Page 47 of Proof Of Life

“Riggs is going to be so proud. That, and one more support group ought to get you a brand new leg.”

My black mood gives a whole new meaning to the word disassociation. I feel completely detached—from my surroundings, from my thoughts, from life. After Brandt dragged me to support group, where I endured the Bitches who Stitch for sixty fucking long-ass minutes, listening to Stiles gripe and moan about job hunting, hearing Jax drone on and on about his ex, and the cherry on the shit sundae? Thirty minutes of McCormick whining that he can’t find a date, not even if he fucking paid them.

Is that what I have to look forward to? Paid escorts? Will I have to tip them extra to stomach my stump?

I’m buried beneath the covers in my bed, and it seems like a metaphor for my life. That’s where it all started to spiral: when I was buried under the rubble. Now I’m buried under the weight of the repercussions of that day. I haven’t eaten, I haven’t gotten up to take a piss, and I haven’t showered. And to be honest, I can smell myself. The heat my body is producing under the covers is like a Dutch oven, making my BO smell worse than it is. Or maybe it really is that bad, I don’t know, and I don’t fucking care. My stomach growls and a pang of hunger tightens my gut. I ignore it, like I’ve been ignoring it for the last four hours.

The mattress shifts, and Brandt cuddles right up to me like a koala hugging a tree.

“Are you hungry? I can make you something to eat.” … “Can I get you some Tylenol?” … “How about a shower?” …

I can’t answer. It would only lead to a conversation that I have no energy for.

“Wes, I know you’re in there, somewhere. I just need…I need proof of life.”

Proof of life. I promised him. I promised him I would check in with him every day, and by God, he’s held me to it. “I’m here.” My voice is muffled by the covers.

“Just for today, Wes. We’ve just got to get through today. Tomorrow doesn’t matter. Not yet. Can you hang on for today?”

“Yeah,” I croak. And then he’s rustling the covers, making the mattress bounce under his weight, and next thing I know, his solid body is nestled up against mine under the blanket, and he’s tangling his cold feet with mine, shocking me out of my stupor for the first time in hours. “Fuck, get some socks on!”

“I’m waiting for you to knit me some.”

Then he’s going to be waiting until his feet freeze and fall off. I’m officially the world's worst knitter. “What are you doing?”

“If you won’t come out, then I’m coming to you. You want to stay buried under these covers all day? Fine with me. I just want to hold you.”

He rubs his cold, bare feet over the hair on my leg, and I’m dying to fucking kick him, for touching me with his icy soles, and for smothering me with concern. Why can’t he just go away and let me be miserable? Why does he have to care?

“So,” he runs the tip of his finger down the nape of my neck, making the fine hairs stand at attention. “I was watching this documentary on the History channel, and they said the Leopard is a better tank than the Abrams because it runs off diesel instead of jet fuel. Can you believe that?”

“That’s fucking bullshit!” I kick the covers off and roll to face him, propping up on my elbow. The absurdity of what he’s saying has me fired up in a hot second. “The Leopard is shit. The Abrams has superior mobility, technology, and firepower! What kind of shitty show were you watching?”

Brandt grins, looking completely satisfied with himself. “Gotcha.”

I straddle my leg over his waist and pin his shoulders to the mattress. “Say it! Say the Abrams M1A2 is the superior tank.”

He’s laughing too hard to say it. His full peach lips with that damn beauty mark above them are stretched wide on his square jaw. His deep blue eyes are twinkling with mirth, framed by thick dark lashes so long they look almost absurdly feminine on him.

My chest expands with warmth and my stomach churns with heat, not sexual heat, but with feeling. The fugue fog I was in has dissipated, and all of my senses are coming back online at once, and I can’t focus on anything but how beautiful he is when he laughs, and that he lied about a goddamn tank to get me to wake up out of my stupor because he fucking cares so much.

I'm having a spiritual awakening at the oddest time, but not about God. About Brandt. Brandt is my religion. He’s the only idol I want to kneel for and worship. The only one deserving of my reverence and respect. He’s earned my trust and my undying loyalty, and slowly but surely, he’s beginning to earn my love.

“Say it,” I insist, keeping him pinned down.

“I don’t know, the Russian T14 might give it a run for its money,” he sputters through his gut-wrenching hilarity.

Tears have gathered in his eyes from laughing so hard, and I can’t hold back another moment. I dip down and kiss his mouth. Just a quick peck on his lips, but it’s enough to make him sober immediately. His eyes, wet now, become wide with shock, and he stares up at me like I’ve grown two heads. I swallow, feeling apprehensive and awkward, and second-guessing my impulse. I pushed him too far.

Or not.

Brandt’s fingers grasp my head, tangling with my hair, and he pulls me back down to him. This time, when our lips meet, it’s not quick, and it’s definitely not a chaste peck. His mouth opens for me and my tongue tangles with his in a slow, explorative glide that sends shivers through my gut and makes my balls tighten. His mouth feels warm and velvety, and I can taste the sweetness of the soda he was drinking.

He laps at my tongue, stroking it, suckling at it, like he would the head of my cock, which, of course, makes it hard as a fucking rock. And he feels that, too, because it’s pressing against his—which is equally as hard—and he rocks his hips against mine, pushing them together. The delicious pressure makes my body light up with need and I push back, seeking more friction. The cotton covering my shaft rubs roughly over my sensitive skin, adding to the jumble of sensations igniting my libido.

The kiss goes on and on, and I never want it to end. Parting my mouth from his would be a loss I can’t bear. Delving deeper, I stroke the walls of his cheeks, gloss over his teeth, even map the roof of his palate. His stubble rubs my face raw, but I welcome the burn. He laughs into my mouth, probably thinking I’m the world's worst kisser.

It’s okay, let him. I plan to do this more than just once. Anything that feels this good, I plan to do every day for the rest of my life—or as long as he’ll let me. His kiss is like a drug, like a shot of morphine or an antidepressant that makes all the endorphins in my body light up like fireworks on the Fourth of July. I feel alive. I feel good. No, great.

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