Page 17 of Choke Up

“I feel like I just used you, and now I have to go.” That post orgasm clarity is creeping up on me, and I know I need to walk away right now. It's killing me. Reality is certainly setting in that we could get caught, or that he could figure me out, but more than anything, I'm realizing that I don't want this to be over. And it needs to be.

"Leave the mess, I'll come back and clean up later," I say against his lips. "I'll leave my shirt on the door handle so you have something clean to wear, but we should both head home to avoid any questions. I'm sorry I?—"

"It’s okay," he says, pressing his lips more firmly against mine. I know Ellis well enough to hear the slight sting of pain in his acceptance, but he kisses me until I step away. I pull my t-shirt over my head. It's not a team shirt with my name on it or anything, it's just something I picked up today at the fair. I can't let him walk out of here soaked in cum, as much as I enjoy the imagery.

"I'll message you," I rasp, before opening the door and slipping out.

I hesitate for a moment, then walk slowly backward, waiting for him to turn on the bathroom light. It stays off, even after I open the door and then close it loudly before silently slipping into a small closet. He doesn't turn the light on, but I hear what sounds like his body sliding down the wall and a light thud as I imagine his head falling back. My ears prick, heart breaking as I listen for what I expect to be sounds of sadness or distress, trying to come up with a plan to comfort him without him knowing it's me or getting him caught either. But what I hear instead is the soft sound of laughter.

"Jesus fucking Christ," he says, loudly enough that I can hear that his face is buried in his hands.

And he laughs.

CHAPTER 5

ELLIS

"I fucking hate you," I grumble as my brother lowers a batting helmet over my head.

"Aww, come on. The uniform looks good on you," Elliot says, palming the helmet and shaking my head around like you would a puppy. "You're officially part of the team now."

I scoff and swat him away. "Oh yeah? Does that mean I can move into the athletic dorms? Is there a scholarship in this? Hell, Elliot, is there anything in this for me at all? Why am I doing this?"

"Because I'm your favorite twin brother and you love me, and the team needed someone. You've been locked in the art studio your entire fall break, anyway."

"Not true. I came to your stupid poker game last weekend."

Elliot shoots a finger gun at me. "Oh yeah, that's right. And you lost a bet, so you have to help us out."

"I swear you cheated, and you got all your team buddies in on it."

"It's not my fault you have no poker face."

I grumble some more about him being a cheater, and he throws his arm around me as several of his teammates arrive in the locker rooms. There are cheers and patronizing pats on the shoulder coming at me from all angles, to which I grit my teeth and give them the closest semblance of a grin back. Elliot and I arrived early to make sure we could find an extra uniform that fit me, so I'm thankfully dressed and able to slip out of the locker room before it all becomes too much. I catch myself staring at each guy that walks in, wondering if they could be him. I don't want my inability to keep my curiosity to myself to get me in any hot water. It's bad enough that I got roped into being the equipment manager, aka bat boy, for the baseball team's first intra-squad scrimmages. Thankfully, there are likely to be very few people in the stands since this is just a scrimmage. Sometimes the diehards and sponsors come out to assess the talent, but not many students come to watch these pre-season practice games.

Huffing, I head to the field to make sure everything is ready for both sides. By the time the players make their way onto the field for warmups, I've tucked myself into the shadows on the far side of the home dugout with a sketchbook, losing myself in the pencil drawing of myself wrapped around a dark figure.

"Hey, Little E."

I snap my sketchbook shut, scowling up at Gabe as he enters the dugout with his arms full of his catcher's gear. He drops the equipment on the bench and walks over to me. As casually as possible, I put my sketchbook to the side, scolding myself for drawing in public. I should know better, I do know better, but I have little to no control when I get lost in a drawing. And lately, my drawings have taken on a distinctly sexual tone that I am absolutely not interested in sharing with anyone. Except maybe Johnny. In the six weeks since the party, we've shared so much with each other that I think he might know me—truly know me—better than anyone has before.

"Drawing anything good?"

"What? Uh, no. Just doodling," I tell him, hoping against hope that it's dark enough to hide the way my face is heating.

"Can I see?"

So he can hold it up for everyone to see, like the last time he got his hands on one of my sketchbooks? Yeah, hard pass. I've learned my lesson. Considering the sneers my innocent caricatures of Elliot and Gabe's high school teammates got me, I imagine that my semi-nude shadow monster porn wouldn’t be received well.

"You need to stop calling me Little E," I say, deflecting the conversation to yet another lost cause. I stand and slip past him before he can crowd me and force me to hand over the sketchbook.

"Your brother used to not like being called 'Hopey’, but if the uniform says it, that's what people are going to call you," he says, chuckling.

"It doesn't," I tell him, turning around to show the back of the jersey. Since this is someone else's old uniform, the back says Smythe or something like that.

Gabe laughs. "Stay still," he says softly, stalking toward me. Immediately, my anxiety goes into overdrive, wrestling with my flight or fight instincts, and I freeze instead of doing anything. His dark gaze has me locked in place, my breath catching at the way he seems to move in slow motion. When he reaches me, he stands close enough that I have to crane my neck to look up at him. His expression is unreadable. But I've spent the past few months in LaLa land, pretending my anonymous lover is him, and now my brain interprets it as something close to desire. His hands come to rest on my shoulders, gently turning me around so my back is facing him. Gooseflesh prickles the skin at the back of my neck when he gently brushes some of the hair that has come loose from my ponytail to the side. I know I'm imagining things when I swear I can feel the heat of his breath on my skin, and the smell of cinnamon tickles my nose.

This isn't real.

---