Page 24 of Shots on Net

He pulls out with the same care with which he’s done everything else, and I bite my lip to keep from making a sound. The second his hand is removed, I push back onto all fours. This is always the worst part of one-night stands: the aftermath. I don’t have the stomach for it tonight, though, so I don’t delay in swinging my legs off the bed and reaching for my boxers.

“That was fun.” Jackson leans over and grazes his teeth on my shoulder. I put a hand on his chest and shove him back.

“Don’t,” I warn.

Standing, I pull the rest of my clothes on hastily and check to make sure my phone and keys are still in my pants pockets. I left my wallet in the car. After checking I have everything, I turn to see Jackson leaned back on the bed, casual and sated. The used condom is laying on the floor next to the bed; fucking disgusting.

“I don’t suppose we have to pretend that we’ll see each other again, do we?” He asks, smirking. The way he’s leaning makes his shoulder muscles and biceps bulge in a way I’d normally like. Right now, the sight only makes me feel vaguely ill.

“Nope, we don’t.” I confirm, and fling open his bedroom door so violently, it crashes into the wall and knocks a frame off of his dresser. I don’t bother stopping to apologize, but leave the apartment as quickly as I can. I feel disgusting—like I’ve spent the last half hour covered in maggots.

It’s worse by the time I get home. Desperate for a shower, I take the stairs two at a time and slam the bathroom door behind me. I hear the faint call of Zeke’s voice from downstairs, but I ignore him. The spray of hot water feels heavenly against my skin, and I do nothing but stand under the stream for several minutes. Eventually, I grab the body wash and go through the motions of cleaning another person off of my body. When I reach between my legs, I flinch as the soap touches the raw skin.

I stay in the shower until the water runs cold and my skin prunes. I’m not sure what’s wrong with me; this isn’t my first Grindr hook-up, nor the worst one. Ignoring the churning in my stomach and the lingering pain in my pelvis, I tell myself to suck it up as I leave the bathroom. Zeke is seated on my bed, waiting for me, and I’m grateful for the caution that had me wrapping a towel around my waist before opening the door.

“Hey!” He says, smiling at me.

“Hi,” I mumble, turning my back to him and moving toward my dresser to grab some clothes.

“How was your night?”

“Fine.” I tug boxers and sweatpants on before discarding the towel. When I reach for a hoodie, I’ve yet to turn around and look at him. “How was yours?”

“Nothing special. Hey, Carter?” Something in his voice has me peeking at him. He’s not smiling, but watching me closely. Our eyes meet and continues. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.” My voice is harsh; I want him to drop this line of questioning.

He’s sitting on my bed in an almost identical pose to the way Jackson was sprawled earlier: hands placed behind him on the mattress, holding him up in a casual recline. In Zeke’s case, however, there is no evidence of muscles and the sharp angle of his shoulders make his collarbone protrude. His dirty blonde hair is messy on one side, like he was sleeping on it. I want to comb it with my fingers so badly, I have to clench my hand into a fist to hold myself back.

“Something’s wrong,” he presses. It’s maddening. How the fuck does he know something is wrong? Because it’s my usual reaction to unwanted situations, I don’t fight the anger back when it rises to the surface.

“Well, if you must know, my ass fucking hurts because I just got railed by a dude I met on Grindr.” I stare at him, aggressively, but he remains infuriatingly impassive. He just stares at me with those huge fucking eyes. I blow out a hard breath, trying to dispel some of the anger. It’s not Zeke’s fault, and yelling at him will only make me feel worse. “I usually don’t like to bottom, that’s all.”

I’m still standing awkwardly by my closet, while Zeke sits on the end of my bed and faces me. He sits forward, resting his hands in his lap and twisting his fingers together.

“Did he force you?” He asks, voice steady and eyes unwavering on mine. There is no hint of a smile on his usually happy face.

“No, Jesus, of course not.”

“Why were you…bottoming,” he stumbles slightly, over the verbiage, “if you don’t like it, then?”

“It's not that I don't like...I don’t fucking know. Because the guys who want to hook up with me are always toppy, and it’s not like I can say oh hey, never mind, I’m just going to get dressed and go unless I can be on top.”

“Can’t you?”

“Can’t I what?”

“You said it’s not like you can change your mind and leave. But…you can, right?” He squints at me, hands clenched together tightly in his lap. “You can. You can always say stop if you don’t want to do something.”

“Yeah, I know, that isn’t—listen, let’s just forget about this, okay?” I walk around to the side of the bed, conscious of Zeke’s eyes following me as he turns to keep me in sight. The mattress shifts as I climb up and put my back against the wall; I run my palm over the comforter. Adjusting my hips, I try to find a comfortable position. Apparently, I do a poor job of hiding my wince at the twinge of pain because Zeke rises and whirls to face me.

“Are you hurt?” He asks, indignantly. The tips of his ears are red, from embarrassment or anger, I can’t tell.

“No, just a little sore.” More than a little, but I’m not going to tell him that. “Not enough prep, that’s all.”

“Do you need me to take you to the doctor?”

I close my eyes, rubbing my hand over the bedspread once more. What I wouldn’t give to be able to turn the lights off and go to bed right now—end this miserable day. When I open them, Zeke is still there, fuming like a pint-sized thundercloud.

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