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The awful choking sounds he’s making are terrible, and so loud. They would freak me right the fuck out—if I'd never heard another fucker choking.
He looks almost fake. Like a picture come to life. I wish I had my camera. I could take a good shot of him. Here. Smoking the cigarette and being stupid.
And his lake water eyes are staring a hole in me. OH MY MOTHERFUCK, IT’S BRIDGE GUY.
I lean my head against the chair’s back and close my eyes, remembering when I learned to crochet.
"We can't all be built like coked-out rock stars."
I notice his shoulders are shrugged up near his ears, his hands in his pockets. His forearms are thicker than I thought they would be, and they’re dusted with hair. I like forearms, so I force my eyes to move back up to his face.
Hers are glazed but pretty hazel, reminding me of another girl and another pair of pretty hazel eyes.
He’s the most beautiful guy I’ve ever seen in real life, and I hate it.
I like it outside. I would never roll off. Not relaxed enough. Just dozing. It's not quiet enough to seem like that place. I can hear the traffic.
Chicken pox. That makes me smile. Not my best lie.
can't even fucking breathe, as he rolls them, then drags his hand up my erection, pressing with his palm then gripping, his hand wrapped around me, moving slow and firm, back and forth.
And it's evil how I want to. It's so wrong the way I want to throw him off, to fuck with him, manipulate him just so I can hear his noises, taste his skin. He's no one to me. Just a toy. A pretty, freckled, dark-haired, perfect boy for me to ruin if I want.
What makes Ezra Masters cry?
but today I’ve got my cello, even though I won’t play it again at school until concert band in the spring. I miss the thing—it’s my favorite instrument that I play—and I’ve decided I might practice sometime when the dickface is out of the house.
“Oh look, the twinky little cello boy is making threats now.”
Everything started in a bus, didn’t it? Buses ruined my life and then this bus drove me up here where I’m supposed to fix it.
“I go for people who like me.”
fuck-me lake eyes moving down my body.
Cigarettes After Sex—“Apocalypse” is one of their new songs.
blue raspberry Icee
"Only if you've got one of your gay boy boners for me."
I don’t want him touching my stomach and not feeling six-pack abs like his.
Focus, Ezra. Fucking focus. It’s not Alton.
They end up telling me Miller has motherfucking epilepsy.
“I'm not sick. This is my brain on life. So let me say it for you, Ezra. I think you're a big, cocksucking gay fag just like I am. I bet if I put a dick in your ass, you'd fucking love it. Everyone knows cocksuckers like a big dick in their asshole."
I stand in the hall between our bedrooms, looking down at the stuff by my feet. There’s two bags of Cheetos, two packs of Bubble Yum, another Icee, and some of that sugary powder stuff you eat with the vanilla-flavored dipsticks. Brennan told me he likes that.
“Never jump,” I whisper. “Never fall.” His lips brush my back. He hugs me tight, wrapping himself around me. “You gotta be careful, Millsy. Don’t come here without me.”
And then he steps in closer, wraps a hand around the back of my head, and kisses me so hard and deep I nearly slide to the ground.
Bubble Yum.”
“Miller,” he rasps just under my ear. “What are you doing to me?”
“Oh, fuck me. Dude, you’re beautiful. You know that?”
I can fuck around with him for a while, ease us both for right now, but he’ll never really be mine.
Mills should never have to see a doctor. All the pain that people go through—it should skip right over him. I’d take some of it if I could. Fix that karma for us.
“With you. Got those legs all stretched out in my front seat. Smelling like that fuckboy soap.”
“I love your hands.”
I stand there as long as I think I can. Thinking of another room. Another patient. How the needle always seemed to burn.
Only assholes act like this to other people. Only fucking dickheads treat the person they like most in the world this way.
Someone who doesn’t have to lie about his past for evermore because he’s got secrets no one can ever know.
It’s better to feel nothing for him. It was better when I was a fucking asshole.
I don’t like the red light in here. I asked for a light, but red light is worse than no light. Makes me want to claw my eyes out.
“Because…I’m scared of doctors.” It’s so soft, for a second, I wonder if he’s teasing. But he says nothing more.
I wake up with Ezra wrapped around me like some kind of insane starfish. He’s behind me—he’s spooning me now—with one arm around my shoulders, one hand clutching the waistline of my boxer briefs, and one of his warm legs pushed between mine, like he wants to be sure we’re joined from head to toe.
“Look at me, Ez. Look at my face.” He shuts his eyes. “Tell me this much: Who fucked up before me? Who fucked around with you and made you feel like loving you was hard work?”
“You wanna push me away, disengage and just end this shit every time it crosses your mind that it’s too much for me. That it’s a hardship for me—how you feel. You realize you’re the one that’s hurt, but you think it’s too much for me? I’m not a fucking weak guy. I know I might look like I am.”
“At some point, you’re gonna touch me wrong, too. And I won’t be able to—” He starts breathing harder. “I like everything we’ve done,” he whispers. “But I’m not a real person.”
When I was sick, you took care of me. If you’re sick, nothing feels good; you’re in pain. And you’re saying I can make you feel better? I’d do that all damn day. All night, too. I’ll suck your dick ten times a day if you want. If I can cure depression for you with a blow job, sign me the fuck up, baby. You got nightmares but I make them better? I’ll be your drug. You think helping you feel good could ever be a burden to me?”
“You’re my guy now. I’ve got you.”
He does love me. I want so much to say I love him back, but no one’s ever really said “I love you” to me. It feels too awkward.
“The old Isabella mansion. A man built it for a woman named Isabella back in the 1800s.
Hi, no one’s held my hand since I was like six. No one’s touched me in a few years except nurses and a lot worse. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
