by MC Lee
I couldn’t risk riling him by ignoring him completely, but I sidestepped the question. “School’s having an open house next week if you’re interested.”
He snorted derisively. “That was your mother’s job.”
That much was true. It had always been Mom who turned up to every school event outside football games. He’d never shown the slightest interest in anything off the field.
“But she’s not here.” I wasn’t above a dig of my own when he was like this.
“And whose fault is that?” he snarled.
“It’s not important,” I said hastily, hoping to distract him. “It’s all about college. That’s not part of my plan.”
“You should join up like your brother did,” Dad goaded. “It might make a man out of you.”
It had made a corpse out of my brother, but that didn’t seem to matter. I remembered all those times after he’d signed up, Dad telling anybody who would listen that the day Jamie joined the Army was the proudest day of his life. Not his wedding day, not the day either of his kids was born, but the day Jamie set in motion his own death. The day he chose to take his chances with the Iraqis rather than spend another minute in this miserable house.
Dad might think his decision was all about flag-waving and proving he was a real man, but I knew different. One day Jamie had turned up unexpectedly after school to walk me home. I’d taken one look at his flushed face and said, “Spill.”
“What?” he’d asked innocently.
I shoved his shoulder. “Come on, man. I know that look. You’re hiding something.”
His voice dropped, but he was obviously excited. “I’m going to join the Army, Emmett. I’ve had enough of fucking Whitmore. I’m getting out.”
I’d felt as though I was tearing in half. Part of me was glad for him. I knew he was coming to the end of his rope kicking around Whitmore with nothing to do. Part of me was furious that he could leave me behind without a second thought. In the end the better half won out, and I managed a weak grin.
“Good for you, man. Wish I could come with you.”
I hadn’t meant it exactly—the Army was never going to be my escape route, no matter how desperate I became. But I envied his resolve, his certainty that this was right for him. The envy quickly evaporated when my brother returned home in a body bag. I’d thought Dad had reconsidered his patriotic fervor in the face of that outcome, but it appeared anything, even the prospect of being blown to pieces, was preferable to what he saw in me.
I pushed my barely touched dinner aside and stood abruptly, my legs shaking. He looked up and our eyes connected, and I saw the truth he’d once worked to hide, the truth I’d tried desperately to deny, and I knew in my heart I wasn’t seeing the disease.
I turned and stumbled out of the kitchen, then climbed the stairs to my bedroom. I grabbed a clean T-shirt and pulled it on while fumbling for my phone. Noah picked up after the first ring.
“Emmett? Everything all right?”
“You okay to pick me up outside my place?”
There was a surprised silence on the other end of the line before Noah’s enthusiastic voice answered. “I’ll be there in ten.”
He disconnected immediately, perhaps worried I’d change my mind, and I stuffed the phone into my pocket and went back downstairs. Dad had moved into the living room and was sitting in front of the TV. He’d left the kitchen a mess, dishes all over the table and two empty beer bottles on the floor beside his chair. I grabbed a beer out of the fridge and chugged it, happy to feel the burn as it hit my empty stomach. I cleared the dishes into the sink and ran some hot water over them, and then I steeled myself and walked into the living room.
Despite the knot tight in my gut, and the voice in my head screaming at me that this was a mistake, I stood in the doorway and said, “I’m going out.”
He turned his head and pinned me with a glare.
“So, go. What are you telling me for?”
“You need anything before I go? You want to use the bathroom.”
“I’m not a fucking retard,” he snarled.
He was making it really easy to push aside my guilt, but I tried to connect one more time. “I’ll be back soon. An hour, maybe two—”
“Jesus, just go already! Stop being such a fucking pussy.”
And with that, the last of the guilt disappeared. I picked up the empty beer bottle he’d left on the coffee table and took it into the kitchen, and I made sure there was nothing in any of the rooms that was hazardous. I turned on the lamp in the corner and the light in the bathroom and, with a final look around the place, I pulled in a shaky breath.
Dad was still glued to the TV screen when I stepped out of the house.
Noah was already waiting in the Jeep, looking at me expectantly. My heart was racing as I leaped off the porch, and it hammered so hard against my rib cage I felt sure he would hear it when I climbed into the passenger seat.
“You okay?” Noah asked. I wasn’t sure whether it was just a general question, or whether he saw something in my face that had him worried.
“Sometimes I really fucking hate him.” I was surprised at how coldly unemotional I sounded.
Noah’s strangled gasp sounded as though a breath had caught in his throat. When he replied, his voice was carefully modulated.
“You sure about this?”
“Let’s get out of here,” I said grimly.
It was my decision, and Dad was acting like an asshole, but that didn’t stop my pulse surging and my stomach doing a slow roll when the car roared into life.
“This is exactly what you need right now, Emmett,” Noah said.
I sent him a halfhearted smile, and prayed he was right.
Chapter Twenty-Two
WE STOPPED by a liquor store, and Noah used his perfect fake ID to pick up two six-packs. I didn’t bother offering to pay my share. We both knew I didn’t have the money. It ate at me a little less than it should have.
I thought Melissa’s eyes would bug out of her head when she opened the door to Noah’s loud hammering.
“Emmett? That really you?”
It was the wrong side of overkill, but the surprise was genuine enough.
“In the flesh,” I said.
“Oh my God! Everybody, it’s Emmett!”
She grabbed my arm and all but dragged me into her living room, which was already overflowing with heaving bodies. The house was almost shaking with the heavy bass thrumming from the stereo, and the air was sweet with the smell of weed. Melissa hustled me into the kitchen where Foster was passing out beers and the floor was sticky with spilled drinks. Ashtrays overflowed with half-smoked cigarettes and every surface was covered with bowls of chips and pretzels, and whatever food had once been in the fridge.
A cold beer was thrust into my hand, and I jumped when arms wrapped around my waist from behind. I presumed it was Noah, until Cal’s voice sounded, loud and sloppy, in my ear.
“Easy, you fucking came!”
I dislodged his arms as I turned to face him.
“What up, Cal?”
I could tell from his dazed expression that he was high. He’d liked a hit or two when we’d been together. He said it relaxed him, but I’d always thought it helped him drown out the confusion and panic. I don’t think we’d ever screwed when he wasn’t flying.
“It’s good to see you, bro.” His already lax features softened even further as he looked at me.
“Good to be seen.” This time, when an arm landed around my shoulders, I knew for sure it was Noah.
“Great party, man,” he said.
Cal’s eyes suddenly focused and he straightened. “Yeah. Melissa’s the best. Can I get you guys anything?”
Noah shook his head, and I held up the bottle of beer I’d already started sipping.
“You know where everything is, Easy,” Cal said. “Knock yourself out.” He turned and was quickly swallowed up by the crowd.
“You want to dance?” Noah asked.
I rolled my eyes. “Not
gonna happen, man.”
Noah smiled. “Don’t tell me you’re that guy? The one who won’t do anything that makes him look uncool?”
“I’m the guy who believes white men can’t dance,” I muttered.
“But you’re gay,” Noah said. “All gay guys can dance. It’s in our DNA.”
Who could argue with science?
I let him manhandle me back into the living room, and when the music changed to something with a recognizable beat, Noah and I edged onto the makeshift dance floor and let it go. Despite what I’d said, I had some decent moves. Most athletes have a natural grace and are more loose-limbed than the average uptight straight white boy. It wasn’t long before I let the pulsing rhythm work through me, and I relaxed into it.
Not surprisingly, Noah was pure poetry in motion. Every movement was fluid and smooth, connecting him to the music like nothing I’d ever seen. His eyes closed and a smile played around his lips, and he was so into it he didn’t even seem to be in this humid, overcrowded room, the smell of a dozen perfumes and aftershave lotions barely masking the musk of sweat and raging hormones.
When he reached out, eyes still closed, and placed a hand on my hip, I didn’t try to shake him off or worry who might be passing judgment, I simply stepped in closer and mirrored his moves as best I could. The smile deepened, the hand tugged me that little bit closer, and I was lost in it.
We danced until thirst drove us back into the kitchen where I grabbed another bottle of beer while Noah stuck with Coke.
“Hey, Callaghan. I thought you’d forgotten how to have fun.” Foster shoved through the crowd and stopped in front of me. He was red-faced with heat or booze, his words slurring and his eyes unfocused.
“Nope. Just taking a break from it,” I replied.
He grabbed a bottle of beer out of somebody’s hand and upended it into his mouth. He didn’t stop swallowing until the bottle was empty, the last drops trickling out of his mouth and down his chin.
“Yeah. You can’t turn into a fucking monk just because somebody bites the bullet. Literally in your brother’s case.”
I stiffened as he laughed like a demented hyena but forced myself to relax when I felt Noah’s hand press against my back.
“You’re all heart, Foster,” he deadpanned. “You should consider a job at Hallmark.”
“He knows what I mean,” Foster said dismissively. “You know what I mean, don’t you, Easy?”
“Sure, why not?” I wanted to get the hell away as fast as I could, but Foster grabbed my arm as I tried to push past him.
“Jamie was hot shit on the football field,” he slurred, his breath warm against the side of my face and smelling of beer and pretzels. “It’s such a goddamned waste.” I understood the words for what they were, some kind of fucked-up apology—John Foster style.
I removed his hand and left him reaching for another beer, and I pushed past all the clammy bodies and took the stairs two at a time, sure Noah was right behind me. I ignored the loud protests and jumped the line for the bathroom, dragging Noah in with me when the door opened, even though there were loads of people waiting their turn.
As soon as I closed and locked the door, I pushed Noah up against it and pressed my lips to his. He groaned and grabbed my waist, and I felt his hardness mirroring my own, throbbing to the beat of the muffled music. He tasted of Coke and wintergreen toothpaste, and his lips were sticky and sweet.
The loud banging on the door made me jump, but Noah just dropped a hand and fumbled at the zipper of my jeans. I scrabbled to do the same, my fingers sliding into the fly of his boxers and closing around his hot, pulsating prick. When his hand closed around my dick, I moaned out loud and threw my head back, and I shuddered as his tongue licked a path up the column of my neck.
Our stroking hands found a mutual rhythm, dictated by the pounding music and the continued hammering on the door. When he bit down gently, I came in a hot rush and Noah bucked against me and released with a muffled cry.
We barely had time to catch our breath before the door began to shake under the pressure of a dozen pounding fists. I splashed some water and tidied myself up, laughing as Noah struggled to do the same, and when we were almost put back together, I slid the bolt back and sauntered out.
“Couldn’t you do that in the fucking bedroom? My goddamned bladder nearly ruptured.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said blithely. The speaker shoved a half-smoked joint into my hand and bolted for the bathroom, and I sucked the smoke deeply into my lungs until the burn was almost painful.
“Fucking homo,” a voice muttered, but I didn’t give a shit who had said it or what they meant. Once again, I could sense Noah at my back, following me as close as a shadow.
At the bottom of the stairs, another beer was thrust into my hand, and I swigged from it greedily. I was definitely getting a buzz on. I could feel it loosening my spine, thickening my tongue, and changing my view from gray to muted color. I recognized the feeling coursing through my veins as joy, remembered from long ago as powerful moments snatched between Dad’s disdain, school’s hostility, and the rest of the world’s indifference.
I turned when Noah tapped my shoulder and looked into his beautiful hazel eyes.
“You okay for time?” he asked. “It’s been almost three hours.”
I was too high to care much, but I nodded and said, “Let’s bounce.”
I hugged Melissa on the way out, pressed the joint into Cal’s outstretched hand, and sucked in a sobering breath when the cool night air hit me.
“That was fucking awesome,” I said, though maybe the words stayed in my head. I followed Noah to his Jeep and climbed in beside him, and I didn’t care who saw me when I leaned toward him and planted a kiss on his lips.
“You are definitely high,” he drawled. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this relaxed.”
I knew my face was stuck in a goofy smile, but I couldn’t seem to dislodge it. At least until we pulled up outside my house, and then reality hit me like a punch to the stomach.
“The front door’s open.”
I was immediately and completely sober in a matter of seconds. I yanked open the car door and stumbled out, then ran to the house and charged inside, calling for Dad, but met only with horrible silence.
I looked around frantically, and my knees almost buckled when I heard Dad call my name. Noah was right behind me when I charged into the kitchen, and he barreled into the back of me when I stopped dead in my tracks just inside the door.
Bottles and jars were smashed against the wall, their contents dripping and sliding down the faded paintwork, the floor was sticky with spilled soda and slimy with broken eggs, apples were mashed into the grubby tiles as though he’d stamped on them in his rage. Dad was standing in the middle of the scene of destruction, weirdly calm considering the blood dripping from his hand onto the wet floor.
“Jesus, Dad. What the hell did you do?” My voice rose shrilly at the sight of the deep slash across his palm.
“It slipped,” he snapped.
“First aid supplies?” Noah said. “Wash the cut, I’ll grab a bandage. Emmett!”
His sharp tone jolted me out of my frozen disbelief.
“Top shelf in the bathroom.”
I walked forward slowly, carefully skirting the mess, and I took him by the arm and urged his unresisting body toward the sink. He stood absolutely still, never flinching, even when I turned on the tap and sluiced warm water over the dripping cut.
The welling blood eventually slowed enough for me to examine the wound. The cut wasn’t as deep as I’d first thought, and some of the sheer blind terror receded. Noah came up behind me and handed me a clean towel, and I gently dabbed at the weeping cut and then wrapped the towel around his hand. I pulled out a chair and gently pushed Dad down onto it.
“What happened?” I asked.
“I was hungry.”
Noah put the first aid kit on the kitchen table, then quietly began to cle
ar away the broken glass.
I applied antiseptic cream as best I could with shaking hands, and then began winding a bandage around Dad’s palm. Now that the worst of it was over, Dad seemed to notice Noah.
“Why is he here?”
Because I need help. Because I can’t do this alone anymore. Because I’m scared. The thoughts raced through my head—every one true, none I could say out loud.
“Because he’s my friend.”
“I don’t want him here.”
I felt despair, a physical thing, roll through me like a wave. When I glanced up, Noah was staring down at my father’s bloodied hand, with a look on his face I’d never seen before but that turned my insides to liquid.
“Enough,” he said quietly. “Emmett, it’s enough.”
“Jesus,” I whispered.
Adrenaline drained out of my system, leaving me shaking and queasy. I could taste bile rising in my throat as my stomach rebelled. It was hard to tell whether from shattered nerves, receding panic, or the booze and drugs from the party.
I stood up quickly, Noah hissed, “Go,” and next thing I knew, I was bending over the toilet bowl, vomiting warm beer and barely digested lasagna. When I’d finished retching, I rinsed my mouth and scrubbed my face and wearily made my way downstairs to face what now seemed inevitable, despite my futile attempt at a normal life.
Dad was still sitting at the kitchen table, his expression surly as he watched Noah try to clean up the terrible mess. Noah stopped when I walked back in, and I could see how his hands shook. He jerked his head toward the door, and I nodded.
“I’ll be back in a minute, Dad.”
I followed Noah out to the porch, unable to stop myself flinching when he turned to face me, his face a dazed mask.
“This has to stop, Emmett. I can’t stand by and watch you do this to yourself. Or to him. He needs drugs. Proper medical care. Supervision—”
“I can look after him,” I said doggedly. “It was just a minor setback—”
“That’s bullshit, man.” He swallowed noisily and softened his tone with a visible effort. “He could have really hurt himself in there. Jesus, he could hurt you. He has hurt you.”
