Page 25 of Antidote

But I’m good enough for Malia.

I sit on the edge of the bed staring at her ass in those shorts as she puts my last shirt in the closet. It doesn’t do anything for me. Not one ounce of heat flushes through me at the sight or thought of being in it. And she lets me fuck it often, except it’s always to thoughts of Ollie and his ass. It’s pathetic, really.

I met Malia last year, and we hit it off pretty quickly. She’s nice and funny, thoughtful and romantic. She’s a lot of things that I truly don’t deserve. So tell me why I feel zero longing, no ache, no pain at the thought of not having her anymore. Tell me why I wouldn’t hate her if she chose someone else over me. I wouldn’t care. I wouldn’t want to strangle her with my bare hands.

Not the way I want to strangle him.

Yeah, we’re together, but above all, she and I are friends. It wouldn’t bother me in the slightest if we reverted to that, either. It wouldn’t hurt me, even though I feel like shit that it would hurt her.

Malia has it in her mind that I’m her future husband. She has told me that plenty of times before, and who am I to burst her little bubble? Maybe one day I’ll feel a spark between us. Maybe I’ll like our kisses. The sex. But that day isn’t today, and I have a feeling it won’t be any time soon.

Which is why I tense when Malia turns around with a glint in her eye that I recognize. Something that tells me she wants me to rail her, right here, right now.

Goddamn it.

Except just as she settles on my lap and begins to rub against my soft dick, I hear my mom screaming. I frown, tilting my head to listen and make sure I didn’t imagine it,. Malia scrambles off my lap, and I get up and rush down the stairs, taking them two at a time.

I pull the door open just to see my mom banging on her car’s window. My stomach drops to my ass, and my eyes fall to the still form in the driver’s seat, his head tilted up against the headrest, his mouth wide open, his eyes closed.

No.

“Hunter!” Her scream snaps me out of my daze, and I run to her side. “Help me!”

What the hell is going on?

My mom gets the door open, and I push her out of the way, needing to see if he’s alive. Needing to see if my nightmares have come true. “Blue?” I whisper in his ear, and he smiles. Anger spreads through me, through my bones, my fucking bone marrow, and I growl. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“W-what’s wrong, Green?” he asks, and I scowl. Clearly, he’s confused. Doesn’t he know he’s fucking dying?

“That’s it,” Mom barks. “I’m taking him to the hospital.”

“No!” Ollie moans, startling.

“Put him in the passenger seat,” she demands.

I shake my head, hating him more than I hated him all those years ago when he didn’t choose me. He continues not to choose me. But why isn’t he at least choosing himself?

“Fuck him,” I growl again. “I don’t want anything to do with him right now. Just fucking look at him. Let him die, Mom. He’s been going down that road for a long fucking time.”

“Shut your fucking mouth, Hunter Michael Hartman,” my mom snaps. “And help me help him.”

I huff while doing as she says, practically carrying Oliver out of the driver’s side. Ollie’s dead weight, his feet dragging on the concrete, and even though I’m a six-foot-three defenseman, I’m struggling with him. He’s not helping at all. He might as well not be alive. However, he’s gripping me like if he lets go of me he really will die, and that makes my heart squeeze painfully in my chest.

My eyes sting as I get him into the passenger side of the car, and even though he hurt me, I don’t actually want him to die. I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean what I said to my mom. I can only hope he didn’t hear it, especially since I won’t be apologizing for it either. So why are my hands trembling as I buckle his seatbelt? Why do I want to slap him and kiss him simultaneously? It’s not his fault he needs help. He needs help.

“What were you thinking, Oliver?” I ask him, cupping his face. “You really fucked up this time.”

“Sorry,” he whispers.

My thumb brushes his cheek, and I look into his sky-blue eyes, which have often brought me to my knees. Except they’re dull and lifeless, red too. It makes me hot all over—with anger. But I try to push it down. Maybe anger isn’t what he needs right now. Maybe if I’m gentle, he’ll see reason.

Oliver’s eyes tear up and he closes them, finally putting me out of my misery. I hate seeing him this way, broken.

“It’ll be okay,” I whisper back. I smile at him gently, hoping it eases some of the fear he must be feeling. I channel all the love I still have for him—buried fucking deep down—and try to convey it through my face, begging him to see it for what it is. Only it still doesn’t dissipate my anger—I still hate him right now, even when I know I can’t fully do it. He has to be scared. I know I am. Fucking shitless. “You will get help this time, baby.”

He groans. “Don’t call me that.”

That hurts, and I rear back momentarily, stunned that he had the balls to say that. “Stop telling me what to do,” I mutter, just as my mom gets in the car. I look away from her, scared she’ll see right through me, and slam the door, walking away.

---