Getting Him Back (4 page)

Blake knew what I was doing and his fingers dug into the base of my skull. Keeping a steady bob, I moved my wet finger behind his balls, and found the soft wrinkle of his hole in the fur of his crack.

“Yeah.” Blake’s voice was deep, and his dick left slick salt in my mouth as more precome welled from the slit.

I gave him what he wanted, my finger driving into his ass while my throat, lips and tongue cradled his dick. I sucked and curled my finger, wishing it was my dick in him, knowing we’d get there if he’d relax and give it a chance.

Blake groaned again. “So good, baby. So fucking good. I’m gonna come.”

I could tell anyway, from the feel of his ass getting open and soft before he tightened, from the pulse along my tongue, and from the way his hips bucked and he clutched my head.

He spurted bitter and thick at the back of my throat, squeezing my finger, and calling me
baby
again.

I eased my finger out and licked his dick, hearing him in my head as I worked myself faster, rubbing my palm over the head, grip rough on my shaft. I panted, lips soft and open on his balls.

Blake rubbed the base of my neck. “Yeah, baby.”

My orgasm hit sharp and hot, sweet but over too-damned fast, jolts of it shuddering out of my dick, spilling into my hand and the trailing edge of a sheet.

I wiped my hand off on it. Not that he would notice. Sliding my face along his thigh, I wondered why his neat roommate would have chosen to live with him for another year.

“Hey.” Blake rubbed my head.

“Hey.” I climbed up next to him.

He accepted my hug and held me. His arms around me and his breath in my ear felt familiar and good, but at the same time awful, because my gut told me he wasn’t completely there.

His arms fell away and I straightened.

“What?” I asked, even though I dreaded his answer. I wanted to understand.

“I told you when we were walking back here. Things haven’t changed. It was just sex.”

I shot off the bed. “Was that at least good? Maybe I should charge.” I tucked myself back in and did up my fly.

“I would have done you too.”

I gaped at him. “That’s what you think I’m upset about?”

“No?” He looked away.

“I don’t understand how things can be fine and three weeks later you’re over it.”

“I didn’t say I was over it. Or you.”

“Oh right. You just don’t love me that way anymore.” Backing away, I bumped into his desk. Papers avalanched over the edge, bringing something heavier with them.

I picked it up. A framed picture of us from homecoming weekend Blake’s senior year. I was sitting on top of a picnic table, Blake was on the bench between my legs. I was leaning forward, my arms around his shoulders, both of us smiling in fall sunshine. I loved this pic, had managed to get it a half page in the yearbook layout. But even I didn’t have it framed and on my desk. I kept my pictures in my phone and on my computer, like a normal person.

What the fucking hell? His feelings had changed but he kept this picture of us on his desk? For a second I thought of smashing it on the corner of the desk, but I put it facedown on a different pile of papers.

“I can’t explain it.” Blake didn’t seem to notice that I’d found the picture. “Things are different now.”

“Yeah, well maybe I’ll be different the next time you want your dick sucked.” I yanked the door open.

“Ethan, hang on a second.”

Oh, that he heard.

“Take the sock off the doorknob for me?”

I threw it in his face.

Dorm room doors ought to be slammable, but they had some sort of pneumatic hinge that made it impossible. It shut, not as loudly as I wanted it to, and I started down the hall, only to come face-to-face with some hoodie-wearing dude-bro.

I hadn’t experienced a lot of bullying in my life, not like the shit I read about online, but you couldn’t grow up queer without getting some of it thrown at you. You learned the type. The clothes, the body language, the narrowing of their eyes. Usually I tried to make myself a minimal target, pretending they weren’t there as I made an escape. Not tonight.

I’d never landed a punch in my life, but I was ready now. Had to be a first time, right?
Bring it
,
asshole.
I stared right into his eyes. Well, what I could see of them that wasn’t shadowed by his hoodie, or the overhang of black hair with an oh-so-cool streak of white running through it.

A misplaced art student in Jock Itch Tower?

He had the sneer and the stare down though, his one visible eye an eerily bright pale blue. Contacts?

“Blake finally done?” He sounded bored. “Gotta say you don’t look like his usual type.”

This must be Wyatt Reese. Fresh from his meth lab. There was a hint of a twang in his speech. I was all set to come back with a
fuck you
when the words froze.

Right here I had someone who knew Coborn-College Blake better than anyone. Obviously, better than me. And since he was inclined to be chatty, I was going to make use of him.

I plastered on a smile I didn’t feel. “What’s his usual type?”

Chapter 4

Wyatt looked at me like I’d actually landed a punch. Damn, it hadn’t been that smart a comeback. And I did want to know. Had Blake been having sex with a bunch of different guys, or was there someone in particular he’d found to replace me?

Before I could explain, Wyatt’s eyes narrowed, and he snapped, “What the fuck? I’m supposed to stand out here and describe the ass my roommate is busy getting while I’m killing time at the library?”

He had a point. He might have missed seeing those guys. Plus, out in the hall wasn’t the best place for this type of convo. What time was it anyway? I reached for my phone but by the time it was in my hand, I’d forgotten what I wanted it for.

To talk to Wyatt about Blake. But Wyatt was right here.

Maybe they had a lounge on this floor, like there was in my dorm.

“We could go sit in the lounge.”

His one-eyed stare lasered into my face. “You gotta be fucking kidding me.”

Yeah, maybe that idea was crazy. But despite the angry words, Wyatt hadn’t moved to go around me, hadn’t escaped into his room. He was breathing hard, and a spot of dark red blotched the top of each of his cheeks. Well, if you included the half one I could see under his hunk of hair.

Was that because he’d come back and heard us finishing? Heard us coming? Was he turned-on or pissed-off? I’d asked Blake if his roommate was gay or straight and he’d said, “For all I know he’s a monk. His only relationship is with his laptop.”

Under the shapeless hoodie, I was guessing Wyatt was thin, like me, but shorter, and his shoulders were broader. It was too hard to figure out if he was cute or not with that hair and the hood.

“I know it’s late. Maybe another time?”

Wyatt shook his head. “You are un-fucking-real. Just go, ee...ah. Take off, man.”

Ee-ah? That was a weird stammer. Maybe it was a West Virginia thing. But if I was going to get Blake back—and I was, that picture on his desk proved it—I should make nice with his roommate.

I smiled again. “Thanks. Have a good night.”

* * *

Sunday was not Funday. By the time my eyelids scraped across my poor eyes and let in the jabbing light, I’d missed breakfast and lunch. Not that my stomach felt like eating. But I definitely wanted something to chase the fuzzy residue of purple stuff and jizz out of my mouth. I knew I should have brushed my teeth before face-planting.

I heard tapping. Connor was on his bed with his laptop propped on his knees.

“Dude.” He looked over at me. “Shower.”

Yeah, that seemed like a good plan.

I put a foot on the floor but it seemed like my head and stomach didn’t like it much. Was this what a hangover felt like? Shit. No more purple stuff. Ever.

Connor nodded at the room fridge. “Makayla brought you a Coke. Said you’d need it. I swear by Gatorade. Take your pick.”

My pick was to go back to me in the kitchen and warn me to stop drinking and to not go home with Mr. Still-Doesn’t-Change-Things-Now-That-My-Balls-Are-Empty St. Pierre.

I’d always been the kind of guy to go after what I wanted. But without a time machine, that didn’t seem possible right now. Maybe I’d stay in bed.

Makayla walked into our room and the girl was nice, but damn. Boundaries.

“He
is
alive,” she said to Connor.

Why the fuck did it matter so much to her or Connor? If I killed myself with alcohol poisoning, he’d have a single. Plus, he’d get straight As after my suicide, or so I’d heard. Neither of them knew what it was like to go from gawky-spaz-giraffe me to Blake St. Pierre’s boyfriend. Only to lose it because—what?

Gotta say
,
you don’t look like his usual type.

My brain wandered back to Blake’s hoodie-wearing roommate. Wyatt had lived with Blake all of last year, and he’d been there when Blake had gone from, “See you in three weeks” to “I don’t love you like that anymore.” If I could get Wyatt talking—something beyond “
Get the fuck away
”—I could figure out how to fix this mess.

I got my other foot on the floor.

“So, are you going to pass out again or tell me about the guy you left the party with?” Makayla asked.

I dragged myself to my feet. “Neither.” My stomach lurched and bile burned the back of my throat. I grabbed the trash can and headed for the door. “I’m gonna puke.”

* * *

Now that I had a plan, I didn’t wait longer than Monday before putting it into action. I had easily figured out when soccer practice was, so I knew I wouldn’t run into Blake. It was harder pinpointing when Wyatt would be in the room. I took the chance he’d like having the room to himself sometimes and aimed for right after the start of afternoon practice.

“Blake’s not here.” Wyatt said to my knock.

It reminded me of the way I usually answered over in Fisher Hall.

“I’m looking for Wyatt.”

Footsteps, muffled a bit. Not shoes, not the slap of bare feet. Then the door swung open. He had the same gray sweatshirt on, but the hood wasn’t over his head. Instead there were headphones, the kind that look like earmuffs. The logo on the ear cup seemed to be trying to look almost, but not exactly, like the expensive brand my parents had gotten me for Christmas.

Even without the hoodie, his left eye was still hidden behind the long black bangs with the white streak. His visible eye was less eerily pale with the daylight behind him. Now it was a vibrant blue, like the nail polish Makayla had tried to get me to put on her fingers and toes. That shade could only come from a contact, especially since the iris didn’t have the usual starburst pattern in it.

I realized I’d been staring in a rude way and glanced down.

“You again. What do you want?” Wyatt shoved his hands in the pouch of his hoodie.

Blake.

Easiest answer ever. I hoped all my midterms were that easy. But though Wyatt hadn’t turned out to be one of the douchey guys hanging around Kilpatrick, he still might not be willing to give me the info I needed to get Blake back. They could have some sort of bro code. I’d have to be sneaky.

I started slow. “I need help.”

Wyatt gave me a look that if it was from a gay guy, I’d say he was cruising me. But Wyatt looked more bored than interested after he finished his once-over. “Sorry. I don’t think I’ve got what you’re looking for.”

Though I was here about Blake, I couldn’t help noticing Wyatt wasn’t exactly a troll. Lean body, pretty blue eyes under dark lashes and a fascinating mouth—superthin at the edges and almost a pout in the middle. I’d call him angry-emo cute. As I thought about the shape of his lips again—well, let’s just say I didn’t agree about him not having what I was looking for. But it didn’t matter because I was in love with Blake.

The direction my thoughts had been going heated the back of my neck. I put a hand over it as I turned away. “Not like that.”

A neat stack of textbooks lined up with the corner of his desk. Computer coding, physiognomy, engineering. Nerd-smart stuff. That and the off-brand headphones gave me an idea. “I was hoping you’d tutor me. Like I’d hire you.” Calculus was the midterm I was dreading the most. Much harder to BS than educational sociology. “I need help in calculus and the other night—” The warmth spread around to my throat and cheeks. “I saw your books and I thought you could help. Blake said you were smart.” Nerd and smart were basically the same thing.

Wyatt slung himself into the chair behind his desk. He smoothed his bangs down over his left eye and looked up at me. “How much?”

“Well, I’m like two or three chapters behind. The midterm is in three weeks, I think, and—”

“No. How much are you going to pay me?”

Something about that steady gaze from one vivid blue eye made my pulse jump with a blend of fascination and dread. It reminded me of how I felt when Blake’s cat would stare at me. Like behind her eyes, she was remembering when her ancestors pounced on humans from trees, and she was thinking I’d taste a lot better than her last can of Ocean Medley. I couldn’t look away then either, though I was the last person in the world with a death wish. Especially an eaten-alive death wish.

Wyatt tapped a pencil against his desk, and I realized he was waiting for an answer.

What was a reasonable amount? It wasn’t like I didn’t need the help. I could get the info about Blake out of him in one or two sessions.

“Uh—twenty?” I only got twelve an hour at work-study pulling and putting away files at Res Life like I had for two hours this morning.

“Twenty bucks to catch you up on three chapters of calculus?” He sounded suspicious, like he knew I had some other motive for being here.

“No. I mean, twenty dollars per session.”

“Session?”

The fire spreading across my face was real. There had to be flames shooting off my skin now. Every word between us seemed to have some hidden meaning.

“Twenty an hour. Whatever.” I managed.

He stood, skunk-striped hair swinging close enough to brush my cheek.

I forced myself to not take a step back. If he wanted to pull some shit, he’d already have done that. This was dude-posturing for position and I could handle that.
Position
. Damn. Now my throat was thick, sweat popping out on my neck, because I knew what position I’d want him in if I wasn’t in love with his roommate. And in every position I’d have my hands in that long hank of hair, moving his body the way I wanted it. I jutted my hips forward.