Page 23 of Shots on Net

I look at him when I can’t see her any longer. There is an air of melancholy around him, and his downturned mouth speaks more of sadness than anger. I realize that I’ve really only seen two easily identifiable expressions on his face: anger and sorrow.

“I wish I had a grandma like yours,” he says.

Oh. “She’s pretty great,” I say, lightly, and wish we were still in a position where I could press my knee to his in silent support. “What are your grandparents like?”

He blows out a hard breath, not looking at me. “They’re just older versions of my parents. Whenever we went over to their house for Sunday brunch, we had to dress up. I spilled something on the rug, once, and, I don’t know, I guess it was a really fancy, expensive rug, and we weren’t invited back for a while. Not until I was old enough to not spill things.”

He laughs, a terse, sharp laugh that is not paired with a smile. I don’t laugh with him, because it’s not funny. It’s not funny at all. What kind of grandparents stop inviting their grandson over because he accidentally spilled something?

“But that’s alright. Wasn’t missing much, by not going over there.” He shrugs. “My whole family is kind of like that, though. Rich and snobby. Except for my Aunt Franky, though. She’s badass. She lives in Rome, in this tiny little flat, and works as an English tutor. How cool is that?”

“Very cool.” I try to sound enthusiastic in my response, even though this entire story has made me feel awful. “Does she come visit?”

“Oh, yeah, sometimes. She’s my dad’s sister, and they don’t get along. But I love when she’s here. She flew in for one of my games once!”

His voice rises in excitement, suddenly, and he looks over at me. I smile, even though my stomach curdles at the implication of who doesn’t make an effort to go to his games. I’d bet good money that his “rich and snobby” parents don’t travel to watch him play, even though they live in the States.

“I introduced her to Coach Mackenzie and everything. It was pretty cool.” He shakes his head, clearly still astounded that someone put in so much effort for him. “My parents haven’t ever watched me play. They hate that I play hockey.”

And there it is. “That’s awful.”

He looks at me, startled. “It’s fine. I mean, I can’t complain, obviously. We have a lot of money—I’ve never gone without anything in my life.”

Except, apparently, love and attention. “Have you visited your aunt in Rome?”

“Yeah, once. Have you ever been?”

“No, I’ve never even left the state before,” I admit. “But I’ve got a list a mile long of places I’d like to visit, one day.”

“Next time I go see Franky, you can come. We’ll charge two first class seats to Dad’s credit card and send him a selfie from the plane.”

I can’t help but laugh at the smirk on his face as he imagines it. Something tells me this isn’t an empty gesture, either. He probably would buy us plane tickets to Italy if I agreed to go.

“Maybe she’d like a visitor this weekend?” I ask, and he glances at me and smiles an eighth of a smile. I feel like a fucking hero, earning that smile. Sighing, I sit back in my seat although I keep my face turned to keep Carter in profile. “What’s the plan for the evening?”

“Homework, I guess,” he says, sounding less than thrilled. “I have to read more of that stupid book.”

“Want me to do the reading?” His eyes flick to me and away again so fast I might have imagined it.

“Yeah?”

“Sure. I did all my homework yesterday, in preparation for the zoo today.”

“You did all your own work, so now you’re offering to help with mine?” He asks, incredulously.

“What can I say? I’m a giver.”

Carter huffs a soft laugh, shaking his head. I could easily get used to hearing those spurts of laughter and catching those rare smiles. It’s heady, getting to peek behind the curtain of Carter’s façade and see the real man underneath.

Carter

I lean forward, wincing, and clench my fingers into the bedspread. Behind me, Jackson pushes my legs further apart and shoves his fingers inside me so roughly, it feels like he didn’t even use lube. He’s not aiming for pleasure, but for getting the prep done as quickly as possible. Biting my lip, I try to relax, knowing that it’ll hurt less if I do. He’s pumping his fingers in and out, too fast to be anything but jarring. God, I fucking hate doing this.

A ridiculously short time later, and without asking if I’m ready, I feel him line himself up behind me. I brace myself, knowing that this neanderthal is just going to push inside without giving me time to adjust. Indeed, he ignores any resistance and immediately starts jackhammering his hips like we’re in a race to the finish line. Thankfully—due to sheer dumb luck rather than any sexual prowess on his part—his dick rubs against my prostate and the pleasure starts to mix with the pain.

Jackson is grunting, one hand clenched hard on my hip and the other pressed firmly against my middle back like he’s trying to shove me flat on the bed. He’s really going hard now, jolting me forward with every slap of his hips against my ass. He’s mumbling something beneath the grunting; incoherent dirty talk that makes my skin crawl. You take my dick so good is not a sexy thing to hear when you’re not having a good time.

I want to finish and get the fuck out of here. Since he doesn’t seem inclined to do it, I take a hand off the bed and reach for my dick. Almost immediately, he presses between my shoulder blades and finally succeeds in pushing my face down onto the bed. The comforter is scratchy against my cheek, making me long for my own. Closing my eyes, I jack myself quickly; by some miraculous twist of fate, Jackson and I both come at the same time, and I feel a surge of delight when I see the mess I made of his bedspread. Have fun washing that, fucker.

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