as I slipped into some clothes and padded barefoot across the room.

A few steps creaked and the door squeaked a tiny bit, but I waited, and he didn’t wake up.

I was good to go, and speaking of that, I had no clue where to go. I thought he kept a kitchenette on his floor, but I wasn’t sure. I didn’t want to go searching around with my phone lit up, feeling like the criminal my father and Nut-Brother thought of me. I headed downstairs to the actual kitchen.

Flipping on the lights once I was in there, I knew I was far enough away so I wouldn’t wake Cut up. After that, it was snack time.

They had pizza.

Chips. Old nachos—gross.

Then there was a ton of salad, green vegetables. Yogurt. Chicken. Lots of chicken. Some seafood in the freezer. Lots of fruit. Protein powder on the counter.

A container of old sloppy joe.

I was sensing a theme, and I was pretty sure I could identify which was Chad’s, and which food was Cut’s.

Finding some whole wheat bread, and some natural peanut butter and honey, I was making myself a sandwich when a car pulled up outside Chad’s side of the house.

A car door slammed shut.

A stifled shout, and then the car backed up and headed back where it came from.

I sighed.

That was Chad, and he’d had to get a ride home.

That meant Drunk Chad was coming inside.

The door opened. I heard a series of beeps and then a long beep.

The lights switched on after that, flooding the hallway that connected the two homes.

I heard some keys being tossed somewhere.

A yawn that grew louder as he came down to the kitchen.

His hand was in his hair as he stopped, and he had to blink a few times. His whole body swayed back and forth from the effort.

He scowled. “You.”

I scowled back. “You.”

He frowned, blinking a few times. He rubbed at his eyes. “Are you real?”

Oh...kay. This was too good not to play along.

“No. Are you?”

“What?”

“What?” Me.

“You’re Cheyenne.”

“You’re lying.”

Another frown, and he shook his head. “Wait. What?”

“What?”

He looked around. “What’s going on here?”

“What’s happening here?”

He pointed at me. “You’re fucking with me. Stop fucking with me.”

“You’re fucking with me.”

Another frown, this one deeper and he rubbed at his eyes. “I’m so confused. What’s going on here? Why are you here? Wait. You’re banging my best friend. That’s why you’re here.” He lumbered over, walking like he was an overgrown zombie, and he threw open the fridge. He stared inside, and spotting the pizza, he grabbed the whole container.

Then, we had another moment.

He stared at me, him still holding the pizza, and he didn’t know what to do.

I could see the confusion on his face.

Giving in, I took the container and motioned to the table. “Go and sit. I’ll heat this up.”

“I don’t heat up my pizza.”

“You eat it cold?”

He scowled again. “What? No. Who said that?”

So drunk. I motioned to the table again. “Go. Sit. I’ll take care of you.”

“Why would you do that?”

But he sat and I didn’t answer. No way I was going to have a talk with him at this hour of night, and when he was this wasted.

“You took my best friend from me.”

Apparently, he wanted to have this conversation.

Ignoring him, I put his pizza on a plate and put it in the microwave. A good fifty seconds would heat it up, but not too hot for him. After that, I spotted a canned coffee in the fridge and poured it into a glass. Taking that, along with a bottle of water, I put both in front of him.

He scowled at those, too. “I don’t want those.”

“There’s alcohol in them.”

“Oh.” He grabbed the coffee first.

The microwave beeped, so I grabbed the pizza next and put it beside the bottled water.

He was finishing the coffee, all in one go, and put the can in the middle of the table. He motioned to it. “Those are my favorites.”