“Ben, are you in there? Do you know if Garen went home last night when everyone else did?”
“Oh my fucking Christ, Jeremy, if you knock on that door one more time, I will murder you. My brain is bleeding,” I hear Alex moan from the other side of the door. Beside me, Ben stirs, rubbing sleep from his eyes and smearing the remnants of his eyeliner a little more. I yawn and check to make sure the sheet is protecting our decency enough.
“Come in!” I call.
“Jesus, do you have to yell?” Alex complains as the door flies open. There is an immediate pause as he and Jeremy blink down at us, and Ben pulls the blanket up a little more securely, blushing. He also, I note, slides his forearms completely down, hiding the scars from view.
“Well,” Jeremy says, “good morning to you both, too.”
“Bite me,” Ben says.
“I did,” I reply, and he shoves me. Alex climbs onto the foot of the bed and curls up in a ball, cradling his head in his hands.
“Ben,” he says in a small voice, “will you make us French toast?”
“Al, you’ll throw up. I will cook French toast, and you will eat five pieces, and you will throw up. Everywhere. You do this every time you have a hangover,” Ben says. “Also, I’m still naked, and I don’t think it’s safe to cook that way.”
“So put on some pants. They’re right… did you guys literally just throw your clothes off?” Jeremy asks, picking up my t-shirt, which is hanging halfway off the nightstand. I tug it out of his hand and pull it on over my head.
“Feel like providing me with some pants, too?” I suggest. He grabs them off the floor and blinks around the room.
“Do you have any boxers somewhere around here or something?” he asks. I shake my head while stifling a yawn.
“Go commando most of the time. Like, five out of seven days of the week,” I say.
“Oh, is that all?” Jeremy says.
“I’m a good little Jewish boy. I try to keep my junk covered on the Sabbath day,” I say.
“It is the Sabbath day. Friday evening to Saturday evening, right?” Ben says. I shrug.
“Okay, so I’m not as good of a little Jewish boy as I thought. Alex, you mind getting off the bed so I can put these on?” I ask, gesturing with my jeans. Alex rolls off the bed onto the floor with a moan that might be kind of hot, if he didn’t sound like he was five seconds away from vomiting. I dress under the blankets and crawl out of bed, trying not to shift the sheet off of Ben as I do so.
“So about that French toast…” Alex prompts from the floor. I offer him a hand, and he accepts it limply. I pull him slowly and awkwardly to his feet, and steady him with a hand on his shoulder. When I catch Jeremy’s eye, he is watching me apprehensively, as though he’s positive that now that I’ve fucked Ben, I’ll move on to Alex, and then him. I release Alex’s shoulder and jam my feet back into my combat boots.
“Everybody fuck off out of here,” Ben grumbles. “I need to get dressed. And then yes, Alex, I will make you your goddamn French toast.”
“Thank you,” Alex says, pawing at Ben’s foot in what must be gratification. Jeremy grabs him by the collar of his shirt and tows him towards the door. He glances at me, but I cock my head to the side, daring him to tell me to leave. He only hesitates a second longer before guiding Alex out into the hall. I turn to face Ben again.
The truth is, I’ve never been too good at the one-night-stand thing. I don’t get emotionally involved, I don’t fall in love, but for a few hours afterwards, I usually end up convincing myself that this could go somewhere. Something about fucking always makes me want to cuddle. However, if cuddles aren’t an option, I’ll settle for another fuck. I’m adaptable that way.
“I wasn’t a virgin,” Ben says suddenly. “I don’t know if you thought I was. Or if that would weird you out. But I just wanted you to know that I’m, you know, not. Or, I wasn’t.”
“I kind of figured. You don’t fuck like a virgin,” I say, laughing. He allows a small, tight smile, like he’s not sure if I’m complimenting him or not. To clarify, I gather up his clothes and crawl back onto the bed, straddling his hips and pulling him up into a sitting position to put the hoodie back on him.
“So, this French toast I keep hearing about. Is it really as good as Alex seems to think it is?” I ask. He laughs, and I shift off him again so he can pull on the rest of his clothes under the sheets.
“Well, probably not. He still kind of acts drunk when he’s hung over, so that might explain a lot. He’s got a pretty low alcohol tolerance, which is surprising, all things considered,” he says. I frown.
“What do you mean?” I ask. He shakes his head, but I can tell that’s not the end of the story, even though he moves on like it is.
“The French toast is really not that great, but I’m a pretty decent cook. I’m half Italian, so I think that part is mandatory. You wanna?” he asks, gesturing towards the door. I hook an arm around his waist and press my lips to his neck.
“Yeah, I wanna,” I say. He laughs softly and shoves at me with one hand.
“I meant go downstairs,” he says in a lower, slightly huskier voice.
“Shame I didn’t,” I murmur. It takes us almost half an hour to stop making out long enough to remember that he’s supposed to be making everyone breakfast. When we finally get downstairs, Alex is slumped over at the kitchen table, nursing a bottle of water, and Jeremy is standing at the counter, texting someone. Mason is sitting cross-legged on the floor with a lit joint between his lips.
“Um… Alex? Are you aware of the fact that Mason’s smoking weed on your kitchen floor?” I say. He nods. “And you’re aware of the fact that your parents are going to be able to smell it?”
“My dad’s out of town until tonight, and I’ll have to clean the whole house anyway. A little Febreze will make it aaaaaaall better,” he says.
“What about your mom? She doesn’t care?” I ask.
“I haven’t seen my mom since I was ten. So, no. I’d wager she doesn’t care,” he says. I glance at Ben and murmur, “I thought you said his parents were out. I figured that meant they were still together.”
“It wasn’t my place to tell you the story. And I guess, technically, they still are. I mean, they’re not divorced. His mom’s just AWOL,” Ben replies. Alex shifts jerkily, and Ben touches his shoulder once before heading for the refrigerator.
“Hey, Garen,” Mason says, holding out the joint. “You want some?”
“No, thanks… I’m not really supposed to,” I say. He chuckles.
“No one’s really supposed to, unless they’re a cancer patient or a Beatle,” he says. I shake my head.
“No, I mean, I gave it up when I moved. Or at least, I’m trying to. Smoking, drinking, other stuff,” I say.
“And what, pray tell, does the ‘other stuff’ you’re giving up include?” Mason asks.
“Clearly not promiscuous sex with random guys,” Jeremy mutters, and Ben punches his arm. Hard. I clear my throat.
“Well… you know how most people celebrate turning sixteen by going to the DMV to get their driving permits?” I say. They all sort of nod. “I celebrated it by sharing half a bottle of JD with my best friend and snorting two lines of cocaine off my Intermediate Map-Reading textbook.”
“You actually had a class on reading maps?” Ben says, eyebrows raised.
“You do coke?” Alex says, sitting up straighter. He pauses, then turns to look at Ben. “I’m pretty sure my question wins.”
“I had to take the class as part of my Military Leadership Education Program. And before you make fun of that, I feel I should tell you that part of my freshman M.L.E.P. was Introduction to Basic Marksmanship,” I say. After a moment, I glance at Alex. “And I don’t, you know, really do it anymore. I wasn’t an addict or whatever. I just liked getting high.”
“Did you ever do any other drugs?” he asks. I really do not like the curiosity in his tone. Aren’t small-town boys supposed to be put off by this shit?
“Yeah,” I say after a minute. “Besides the obvious - ‘cause I think everybody drinks or smokes pot these days - I did um… coke, obviously. And sometimes my friends and I would put a few drops of GHB in water bottles before class and just kinda nurse that throughout the day. I did PCP a few times because this one guy I used to buy from liked to lace shit and not tell his customers, ‘cause he was really fucked up. Uh… this one time when I was a sophomore, my friend’s boyfriend convinced me to do meth with him. It was really bad shit, though. I freaked out because I wasn’t really into drugs much at that point - this was after the weed, but before the coke, I think, so I was like, fifteen? - so I couldn’t handle it at all. Anyway, Jamie broke up with the guy and beat the shit out of him. He was really protective of me at first. He also had to spend the night babysitting me the only time I snorted heroin-”
“Is that even possible?” Ben interrupts. I nod.
“Yeah. Most people smoke it or shoot it, but shooting up is only for like, hardcore people, you don’t come back from that. And I dunno, I just prefer to snort shit. I only did it once, and I hated it. But I think that’s it… wait, no. There were a few months in sophomore year when I used to be really into Coricidin - they’re these over-the-counter cold pills. If you take a bunch at once, you hallucinate.”
These declarations are followed by complete silence, except for the sizzle of the French toast on the stove.
Finally, Ben coughs. “Anyone else suddenly feel really boring?”
Alex snorts, hunching back over the counter. “Whatever, Benjamin. You were the weirdest member of the group until about five minutes ago when Garen started talking.”
I get a little thrill at that, actually being referred to as part of the group. Ben, however, just rolls his eyes and turns back towards the stove.
“Oh? What’s so weird about Ben?” I ask.
“Nothing. Alex’s just convinced that I’m like, an S&M freak or something,” he says over his shoulder. Considering the bite marks all over my neck and the scratches down my spine, I’m inclined to agree with that.
“You are,” Mason says. “Garen, man, Ben used to go with this guy Ethan, right? And whenever they’d be done hanging out or whatever, Ben would come hang with us, and he’d have all these bruises and cuts and stuff.”
That triggers something inside me, and suddenly, I don’t feel like I’m standing in Alex’s kitchen anymore.
I’m lying on the floor of my dorm room, trying to catch my breath. Dave is hovering over me, with this panicked expression on his face, like even after all these times he’s still surprised by what he just did.
“Garen, baby, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to push you so hard,” he says, stretching out a hand to me. I let him help me to my feet, but once I’m upright again, I am overcome with the urge to get back at him. So I plant my hands on his chest and shove him as hard as I can. He staggers back a few steps, and then his face clouds over, and I barely have time to try to twist away before his fist connects with my face.
I can feel my nose breaking, actually feel the crunch of bone and the pain rocketing across my face. I stumble back a foot or two, swearing around a mouthful of blood, my eyes watering. Dave doesn’t seem as sorry this time; he grabs the front of my shirt and shakes me hard so that blood splatters down onto my clothes.
“What the fuck is wrong with you, Garen?” he is screaming at me, and really, all I can think is, What’s wrong with me? Are you kidding? But I guess he isn’t kidding, because the next punch to my ribs doesn’t feel like a joke at all.
“You hear me?” Mason says, and I nod jerkily.
“Yep. Bruises, cuts, S&M, got it,” I say. I cross the room to stand behind Ben, who is still focused on the French toast. At the moment I’m sure he’s least expecting it, I slip an arm around his waist and, with my free hand, knot my fingers in his dark hair and give a sharp yank. He makes a soft little nngh sort of gasp deep in his throat.
“What was that for?” he hisses.
“To see if you liked it,” I say. Still gripping his hair, I slide my other hand up under the hem of his hoodie, curl my fingers, and drag my hand down towards the top button of his jeans, digging my nails into his skin and leaving five angry red lines in their wake.
He makes another of those throat noises, though this one is better concealed. “Okay, okay, I liked it. You get the picture. What was that one for?”
“To see if I liked it,” I reply.
“Garen, can you please stop giving Ben a boner over my breakfast?” Alex pleads. The vehemence of his request is a little surprising, and when I twist to look at him, I see a spark of something painful in his face. God, is he jealous? Experimentally, I press my lips to Ben’s neck without taking my eyes off Alex’s face. There it is again, that flash of jealousy, then shock, like even he doesn’t understand why he’s feeling like that. Fuck my life, Alex is into Ben.
“Alright, alright, I’ll keep my hands off him,” I say, shrugging and stepping back. “So, that mean one of you guys would be willing to tell me how I can convince my dad’s girlfriend’s son to sleep with me instead?”
“Travis, right?” Ben says, shaking his head. “Didn’t we already talk about this?”
“I seem to be drawing a blank,” I say in my smallest, cutest voice. Ben just rolls his eyes and flips the French toast out onto a plate, sliding it down the counter to Alex.
“Okay, so, let me remind you,” he says. Then, ticking items off on his fingers, he starts in, “One, his mom is dating your dad. Two, I’m pretty sure he’s straight. Three, he’s fucking psychotic. And four… if he’s gay, I called dibs in tenth grade.”
“Are you kidding me?” I laugh.
“I’m dead fucking serious, dude. Alex, tell him.”
“It’s true. First day of sophomore year, little freshman McCall shows up, looking all freckly and sad inside. And Ben’s like, ‘he’s so cute, I wanna touch him all over, I call dibs.’ And we were all like ‘okay, bro, not like any of us are ever going to try to beat you to him.’ And then the kid tried to kill himself, which only made Ben like him more, ‘cause Ben’s into fucked-up people like that. Then last year, Ben’s all ‘oh my god, he does track, I like it when he sweats, his freckles are so cute’ or whatever, and we’re like, ‘man, can you not talk about this?’ And a few weeks ago, when school started, Ben was like ‘he got so tall, he’s so fucking hot, I’d totally let him put it in my ass.’ Swear to god, he starts crushing on that kid every year like clockwork. So, yeah. Sorry. Ben already called it,” Alex says with a shrug.
Ben is glaring at him so hard it looks like his eyes are going to explode. “That is so not how that conversation went, you little shit.”
“There was some other stuff in the middle, but yeah, Ben, it is. You’ve just got such a hard-on for the kid that you don’t even realize how ridiculous you sound, mooning over some eleventh-grade jock.” They glower at each other for another moment before Alex turns back to me. “Come on. Everybody has one big high school crush that lasts way longer than it ever should. Travis McCall is Ben’s.”
And Ben seems to be yours, I think, cocking my head to the side. “Fine, how about we share? Ben can have him, I just want his virginity. It’s not like I actually like the kid.”
Lie, lie, lie.
They believe it enough, though, and Alex digs into his French toast. The rest of the conversation is easy, and around one in the afternoon, Alex starts to whine about feeling sick, so Ben sets him up in bed with a can of ginger ale and a book. Books seem to be Ben’s solution to most things.
Once we’re out in the driveway and Mason and Jeremy have both driven off, Ben turns to me. “What are you doing today?”
Probably you. “Nothing planned. Why?”
“Wanna hang out or something?” he asks, the corner of his mouth twitching up a little, like we both know what the ‘or something’ will end up being. I smirk back.
“Sure. Just give me half an hour to go home and shower first. If you give me your address, I could just meet you there after,” I say. The key to this is to act like there’s a possibility of actually going out someplace, like we’re not going to just spend the rest of the day fucking our brains out at his place. He nods along, unlocks his car to grab a Sharpie from his glovebox, and scribbles his address on my palm.
“Just come around the back and knock on the slider door when you get there. My room’s in the basement,” he says, almost apologetically. I nod once and move past him towards the Testarossa, pausing just long enough to duck down and brush my lips against the hollow of his throat.
The house is empty when I get back. Travis is at work (as always), Bree is at her boyfriend’s house (as always), and Evelyn has scribbled a note for me on a pad of paper on the kitchen table. Garen— Your father and I have gone out for lunch with friends. We should be back around 3pm. There’s food in the fridge, be nice to Bree if she’s still there and Travis when he gets home from work. Love, Evelyn.
No, I don’t love Evelyn, thank you very fucking much. I tear off the sheet of paper and scrawl on a fresh sheet, Ev: Got home from Alex’s at 1ish. Heading over to Ben’s now to hang out, won’t be back until late tonight / tomorrow sometime. Later, Garen. P.S. Your son looks cute in his work uniform. So, yeah, I haven’t exactly seen Travis in his work clothes, but based on what I’ve heard him mention over dinner, he has to wear some hideous apron, sometimes a visor. And in my mind, he looks very cute.
I take a quick shower, not bothering to blow-dry or flat-iron my hair, and throw on an old Patton Military Academy shirt and a pair of jeans that are maybe a little tighter in the ass than necessary. It’s a short drive to Ben’s house, and I find the street easily enough based on the directions he called out his window to me before I pulled away from Alex’s curb. There’s only one car in Ben’s driveway, his silver SUV, so I make my way around back and rap my knuckles against the glass.
The room on the other side of the slider door is what looks like a mostly empty rec room, with white walls, light gray carpet, and a set of stairs on the other side of the room, leading up to the main floor. There’s only one other door inside the room, which is partially open. After a moment, it swings the rest of the way open, and Ben shuffles out of his room, his hair damp and messy from the shower, wearing nothing but a pair of jeans and a plain black t-shirt. He smiles through the glass at me, and I watch as he raises a hand to punch in the code to the alarm keypad next to the door.
For a second, it looks like his bare, left arm is streaked with blood all over. Then I realize that the blood is actually the mostly-healed remainders of older cuts, deep lines that criss-cross all the way across the inside of his forearm, with a few slightly neater rows of lines across his bicep. Some of the marks on his arm are just old scars, slightly discolored and raised lines of flesh, and some look like they can’t be more than a week old. Fuck, I just can’t stop staring.
“Hi,” Ben says, sliding the door open and stepping to the side so I can come in. I do, but without taking my eyes off his arm.
“Hi,” I echo. “So, you’re really into that, huh?”
Ben twists his arm away, like that makes any difference, and heads back towards the door he left ajar on the adjacent wall. “I wouldn’t exactly say that’s what it’s like. Anyway, sorry the room’s so small. I’ve got a lot of siblings, so none of us really has much space.”
The room is small, but after being stuck in a dorm room at Patton for years, it doesn’t faze me. Ben sits down amidst the rumpled sheets on his bed, and I sprawl out beside him without asking permission.
“Is everybody out, except you?” I ask. He nods.
“One of my little sisters had a ballet reciptal, so they all went to that. She doesn’t like me to go, though. She’s really afraid of messing up in front of me, so she asks me not to come,” he says. I notice what might be a family picture in a frame on one of the bookshelves that line the walls, and stand up to get a better look at it. Ben, clearly the oldest, is sitting in the middle of a couch, a baby boy curled up in his arms. There are four girls, two on each side of him, who all look to be between five and ten. Everyone’s smiling, honest-to-God wholesome smiles. The only picture I have of my family is from a few years ago, right before my parents got divorced. I look bored, Dad looks stressed, and Mom is gripping her cell phone tightly in her hand.
I turn back towards Ben and join him on the bed again, straddling his hips and fiddling with the hem of his t-shirt. “Are you seeing anybody?”
“Would I have slept with you last night if I was?” he asks.
I shrug. “Maybe. But I didn’t mean like that. I meant for the cutting thing. Are you seeing a shrink or whatever?”
Ben jerks a little, like I splashed him with cold water instead of words. “What? No, I’m not seeing anybody about it. My parents don’t even… look, the only people who really know about this are you and the guys. It’s not a big deal. Lots of people do it.”
“I don’t know anybody else who does it,” I reply.
“Yeah, well, I don’t know anybody who sees a therapist.”
I shrug, flattening my palms on his chest and slowly pushing him back so he’s lying down on the bed. “My school used to stick me in with the counselor occasionally. If I did something really shitty, or they thought I was getting in too many fights, or if somebody told the wrong rumor to the wrong person.”
“Yeah?” he says, a little hoarsely. I can’t tell if he’s getting upset or turned on. Maybe both. I tend to bring that out in people.
And then it suddenly occurs to me that Ben is probably the only guy in the world who wouldn’t think I was a total loser for gushing about Travis, like some lovestruck schoolgirl. God, even James is tired of me talking about him, and he usually has a pretty high tolerance for this kind of thing. Carefully, I press my lips to Ben’s collarbone, leaving a slow and soft line of kisses up his throat until my mouth is near his ear, and say quietly, “Travis sees a shrink, too.”
Ben jolts again, but this time, it’s less from the shock, more an involuntary twitch of his hips against mine. “He does? I mean, I heard he did. But I wasn’t sure it was true.”
“It is. He goes every week, and they load him up on antidepressants and stuff. Some guy named Dr. Baker,” I say. Ben lets out a little bark of laughter at that.
“Are you shitting me?” I shake my head, and he laughs again. “That’s Alex’s uncle.”
“Small world,” I say, cocking my head to the side and trying to talk myself out of convincing Alex to help me steal whatever files his uncle might have that would help me get a look inside Travis’ head. That would be wrong. A total breach of doctor-patient confidentiality. And really, really helpful. I mean, wouldn’t most people happen to mention their sexuality to a therapist they’ve been confessing their secrets to for years? And wouldn’t he probably have mentioned me by now?
Ben clears his throat, avoiding my eyes and acting like neither of us notices the blush creeping up his neck. As nonchalantly as he can manage, he asks, “So, what’s he like?”
“Ever talk to him before?” I ask. He shakes his head. I lean down and trace his lips with my tongue for a moment while I consider his question. Finally, I pull back and say, “He’s smart. Like, painfully smart. Has this way of talking to people, like he’s not trying to be condescending, but he just can’t help it. But he’s, you know, kind of strange. He gets disproportionately stressed about school work and studying. He doesn’t really eat, honestly. Sometimes I’ll see him eat an orange or something in the morning, and he’ll pick over his food at lunch and dinner, but for the most part, it doesn’t seem like he eats that much. That’s why he’s so thin, I guess. And when he walks around the house in a thin enough shirt, you can see how small he really is, all sharp angles and paper-thin skin.”
Ben’s eyes darken a little, like he can’t even believe I’m lucky enough to get to actually live in a house with Travis McCall. I kind of can’t believe it either. And I know it’s twisted to stretch myself out over Ben a little more heavily, to brush my lips against his as I say, “When he’s staying up late to study, he drinks a lot of coffee, and his hair gets all messed up like he can’t stop himself from dragging his hands through it in frustration. And when we’re eating dinner and he’s just sitting there listening to whoever’s talking, sometimes he gets this tiny, private smile, like he’s making fun of them in his head.”
Ben is still shifting a little restlessly under me, and when he moves at just the right angle, I can feel him pressing against my hip. How fucked up is he, to be getting hard listening to me talk about Travis? How fucked up am I, to be doing the same thing?
“He bites his nails, but just on his thumbs. He kind of gnaws on the nail for a minute when he’s looking nervous, but then it’s like he’ll remember he’s not supposed to, and he’s a good kid, so he’ll stop himself. But then it’s like he can’t convince himself to stop all the way, so he’ll just sit there, tracing his lower lip with his thumb.”
God, we’re practically grinding against each other now, what the fuck. Ben’s hands are on my ass now, pulling me tighter against him, and his mouth is open against mine.
“I-Is that all you—”
“He and I share a bathroom, and most mornings after he showers, he walks all the way from the bathroom to his bedroom with nothing but a towel wrapped low on his hips,” I whisper. “He’s got freckles everywhere, Ben.”
Before either of us is really clear on what we’re doing, we’re both ripping each others’ clothes off, touching each other everywhere at once, reaching for a condom and some lube. It’s really screwed up, seriously, to be getting so turned on just thinking about this kid who might even end up being my stepbrother someday. Almost as screwed up as it is to be talking about him with Ben, like Travis had to be foreplay for us since he’s too straight for either of us to get him. Clearly Ben is fucked in the head, but I must be, too. No normal guy would be doing something like that.
And whether it’s fucked up or not, I still get off on it, burying my face in the curve of Ben’s neck and picturing nothing but Travis’s dark blue eyes.
Previous Chapter
“Oh my fucking Christ, Jeremy, if you knock on that door one more time, I will murder you. My brain is bleeding,” I hear Alex moan from the other side of the door. Beside me, Ben stirs, rubbing sleep from his eyes and smearing the remnants of his eyeliner a little more. I yawn and check to make sure the sheet is protecting our decency enough.
“Come in!” I call.
“Jesus, do you have to yell?” Alex complains as the door flies open. There is an immediate pause as he and Jeremy blink down at us, and Ben pulls the blanket up a little more securely, blushing. He also, I note, slides his forearms completely down, hiding the scars from view.
“Well,” Jeremy says, “good morning to you both, too.”
“Bite me,” Ben says.
“I did,” I reply, and he shoves me. Alex climbs onto the foot of the bed and curls up in a ball, cradling his head in his hands.
“Ben,” he says in a small voice, “will you make us French toast?”
“Al, you’ll throw up. I will cook French toast, and you will eat five pieces, and you will throw up. Everywhere. You do this every time you have a hangover,” Ben says. “Also, I’m still naked, and I don’t think it’s safe to cook that way.”
“So put on some pants. They’re right… did you guys literally just throw your clothes off?” Jeremy asks, picking up my t-shirt, which is hanging halfway off the nightstand. I tug it out of his hand and pull it on over my head.
“Feel like providing me with some pants, too?” I suggest. He grabs them off the floor and blinks around the room.
“Do you have any boxers somewhere around here or something?” he asks. I shake my head while stifling a yawn.
“Go commando most of the time. Like, five out of seven days of the week,” I say.
“Oh, is that all?” Jeremy says.
“I’m a good little Jewish boy. I try to keep my junk covered on the Sabbath day,” I say.
“It is the Sabbath day. Friday evening to Saturday evening, right?” Ben says. I shrug.
“Okay, so I’m not as good of a little Jewish boy as I thought. Alex, you mind getting off the bed so I can put these on?” I ask, gesturing with my jeans. Alex rolls off the bed onto the floor with a moan that might be kind of hot, if he didn’t sound like he was five seconds away from vomiting. I dress under the blankets and crawl out of bed, trying not to shift the sheet off of Ben as I do so.
“So about that French toast…” Alex prompts from the floor. I offer him a hand, and he accepts it limply. I pull him slowly and awkwardly to his feet, and steady him with a hand on his shoulder. When I catch Jeremy’s eye, he is watching me apprehensively, as though he’s positive that now that I’ve fucked Ben, I’ll move on to Alex, and then him. I release Alex’s shoulder and jam my feet back into my combat boots.
“Everybody fuck off out of here,” Ben grumbles. “I need to get dressed. And then yes, Alex, I will make you your goddamn French toast.”
“Thank you,” Alex says, pawing at Ben’s foot in what must be gratification. Jeremy grabs him by the collar of his shirt and tows him towards the door. He glances at me, but I cock my head to the side, daring him to tell me to leave. He only hesitates a second longer before guiding Alex out into the hall. I turn to face Ben again.
The truth is, I’ve never been too good at the one-night-stand thing. I don’t get emotionally involved, I don’t fall in love, but for a few hours afterwards, I usually end up convincing myself that this could go somewhere. Something about fucking always makes me want to cuddle. However, if cuddles aren’t an option, I’ll settle for another fuck. I’m adaptable that way.
“I wasn’t a virgin,” Ben says suddenly. “I don’t know if you thought I was. Or if that would weird you out. But I just wanted you to know that I’m, you know, not. Or, I wasn’t.”
“I kind of figured. You don’t fuck like a virgin,” I say, laughing. He allows a small, tight smile, like he’s not sure if I’m complimenting him or not. To clarify, I gather up his clothes and crawl back onto the bed, straddling his hips and pulling him up into a sitting position to put the hoodie back on him.
“So, this French toast I keep hearing about. Is it really as good as Alex seems to think it is?” I ask. He laughs, and I shift off him again so he can pull on the rest of his clothes under the sheets.
“Well, probably not. He still kind of acts drunk when he’s hung over, so that might explain a lot. He’s got a pretty low alcohol tolerance, which is surprising, all things considered,” he says. I frown.
“What do you mean?” I ask. He shakes his head, but I can tell that’s not the end of the story, even though he moves on like it is.
“The French toast is really not that great, but I’m a pretty decent cook. I’m half Italian, so I think that part is mandatory. You wanna?” he asks, gesturing towards the door. I hook an arm around his waist and press my lips to his neck.
“Yeah, I wanna,” I say. He laughs softly and shoves at me with one hand.
“I meant go downstairs,” he says in a lower, slightly huskier voice.
“Shame I didn’t,” I murmur. It takes us almost half an hour to stop making out long enough to remember that he’s supposed to be making everyone breakfast. When we finally get downstairs, Alex is slumped over at the kitchen table, nursing a bottle of water, and Jeremy is standing at the counter, texting someone. Mason is sitting cross-legged on the floor with a lit joint between his lips.
“Um… Alex? Are you aware of the fact that Mason’s smoking weed on your kitchen floor?” I say. He nods. “And you’re aware of the fact that your parents are going to be able to smell it?”
“My dad’s out of town until tonight, and I’ll have to clean the whole house anyway. A little Febreze will make it aaaaaaall better,” he says.
“What about your mom? She doesn’t care?” I ask.
“I haven’t seen my mom since I was ten. So, no. I’d wager she doesn’t care,” he says. I glance at Ben and murmur, “I thought you said his parents were out. I figured that meant they were still together.”
“It wasn’t my place to tell you the story. And I guess, technically, they still are. I mean, they’re not divorced. His mom’s just AWOL,” Ben replies. Alex shifts jerkily, and Ben touches his shoulder once before heading for the refrigerator.
“Hey, Garen,” Mason says, holding out the joint. “You want some?”
“No, thanks… I’m not really supposed to,” I say. He chuckles.
“No one’s really supposed to, unless they’re a cancer patient or a Beatle,” he says. I shake my head.
“No, I mean, I gave it up when I moved. Or at least, I’m trying to. Smoking, drinking, other stuff,” I say.
“And what, pray tell, does the ‘other stuff’ you’re giving up include?” Mason asks.
“Clearly not promiscuous sex with random guys,” Jeremy mutters, and Ben punches his arm. Hard. I clear my throat.
“Well… you know how most people celebrate turning sixteen by going to the DMV to get their driving permits?” I say. They all sort of nod. “I celebrated it by sharing half a bottle of JD with my best friend and snorting two lines of cocaine off my Intermediate Map-Reading textbook.”
“You actually had a class on reading maps?” Ben says, eyebrows raised.
“You do coke?” Alex says, sitting up straighter. He pauses, then turns to look at Ben. “I’m pretty sure my question wins.”
“I had to take the class as part of my Military Leadership Education Program. And before you make fun of that, I feel I should tell you that part of my freshman M.L.E.P. was Introduction to Basic Marksmanship,” I say. After a moment, I glance at Alex. “And I don’t, you know, really do it anymore. I wasn’t an addict or whatever. I just liked getting high.”
“Did you ever do any other drugs?” he asks. I really do not like the curiosity in his tone. Aren’t small-town boys supposed to be put off by this shit?
“Yeah,” I say after a minute. “Besides the obvious - ‘cause I think everybody drinks or smokes pot these days - I did um… coke, obviously. And sometimes my friends and I would put a few drops of GHB in water bottles before class and just kinda nurse that throughout the day. I did PCP a few times because this one guy I used to buy from liked to lace shit and not tell his customers, ‘cause he was really fucked up. Uh… this one time when I was a sophomore, my friend’s boyfriend convinced me to do meth with him. It was really bad shit, though. I freaked out because I wasn’t really into drugs much at that point - this was after the weed, but before the coke, I think, so I was like, fifteen? - so I couldn’t handle it at all. Anyway, Jamie broke up with the guy and beat the shit out of him. He was really protective of me at first. He also had to spend the night babysitting me the only time I snorted heroin-”
“Is that even possible?” Ben interrupts. I nod.
“Yeah. Most people smoke it or shoot it, but shooting up is only for like, hardcore people, you don’t come back from that. And I dunno, I just prefer to snort shit. I only did it once, and I hated it. But I think that’s it… wait, no. There were a few months in sophomore year when I used to be really into Coricidin - they’re these over-the-counter cold pills. If you take a bunch at once, you hallucinate.”
These declarations are followed by complete silence, except for the sizzle of the French toast on the stove.
Finally, Ben coughs. “Anyone else suddenly feel really boring?”
Alex snorts, hunching back over the counter. “Whatever, Benjamin. You were the weirdest member of the group until about five minutes ago when Garen started talking.”
I get a little thrill at that, actually being referred to as part of the group. Ben, however, just rolls his eyes and turns back towards the stove.
“Oh? What’s so weird about Ben?” I ask.
“Nothing. Alex’s just convinced that I’m like, an S&M freak or something,” he says over his shoulder. Considering the bite marks all over my neck and the scratches down my spine, I’m inclined to agree with that.
“You are,” Mason says. “Garen, man, Ben used to go with this guy Ethan, right? And whenever they’d be done hanging out or whatever, Ben would come hang with us, and he’d have all these bruises and cuts and stuff.”
That triggers something inside me, and suddenly, I don’t feel like I’m standing in Alex’s kitchen anymore.
I’m lying on the floor of my dorm room, trying to catch my breath. Dave is hovering over me, with this panicked expression on his face, like even after all these times he’s still surprised by what he just did.
“Garen, baby, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to push you so hard,” he says, stretching out a hand to me. I let him help me to my feet, but once I’m upright again, I am overcome with the urge to get back at him. So I plant my hands on his chest and shove him as hard as I can. He staggers back a few steps, and then his face clouds over, and I barely have time to try to twist away before his fist connects with my face.
I can feel my nose breaking, actually feel the crunch of bone and the pain rocketing across my face. I stumble back a foot or two, swearing around a mouthful of blood, my eyes watering. Dave doesn’t seem as sorry this time; he grabs the front of my shirt and shakes me hard so that blood splatters down onto my clothes.
“What the fuck is wrong with you, Garen?” he is screaming at me, and really, all I can think is, What’s wrong with me? Are you kidding? But I guess he isn’t kidding, because the next punch to my ribs doesn’t feel like a joke at all.
“You hear me?” Mason says, and I nod jerkily.
“Yep. Bruises, cuts, S&M, got it,” I say. I cross the room to stand behind Ben, who is still focused on the French toast. At the moment I’m sure he’s least expecting it, I slip an arm around his waist and, with my free hand, knot my fingers in his dark hair and give a sharp yank. He makes a soft little nngh sort of gasp deep in his throat.
“What was that for?” he hisses.
“To see if you liked it,” I say. Still gripping his hair, I slide my other hand up under the hem of his hoodie, curl my fingers, and drag my hand down towards the top button of his jeans, digging my nails into his skin and leaving five angry red lines in their wake.
He makes another of those throat noises, though this one is better concealed. “Okay, okay, I liked it. You get the picture. What was that one for?”
“To see if I liked it,” I reply.
“Garen, can you please stop giving Ben a boner over my breakfast?” Alex pleads. The vehemence of his request is a little surprising, and when I twist to look at him, I see a spark of something painful in his face. God, is he jealous? Experimentally, I press my lips to Ben’s neck without taking my eyes off Alex’s face. There it is again, that flash of jealousy, then shock, like even he doesn’t understand why he’s feeling like that. Fuck my life, Alex is into Ben.
“Alright, alright, I’ll keep my hands off him,” I say, shrugging and stepping back. “So, that mean one of you guys would be willing to tell me how I can convince my dad’s girlfriend’s son to sleep with me instead?”
“Travis, right?” Ben says, shaking his head. “Didn’t we already talk about this?”
“I seem to be drawing a blank,” I say in my smallest, cutest voice. Ben just rolls his eyes and flips the French toast out onto a plate, sliding it down the counter to Alex.
“Okay, so, let me remind you,” he says. Then, ticking items off on his fingers, he starts in, “One, his mom is dating your dad. Two, I’m pretty sure he’s straight. Three, he’s fucking psychotic. And four… if he’s gay, I called dibs in tenth grade.”
“Are you kidding me?” I laugh.
“I’m dead fucking serious, dude. Alex, tell him.”
“It’s true. First day of sophomore year, little freshman McCall shows up, looking all freckly and sad inside. And Ben’s like, ‘he’s so cute, I wanna touch him all over, I call dibs.’ And we were all like ‘okay, bro, not like any of us are ever going to try to beat you to him.’ And then the kid tried to kill himself, which only made Ben like him more, ‘cause Ben’s into fucked-up people like that. Then last year, Ben’s all ‘oh my god, he does track, I like it when he sweats, his freckles are so cute’ or whatever, and we’re like, ‘man, can you not talk about this?’ And a few weeks ago, when school started, Ben was like ‘he got so tall, he’s so fucking hot, I’d totally let him put it in my ass.’ Swear to god, he starts crushing on that kid every year like clockwork. So, yeah. Sorry. Ben already called it,” Alex says with a shrug.
Ben is glaring at him so hard it looks like his eyes are going to explode. “That is so not how that conversation went, you little shit.”
“There was some other stuff in the middle, but yeah, Ben, it is. You’ve just got such a hard-on for the kid that you don’t even realize how ridiculous you sound, mooning over some eleventh-grade jock.” They glower at each other for another moment before Alex turns back to me. “Come on. Everybody has one big high school crush that lasts way longer than it ever should. Travis McCall is Ben’s.”
And Ben seems to be yours, I think, cocking my head to the side. “Fine, how about we share? Ben can have him, I just want his virginity. It’s not like I actually like the kid.”
Lie, lie, lie.
They believe it enough, though, and Alex digs into his French toast. The rest of the conversation is easy, and around one in the afternoon, Alex starts to whine about feeling sick, so Ben sets him up in bed with a can of ginger ale and a book. Books seem to be Ben’s solution to most things.
Once we’re out in the driveway and Mason and Jeremy have both driven off, Ben turns to me. “What are you doing today?”
Probably you. “Nothing planned. Why?”
“Wanna hang out or something?” he asks, the corner of his mouth twitching up a little, like we both know what the ‘or something’ will end up being. I smirk back.
“Sure. Just give me half an hour to go home and shower first. If you give me your address, I could just meet you there after,” I say. The key to this is to act like there’s a possibility of actually going out someplace, like we’re not going to just spend the rest of the day fucking our brains out at his place. He nods along, unlocks his car to grab a Sharpie from his glovebox, and scribbles his address on my palm.
“Just come around the back and knock on the slider door when you get there. My room’s in the basement,” he says, almost apologetically. I nod once and move past him towards the Testarossa, pausing just long enough to duck down and brush my lips against the hollow of his throat.
The house is empty when I get back. Travis is at work (as always), Bree is at her boyfriend’s house (as always), and Evelyn has scribbled a note for me on a pad of paper on the kitchen table. Garen— Your father and I have gone out for lunch with friends. We should be back around 3pm. There’s food in the fridge, be nice to Bree if she’s still there and Travis when he gets home from work. Love, Evelyn.
No, I don’t love Evelyn, thank you very fucking much. I tear off the sheet of paper and scrawl on a fresh sheet, Ev: Got home from Alex’s at 1ish. Heading over to Ben’s now to hang out, won’t be back until late tonight / tomorrow sometime. Later, Garen. P.S. Your son looks cute in his work uniform. So, yeah, I haven’t exactly seen Travis in his work clothes, but based on what I’ve heard him mention over dinner, he has to wear some hideous apron, sometimes a visor. And in my mind, he looks very cute.
I take a quick shower, not bothering to blow-dry or flat-iron my hair, and throw on an old Patton Military Academy shirt and a pair of jeans that are maybe a little tighter in the ass than necessary. It’s a short drive to Ben’s house, and I find the street easily enough based on the directions he called out his window to me before I pulled away from Alex’s curb. There’s only one car in Ben’s driveway, his silver SUV, so I make my way around back and rap my knuckles against the glass.
The room on the other side of the slider door is what looks like a mostly empty rec room, with white walls, light gray carpet, and a set of stairs on the other side of the room, leading up to the main floor. There’s only one other door inside the room, which is partially open. After a moment, it swings the rest of the way open, and Ben shuffles out of his room, his hair damp and messy from the shower, wearing nothing but a pair of jeans and a plain black t-shirt. He smiles through the glass at me, and I watch as he raises a hand to punch in the code to the alarm keypad next to the door.
For a second, it looks like his bare, left arm is streaked with blood all over. Then I realize that the blood is actually the mostly-healed remainders of older cuts, deep lines that criss-cross all the way across the inside of his forearm, with a few slightly neater rows of lines across his bicep. Some of the marks on his arm are just old scars, slightly discolored and raised lines of flesh, and some look like they can’t be more than a week old. Fuck, I just can’t stop staring.
“Hi,” Ben says, sliding the door open and stepping to the side so I can come in. I do, but without taking my eyes off his arm.
“Hi,” I echo. “So, you’re really into that, huh?”
Ben twists his arm away, like that makes any difference, and heads back towards the door he left ajar on the adjacent wall. “I wouldn’t exactly say that’s what it’s like. Anyway, sorry the room’s so small. I’ve got a lot of siblings, so none of us really has much space.”
The room is small, but after being stuck in a dorm room at Patton for years, it doesn’t faze me. Ben sits down amidst the rumpled sheets on his bed, and I sprawl out beside him without asking permission.
“Is everybody out, except you?” I ask. He nods.
“One of my little sisters had a ballet reciptal, so they all went to that. She doesn’t like me to go, though. She’s really afraid of messing up in front of me, so she asks me not to come,” he says. I notice what might be a family picture in a frame on one of the bookshelves that line the walls, and stand up to get a better look at it. Ben, clearly the oldest, is sitting in the middle of a couch, a baby boy curled up in his arms. There are four girls, two on each side of him, who all look to be between five and ten. Everyone’s smiling, honest-to-God wholesome smiles. The only picture I have of my family is from a few years ago, right before my parents got divorced. I look bored, Dad looks stressed, and Mom is gripping her cell phone tightly in her hand.
I turn back towards Ben and join him on the bed again, straddling his hips and fiddling with the hem of his t-shirt. “Are you seeing anybody?”
“Would I have slept with you last night if I was?” he asks.
I shrug. “Maybe. But I didn’t mean like that. I meant for the cutting thing. Are you seeing a shrink or whatever?”
Ben jerks a little, like I splashed him with cold water instead of words. “What? No, I’m not seeing anybody about it. My parents don’t even… look, the only people who really know about this are you and the guys. It’s not a big deal. Lots of people do it.”
“I don’t know anybody else who does it,” I reply.
“Yeah, well, I don’t know anybody who sees a therapist.”
I shrug, flattening my palms on his chest and slowly pushing him back so he’s lying down on the bed. “My school used to stick me in with the counselor occasionally. If I did something really shitty, or they thought I was getting in too many fights, or if somebody told the wrong rumor to the wrong person.”
“Yeah?” he says, a little hoarsely. I can’t tell if he’s getting upset or turned on. Maybe both. I tend to bring that out in people.
And then it suddenly occurs to me that Ben is probably the only guy in the world who wouldn’t think I was a total loser for gushing about Travis, like some lovestruck schoolgirl. God, even James is tired of me talking about him, and he usually has a pretty high tolerance for this kind of thing. Carefully, I press my lips to Ben’s collarbone, leaving a slow and soft line of kisses up his throat until my mouth is near his ear, and say quietly, “Travis sees a shrink, too.”
Ben jolts again, but this time, it’s less from the shock, more an involuntary twitch of his hips against mine. “He does? I mean, I heard he did. But I wasn’t sure it was true.”
“It is. He goes every week, and they load him up on antidepressants and stuff. Some guy named Dr. Baker,” I say. Ben lets out a little bark of laughter at that.
“Are you shitting me?” I shake my head, and he laughs again. “That’s Alex’s uncle.”
“Small world,” I say, cocking my head to the side and trying to talk myself out of convincing Alex to help me steal whatever files his uncle might have that would help me get a look inside Travis’ head. That would be wrong. A total breach of doctor-patient confidentiality. And really, really helpful. I mean, wouldn’t most people happen to mention their sexuality to a therapist they’ve been confessing their secrets to for years? And wouldn’t he probably have mentioned me by now?
Ben clears his throat, avoiding my eyes and acting like neither of us notices the blush creeping up his neck. As nonchalantly as he can manage, he asks, “So, what’s he like?”
“Ever talk to him before?” I ask. He shakes his head. I lean down and trace his lips with my tongue for a moment while I consider his question. Finally, I pull back and say, “He’s smart. Like, painfully smart. Has this way of talking to people, like he’s not trying to be condescending, but he just can’t help it. But he’s, you know, kind of strange. He gets disproportionately stressed about school work and studying. He doesn’t really eat, honestly. Sometimes I’ll see him eat an orange or something in the morning, and he’ll pick over his food at lunch and dinner, but for the most part, it doesn’t seem like he eats that much. That’s why he’s so thin, I guess. And when he walks around the house in a thin enough shirt, you can see how small he really is, all sharp angles and paper-thin skin.”
Ben’s eyes darken a little, like he can’t even believe I’m lucky enough to get to actually live in a house with Travis McCall. I kind of can’t believe it either. And I know it’s twisted to stretch myself out over Ben a little more heavily, to brush my lips against his as I say, “When he’s staying up late to study, he drinks a lot of coffee, and his hair gets all messed up like he can’t stop himself from dragging his hands through it in frustration. And when we’re eating dinner and he’s just sitting there listening to whoever’s talking, sometimes he gets this tiny, private smile, like he’s making fun of them in his head.”
Ben is still shifting a little restlessly under me, and when he moves at just the right angle, I can feel him pressing against my hip. How fucked up is he, to be getting hard listening to me talk about Travis? How fucked up am I, to be doing the same thing?
“He bites his nails, but just on his thumbs. He kind of gnaws on the nail for a minute when he’s looking nervous, but then it’s like he’ll remember he’s not supposed to, and he’s a good kid, so he’ll stop himself. But then it’s like he can’t convince himself to stop all the way, so he’ll just sit there, tracing his lower lip with his thumb.”
God, we’re practically grinding against each other now, what the fuck. Ben’s hands are on my ass now, pulling me tighter against him, and his mouth is open against mine.
“I-Is that all you—”
“He and I share a bathroom, and most mornings after he showers, he walks all the way from the bathroom to his bedroom with nothing but a towel wrapped low on his hips,” I whisper. “He’s got freckles everywhere, Ben.”
Before either of us is really clear on what we’re doing, we’re both ripping each others’ clothes off, touching each other everywhere at once, reaching for a condom and some lube. It’s really screwed up, seriously, to be getting so turned on just thinking about this kid who might even end up being my stepbrother someday. Almost as screwed up as it is to be talking about him with Ben, like Travis had to be foreplay for us since he’s too straight for either of us to get him. Clearly Ben is fucked in the head, but I must be, too. No normal guy would be doing something like that.
And whether it’s fucked up or not, I still get off on it, burying my face in the curve of Ben’s neck and picturing nothing but Travis’s dark blue eyes.
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