Damaged Like Us (Like Us #1)(68)

“What the hell is up with this one?” Quinn frowns at a calico kitten pawing at his ankle.

“It hates you, Oliveira,” Farrow says into a swig of beer.

“He,” Janie corrects Farrow with a pointed look; when she sees me watching, she forces a smile like we’re friends; don’t worry, Moffy.

Did that convince anyone? Wallpaper, lamp, table, man on the moon—you all fucking convinced? Me neither.

“What?” Quinn says to Farrow, seeming genuinely upset at that idea. “He doesn’t hate me. I’m great with animals. Before I boxed pro, I could’ve been a dog whisperer.” He clucks his tongue at the kitten and makes a cooing noise.

Solo cup in hand, Akara leans towards Quinn. “Hey, you do know that’s a cat, not a dog.”

Quinn laughs with all of us. I’ve never seen any metaphorical jab knock him down. He sips his rum and Fizz. “I had a dog growing up.”

“What kind?” Sulli asks, and Janie lands on A Nightmare on Elm Street and mouths to me and Farrow, yes or no.

I give her a thumbs-up.

Farrow purposefully puts his thumb-down.

I right up his fucking thumb.

He wears a self-satisfied expression like I just agreed to jerk him off. Not equivalent, but I am giving him a hell of a lot of attention. And he’s making me aware of that.

Quinn replies to my cousin, “I had a husky.”

“I had a husky too,” Sulli says, and the room goes quiet. To Quinn, my cousin adds, “She died a while back.”

“Yeah, I know. I saw on…” Quinn trails off and clears his throat.

“Twitter,” Farrow says.

More confidently, Quinn tells Sulli, “It was actually Facebook.”

If the Meadows had a fifth family member, it wouldn’t be me. It’d be Coconut the Husky. You loved that dog. I loved that damn dog, and we were all sad when she finally passed from old age.

Quinn tries to pet the calico kitten, and he bites his finger. “Jane?”

“Carpenter likes vegetables. Just toss him one of those baby tomatoes.”

Quinn stretches towards the veggie tray and then throws a tomato beneath the loveseat. Carpenter dashes after it.

He shakes his head. “That’s not natural.”

Akara motions his cup to the television. “Are we still doing the drinking game?”

“Yeah,” Sulli nods repeatedly. “Jane has the rules.”

“Right.” Jane is busy smashing her beanbag. She’s usually next to me during these kinds of things, and she’s sort of off in a corner.

“Janie,” I call out and motion her closer.

She mouths, no. And casts the briefest glance at Farrow. Like she needs to give us privacy. It’s not like we’re about to exchange secret hand-jobs in the fucking dark. I’m in a room with two of my cousins.

Not happening.

“Jane,” Farrow calls before I have to prod further.

She hesitates for one second before dragging her pink beanbag near us. She plops a few feet from me. I reach over and slide her and the beanbag right by my side.

Jane can’t hide her smile. “Hallow Friends Eve’s drinking game rules,” she announces to the group. “Take a sip from your drink every time Freddy Krueger appears, someone screams, and when someone says the word nightmare, dream, or sleep.”

“What about Moffy?” Sulli asks.

“I’m not playing.”

“You can’t not play,” Jane replies. “And you know I’m dreadfully serious when I use a double negative.”

Sulli bites into a donut and with a full mouth says, “Uncle Lo and my dad always have alternative rules for sober players.”

Janie perks up. “Take off an article of clothing every time someone screams.”

“Ce n'est pas une bonne idée,” I say in French so only Jane can understand. That’s not a good idea. Yeah, I came already today, and I can will-away an erection by sheer mental concentration. But not if I’m stripping beside Farrow. Look, there are some things that can’t be easily hidden.

My huge, rock-hard cock is one of them.

Everyone is staring at me but Farrow. He edges away from me, and then he leaves to the kitchen with his empty beer bottle.

Jane says, “Je n’ai pas d’autre idée que celle-ci.” I have no other idea but this one.

I glance at Sulli and remember her trepidation about the party failing. I don’t want to disappoint my cousin over a boner. I shut my eyes in a long blink. Trying to scrub away that last bizarre thought.

“Alright,” I say, eyes open. “Every other scream, I’ll take off an article of clothing but I stop before my underwear.” The room agrees, and Farrow returns with a new pale ale and one of Janie’s pastel blue blankets. He tosses the blanket to me and sinks back down.

Just as close as before. Shoulder-to-shoulder. His presence is a furnace, boiling me from head-to-toe. Don’t get caught. How’s that mantra? If I repeat it over and over, I should be able to avoid an erection. Definitely.

Don’t get fucking caught.

Janie presses play, and about ten minutes into the movie, Farrow calls out, “Akara, are you on the clock or do you just love Jane’s décor?” He must’ve been surveying the room.

An actress suddenly shrieks. Everyone drinks, and I pull my shirt off over my head and toss the thing aside. I lean back beside Farrow. He’s trying to suppress a smile.