Page 33 of Antidote

I never noticed the similarities between them before, but it makes perfect sense. She might not look exactly like him, but they have the same blue eyes and even similarly shaped lips. It’s not that he looks girly—he doesn’t. But there are soft qualities to him. And evidently, I’ve been trying to fill a void with Malia. It’s a damn shame I haven’t been able to. I don’t even find her attractive. From an objective standpoint, I can admit she’s pretty. But it doesn’t do anything for me. That is what pisses me off. Because I wish it did.

Jerking my length faster, I bite on my bottom lip to keep my sounds in.

I close my eyes and I can see him clear as day—highlight reels. As if it were happening in real-time. His full lips wrapped around my cock, taking me to the back of his throat. The way he swallows around my length, making me see stars. My hands in his hair, tugging at the soft strands. My hips coming up off the bed as I seek my pleasure in his wet warmth.

Fuck.

My nostrils flare with the effort of keeping my moans in, and I bite my lip hard so as not to let them out, but a whimper still escapes me as warmth rushes down my spine and my cum spills onto my fist. My chest heaves with the effort to breathe, and my clean hand finds the edge of the vanity as I try to get my shit together. Just as I’m about to clean up, the door opens and Malia strolls in. I tense as her eyes are on my fist. My cum-covered hand.

Self-hatred fills my veins and my skin prickles. I don’t want to do this anymore. Get off to thoughts of him. I shouldn’t still feel this way about him. I truly hate him, but a part of me still feels deeply. Clearly. But I’m determined to fight that very tiny part of me. It’s basically non-existent. It’s not my fault I can only pleasure myself to thoughts of him.

Right?

Malia closes the door behind her and walks right to me, cheeks red. It’s like she’s embarrassed about this, but still, she reaches out and grabs my wrist. Before I can ask what she’s doing, she brings my hand to her lips and licks off my cum, cleaning me up. I flinch, feeling no arousal from it. Rather, it feels weird and gross. But I don’t say anything, instead, I plaster on the fakest smile I possess. I know she can tell, though. We have spent enough time together to be able to tell that much.

“Why do you have to come to the bathroom to finish?” she asks me softly, and I close my eyes. I really, really don’t want to do this tonight. How do I explain this to her without hurting her feelings? It’s impossible. “Why do you never come with me?”

“It’s not you, Malia.” My heart pounds like a drum as I try to think of an excuse. Any excuse. “I just sometimes have a hard time coming.” I feel myself flush at what she might be speculating about me. But her thinking my dick doesn’t work properly is better than assuming I don’t like women. “Fuck, I’m sorry.”

She swallows hard and shakes her head. “Hey, it’s okay.” She gives me her own fake smile and steps out of the way so I can wash my hands. “No big deal.”

“Can I just have a minute?” I whisper as I turn the knob to stop the water in the sink. “I’ll be right there.”

“Of course.” Malia clears her throat. “I’ll be in bed.”

I nod, and she exits quietly. As soon as the door is shut, my shoulders deflate. That was so damn close. What the hell was I thinking? I can’t deny that’s the hardest I’ve come in a long time. Is it because he’s right next door? Is it messing with my head?

“Of course it is,” I mutter. “He’s always fucking with me.”

I head back to bed, where Malia is waiting for me. She’s not sleeping—much to my dismay. I guess I’m not lucky enough for that. I face the wall and close my eyes, putting the palm of my hand against it for whatever reason. Maybe it’s my subconscious hoping I can reach him. Maybe I’m just a dumbass. But having him this close again…I don’t know if I can take it. It was hard enough having to live without him for years. This is going to be torture.

“You should try to get some rest,” Malia tells me softly, her hand touching my hair. She runs her fingers through the strands, helping me relax slightly. He used to always do this, too—stop. Fucking stop it. “You have practice early in the morning. It’s already past midnight.”

“Goddamn it,” I mutter. “Alright, good night.”

“Good night, babe.”

I grimace. I’ve always hated that nickname. It doesn’t feel right—then again, nothing ever does. But I don’t want to think about that right now.

Unfortunately for me, sleep never comes. All I can think about is how much I hate myself. For still thinking of him. For still craving him. For not hating him enough to stop myself.

But I also think about how much I do hate him. How I wish I could punch his pretty face all over again for fucking everything up. I can’t be weak for him. I have to stay strong. But I need him out of my apartment in order to do that.

My alarm goes off at five in the morning and I get up, my body sluggish from exhaustion. Malia sleeps right through it, not even noticing the blaring sound. I quickly turn it off though, not wanting to wake her. Mostly because I don’t want to face her after the words we exchanged just a few hours ago.

After getting ready in my living room and gathering my duffel bag, I stop with my hand on the doorknob. My body and mind are at war with each other, and I don’t really know who will win. All I know is that I’m suddenly standing in front of Oliver’s room with a spoon in my hand—to unlock his door, just as I used to do when we were younger.

I push the door open slightly, enough to see him, though not enough to let the light from the living area wash over his face. Still, he appears peaceful. Lips parted as he breathes in steadily. His hair is slightly mussed, and his abs are on display. The sheets are covering his lower body—barely. I can make out his shape over the sheets, and it causes my mouth to water.

And that just makes me hate myself more.

I walk away, not bothering to close the door. Even though that will surely give me away, I leave the spoon on the kitchen island and grab my duffel bag. Running a hand down my face, I groan and leave the apartment.

Honestly, I don’t know what to do with myself anymore.

I need him out of here.

The light streams in through the blinds, illuminating my face and making me grimace. Today is the first day of school, and I’m determined to make the most of it by spending at least three hours at the studio. With this being my senior year, I thankfully know where everything is. The Art building is where I take all my classes, and that’s only a five-minute walk from here, which is perfect since I don’t have a car. Dad didn’t want me driving under the influence, and he still doesn’t trust that I’ll stay clean. No one has any faith in me, not that I can blame them after what happened back in May. But it still stings nonetheless.

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