#Blur (The GearShark Series Book 4) Page 4

  “How dare you?” Mom gasped. “Don’t ever talk to him like that again.”

  “Do not tell me what to do,” he intoned, then turned away from her, dismissing her words.

  I felt my stare narrow in challenge.

  He met my gaze full on, but I didn’t back down. He smirked, as if my challenge gave him pleasure, as if it made me more a man.

  It just made me more like him. More of an asshole.

  Downstairs, the sound of the doorbell rang through the house.

  “She’s here,” he said.

  “If you’re so interested in her, you take her out. It’s what men do after all.”

  I sensed Mom’s presence and immediately felt contrite. I glanced at her, standing just behind my father. She didn’t seem to catch my double meaning.

  “I look forward to hearing about how your date went tomorrow,” Dad said, disregarding me and striding down the hall.

  Mom came in the room, closing the door softly behind her.

  Her eyes were sympathetic, and oddly, it just pissed me off. In that moment, it seemed both she and I were weak. Pawns on my father’s chessboard. Nothing more than pieces he played.

  “I know this has been hard, Arrow.” She sat on the bed beside me, cupping my jaw with one hand. “Just play along a few more months. Then you’ll be out on your own.”

  Between us, she held out a large envelope. The seal for Syracuse was in the upper corner. Butterflies hit my stomach. I glanced between her and the envelope.

  “It just came a little while ago.” She smiled.

  I took it and ripped it open, reading the cover letter on the stack of papers. “I got in,” I said, somewhat surprised.

  She grinned wide and flung her arms around me. “I’m so proud of you.”

  I hugged her back as a sense of accomplishment filled me.

  It was a nice moment.

  Until I remembered…

  My father basically bribed the dean with a donation to get me in. He called in a favor with the head coach, too. I had no way of knowing if I got into this college because I earned it or because my father manipulated the situation.

  “I don’t want to go here,” I said, tossing the papers onto the bed.

  “What?”

  “It’s what he wants, not me.”

  Her eyes softened. “Maybe it could be what you want, too?” she said gently. “Not because of him, though, but because it’s a fresh start.”

  I glanced up.

  “You like soccer, right?”

  I nodded.

  “And New York is just beautiful. You like it there, too. We’ll get you a nice apartment where you won’t be under his thumb. You’ll have freedom. Sports, classes, and a new place. It won’t be so hard.” She paused. “To be happier.”

  I noticed she didn’t say to be who I really was. I was starting to wonder if maybe she was hoping I’d decide I wasn’t gay after all.

  Like it or not, Mom had a point. Moving to New York would be fucking bomb. I could get away from my father, which I would do almost anything for at this point, including enrolling in college.

  “Yeah, it sounds like a good idea.” I agreed.

  Mom beamed. The relief in her face was obvious. I wasn’t sure what that relief was for, but I let myself believe it was because she just wanted me to be happy.

  “Just stick it out until after graduation. We’ll get you moved up to New York this summer. Until then, maybe just play along with what he wants.”

  “Is that what you do, Mom?” I asked. “Play along with what he wants?”

  Her face paled slightly. I felt bad, but not bad enough. I stood from the bed and snatched up the keys. “I have a date,” I said, bitter, and walked away without looking back.

  My date was a wild child dressed in conservative clothes. The second I pulled the Jag out of the driveway, she started pulling off layers and tossing them into her bag.

  I glanced at her once, not because I wanted to check out her skin, but because I thought it was fucking amusing. Clearly, I wasn’t the only one playing along with what our parents thought we should be.

  “Not as wholesome as you’d like them all to believe I see,” I mused.

  “If you rat on me, I’ll deny it.” She informed me as she applied a thick coat of something shiny to her lips. When I didn’t say anything, she glanced over. “I can always add in you touched me in places you weren’t supposed to.”

  I rolled my eyes at the way she made her voice sound wispy and innocent. Then I made a rude sound. “Are you kidding? My father would be proud of that macho behavior.”

  “I see we have the same kind of parents.” She relaxed back into the seat, as if my admission upped her impression of me.

  “I don’t think there’s anyone quite like my father,” I said, dark.

  “There’s a party across town. I want to go.”

  “Is it loud, and do they have beer?” I asked.

  “Duh.”

  “Tell me the way.”

  I followed her directions to some big party in an abandoned building on the other side of town. There was graffiti on the walls and broken bottles in the parking lot. The music was loud, so loud I wondered why the hell the cops weren’t there, and so many people milled about they were spilling out of the building onto the sidewalk.

  I parked the Jag somewhere my father would probably have a coronary about and enjoyed every second of it. I thought about leaving it unlocked and hoped it got lifted. Hell, it would serve him right.

  But he’d punish me later.

  So I locked it, pocketed the keys, and told myself if it got damaged or stolen while it was parked, it was his fault for letting me drive it and taking away my BMW in the first place.

  My scantily-clothed date, who said her name was Giselle, flipped her long brown hair. “So hey, how about you go your way and I go mine?” she yelled in my ear when we got close to the entrance.

  “Find me if you need a ride home,” I yelled back.

  She nodded. “Oh, and I’ll be sure to tell the ‘rents what a great time I had and what a gentleman you were.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  She grinned.

  I stepped toward the door, toward the flashing lights and pounding bass, but she caught my wrist. I turned around and glanced down into her stare.

  She leaned up next to my ear to say, “The gay crowd hangs near the back.”

  I jerked back and stared down at her. I knew I looked astonished.

  She laughed and patted my T-shirt-covered chest. “No worries. I won’t tell, especially your father.”

  My eyes bounced between hers, searching for something. Anything. All I saw was she honestly didn’t give a shit.

  How the fuck did she know? Was there something about me that screamed gay?

  “Feel free to tell your father you screwed my brains out and I was hot for your cock,” she whispered in my ear before kissing me on the cheek and disappearing into the suddenly foggy doorway.

  Literal fog. Someone turned on a fog machine.

  I stared into the vapor and the strobing light. I could just leave right now. Drive around until enough time passed for my date.

  Or…

  I could hang at this party… maybe wander toward the back.

  It called to me, the so-called “gay crowd.” It was so stupid, the fact there was a crowd of any type of person. I wasn’t any type of guy. I was just me. All these people were just… people.

  Likely, most of them were pretending to be someone they weren’t, just like me and Giselle.

  I stayed. I went inside, found the keg, and downed a beer. Then I downed another. The music was loud and drowned out the thoughts in my head. It was hot in here, bodies were everywhere, and the room was dark except for flashing lights and glowing people brought out of the shadows by black light paint.

  A killer song came on, and I started to dance. Some chick beside me grabbed my hand and pulled me around, and we started grinding together while the music thumped. It
was good to let loose. Good to just be.

  After a while, she moved off, and I danced through the crowd, stopping every once in a while to dance with someone new.

  Eventually, I made it toward the back. People were still dancing here, too. Funny, I expected it to look different, like there would be a giant lit-up sign or something.

  I was a fucking moron.

  It looked exactly like the rest of the party. In fact, as I danced and finished off my beer, I was beginning to think Giselle had just been messing with me. There probably wasn’t a gay crowd that hung here at all.

  I crunched my cup in my grip and dropped it on the concrete floor. It disappeared almost immediately into the crowd of gyrating bodies. I turned to go, but something wrapped around my wrist.

  I glanced over my shoulder.

  Then my whole body followed.

  He had dark hair, so dark it blended in with the night. It was cut short, and he was dressed in a pair of ripped-up jeans, a big white T-shirt, and a pair of Nikes. I guessed he was around my age, maybe a year or two older. Another thing my attention seemed to zero in on were his lips. They were full and tilted into a smile as he looked at me.

  “Wanna dance?” he yelled out.

  I nodded.

  I let him pull me a little closer, and we started moving to a new song that just blasted over the speakers. The undertones of this one spoke sex; the beat was heavy and it made you want to move your hips.

  When my partner palmed my waist and pulled me in so he could fit his knee between my legs, I froze for a second. I’d never had much contact with another guy.

  Not much = none.

  I’d been with a few girls; none of it was enjoyable.

  All my “experience” with other men was through magazines and videos online.

  “Relax,” he said, and one of his hands slid down to my hip.

  The center of his body rotated toward me, thrust out, and I felt his jeans brush against mine. I liked it. I liked it more than I thought I would. We were barely touching, yet my heart hammered, my balls tingled, and my fingers itched with the need to touch him.

  I glanced up again, and he gave me a flirtatious smile.

  I’m dancing and flirting with a guy.

  I smiled back, suddenly bold, and grabbed his hips, pulling him right up against my body.

  We danced and grinded to the music. Feeling his body so close to mine, feeling his hands run down my back and over my arms, turned me on in ways I didn’t know were possible.

  If this were an experiment, I would call it a success.

  But maybe it was too soon; maybe I was drunk. Dancing and somewhat groping a guy I’d just met wasn’t confirmation I was gay.

  I already know I’m gay. Why do I need to prove it?

  But I did.

  Suddenly, there was this overwhelming urge to prove to myself once and for all that I was gay. That it didn’t matter what my father said.

  After about five songs, we were both sweating and grinding against each other pretty hard. I was rocking a hard-on I wasn’t even embarrassed about.

  “Let’s get a beer,” the guy called over the music, and I nodded.

  He took my hand like it was a natural, no-big-deal thing and led me off the dance floor and out of the crowd. Instead of heading over to the beer, he headed for a side door I hadn’t noticed before and into a stairwell that went up and down.

  He went down into the darkness. Just one flight below, he stopped on the bottom step and pushed me against the wall.

  With my back against the cold concrete, he came forward, aligning his body with mine until we touched feet to chest. I grabbed handfuls of his shirt at his side and held on as his lips swooped in.

  It was the first kiss I’d ever had with a man.

  It was a lot like kissing a girl.

  Except better.

  He fit against me in a way no girl could. His mouth seemed braver, his kiss deeper. Our tongues twisted together, and he moaned, his hips thrusting forward. Boldly, I reached around and cupped his ass, deepening the kiss as my heart galloped in my chest.

  He tasted like beer and sweat. His chest was solid against mine, and I liked the way his weight felt pinning me against the wall.

  After several minutes of us making out, he ripped his lips off mine and kissed down my neck. I cupped the back of his head so he wouldn’t stop. My body hummed. I felt alive. I felt… like me.

  His fingers brushed the buckle of my jeans. My eyes sprang open in the dark as he sucked my neck. Without any thought, I thrust my hips forward, inviting more. He pulled back, and in seconds, my jeans were down around my knees.

  My boxers molded to my body; my dick was hard and jutted out the fabric so it looked like a tent. The guy—I still didn’t know his name—lifted the hem of my shirt and dragged his fingers across my abs.

  “Definition,” he murmured, tracing the lines of the muscle.

  I was skinny, but I was muscular. It was all the soccer I played.

  The guy dropped onto his knees, and I spread my legs a little as my dick jumped anxiously beneath the fabric. He was gonna fucking suck me off. Right here. Right now.

  Hell yes.

  I wanted him to. I’d never wanted a blowjob so badly before. I didn’t have to pretend I was somewhere else or with someone else. I didn’t have to picture the porn I watched online or even stroke myself.

  All I had to do was feel the air brush over the smooth skin of my cock when it was freed of the confines of my clothing.

  “Nice rod,” the guy said, giving it a stroke. I shuddered, my abs contracting.

  I made a sound; I was incapable of speaking. My knees were shaking and so were my hands. I tucked them between my ass and the wall, thrusting out so he would have better access.

  The first contact of his mouth made me moan. It echoed in the stairwell, but I didn’t care. I wasn’t going to hold back right now. Everything inside me was screaming, Yes!

  His lips were silky smooth and warm. His mouth was wet, and he applied the perfect amount of pressure as he moved his head back and forth. I looked down, watching his dark head bob at the center of my body, and rocked into his mouth.

  He took me deep, as deep as he could. I wanted deeper, so I thrust just a little more.

  He pulled back, licked up the rod, and circled his tongue around my head. I shuddered.

  I wasn’t going to last much longer. This was too fucking good.

  He felt me trembling. He grabbed my sack, felt how tight it was drawn against my body, and then sucked my head into his mouth.

  He licked and sucked like and expert until I went rigid and gave a shout. His fingertips gripped my hips, and I started to move. I pumped into him, fucking his lips as an orgasm ripped through my body.

  I yelled and moaned, the sound of it bouncing around and filling my ears.

  When at last he pulled back and my cock fell against my body, completely satiated and spent, my legs felt like Jell-O, and I was glad to be leaning against the wall.

  “I like a guy who yells,” the guy said, standing.

  “You yell, too?” I asked. My voice sounded drunk and heavy.

  “Maybe you should find out,” he suggested and reached for his buckle.

  I reached for his fly and guided it over his already hard length.

  He sank down on the steps, sitting in the center and spreading his knees wide. I sat down between them and freed his dick.

  So the first night I got head from another man was also the first night I gave it.

  I did make him yell, which awakened some kind of lion inside me. I liked hearing him moan and feeling him buck beneath my mouth.

  I even liked the salty flavor of his orgasm as it shot across my tongue.

  It was the best sexual encounter I’d had yet. It was with another man.

  No, I didn’t have to prove I was gay.

  But if I did… this would have done it.

  Conversion therapy.

  Something I’d never heard of until I hea
rd my parents fighting. Again.

  My father knew his “tough love” and demands that I be straight weren’t working. I didn’t give him any reason to think it wasn’t, except for the fact I wasn’t dating or being caught with girls racing out of my room at all hours of the night.

  I thought about doing it. I thought about playing his game.

  Fuck that.

  Fuck him.

  I didn’t want to pretend. I didn’t even want to be “all out” and waving it in his face that I preferred men.

  If anything, I’d just become more withdrawn. I stayed out late, avoided him when I knew he’d be home, and when he’d arrive when we weren’t expecting, I’d hide in the house or bury my nose in “homework” and pretend I didn’t know he was there.

  I snuck out a couple times, too. I went back to that party place. Faces were becoming more familiar there. People would what-up me when I walked through the fog.

  I hooked up with the same guy a few more times. We never exchanged names. It didn’t matter. I went for the blowjobs and making out. I had a feeling it was the same for him. Maybe he couldn’t be himself when he wasn’t there either. Maybe those nights were all he had, just like me.

  The admission papers for Syracuse were filled out and ready to mail in. All they needed was a signature from my father and a check for tuition. I was anxious to get the hell out, to not feel like I was unwanted in my own house.

  He hadn’t signed them yet. I wasn’t sure why he was waiting.

  It felt like everything hinged on something, some test I wasn’t aware of.

  Maybe he didn’t know what it was either. Maybe that’s why the words “conversion therapy” floated along the hall at night when everyone was supposed to be in bed.

  Bedtime now consisted of us going to our rooms, my parents fighting, and me sitting in the center of my room, listening.

  It was odd because Mom never wanted to make him angry. She tended to just go along with what he wanted. I hated to say it, but now that I was seeing things more clearly and had a lot of time to think and reflect…

  My mother was a doormat.

  My father stepped on her constantly.