Page 31 of Choke Up

"You fucking were!" he exclaims, a little too loudly. Loudly enough that the bathroom door opens, a cloud of steam billows out around the hulking figure of Gabe wearing nothing but a towel.

Holy fucking shit. Even from across the apartment, I can see the cut of each individual muscle, down to that ridiculous V, the bottom of which is blessedly covered by his towel. As much as I want to see what's happening down below, I'm pretty sure my head would explode. Both of them. At the same time.

Gabe's always been in good shape, but holy shitballs. He didn't look like that the last time I saw him without a shirt on, which was at the graduation party. I'd barely looked at him then, afraid I'd have to watch him make out with his bitch girlfriend and distracted by trying to hunt down my stranger. If he'd looked like that, I might have forgotten what I was doing altogether. Like right now, because I'm standing here drooling over my brother's best friend right in front of him, and I haven't heard a word they've said.

"W-what?" I say, shaking the fog from my brain and trying not to let the smell of his body wash infiltrate my last remaining brain cells.

"Gabe asked who fucked you up, and I said I was just waiting for you to tell me the same," Elliot says, waggling his eyebrows. “Was it Tripp?”

It seems the prospect that I might have gotten laid has woken him from his groggy state. Maybe it would be cute that he's so concerned if I wasn't so completely mortified. I like teasing Gabe over how protective he can be, but I don't want him knowing about my filthy hook up.

"Will you shut up?" I mutter under my breath.

"What? It's just Gabe. He's practically our brother, too."

Sigh.

"I'm not telling either of you shit," I deadpan. "May I please take a shower and borrow some clothes for the night? We all have class in the morning."

Elliot nods and goes into his room. I refuse to look at Gabe, choosing to study the pattern of the laminate floor until my brother emerges with a towel and a stack of clothes.

"Why do you need somewhere to stay?" Gabe asks. "Did someone hurt you? Is that why you look like… this?" he asks, and I can only imagine that he's referring to the state I'm in, but I can't look at him. He's too naked, and I'm too raw and exhausted.

"No one hurt me," I answer. "I just got locked out, is all."

"Alright," he says. His voice gets serious. "You're really okay, though?"

My gaze moves up to his, locking on his eyes that are more green than blue tonight. Instead of hard and angry like I'd expect him to be at being woken up in the middle of the night and it being heavily hinted that I've been out fucking around, they're soft and concerned.

"I'm okay," I assure him.

Gabe steps out of the bathroom, and I move toward it. Then everything sort of happens in slow motion. Elliot says something to Gabe about where he's been all night. And the realization hits me—I didn't wake Gabe up. He was in the shower when I got here. Because he just got in. Before I can brush it off with the assumption that he was probably out with his mysterious girlfriend, my eyes cut toward his body as we pass each other. A few scratch marks mar his golden skin behind his neck and…

There's a bite mark on his shoulder.

Everything turns to static when I step in to the bathroom and close the door behind me. The steam, heavy with Gabe's soapy, citrus scent, does crazy things to my brain as I run through every moment I've had with Johnny. All the moments I thought of Gabe but was convinced that wishful thinking was letting me shape my anonymous lover into the person I wished he was. I meet my reflection's gaze in the mirror, eyes tracing over my still-swollen lips and beard-burned skin. My hair is tangled and matted, held back by the headband I used as a blindfold. I touch my lips and close my eyes, taking a deep, shuddering breath.

It's him.

It's Gabe.

Elliot is annoyingly chipper when he wakes up, but his face falls when he takes one look at me.

"Bro, you look like shit."

"Thanks. Love you too."

He flips on the coffee pot, which I'm grateful for, because I know he doesn't usually drink coffee. It's usually reserved for the night after a rough party, but in the state I'm in, I might as well be hungover. I barely slept a wink. I don't know what to think or what to feel. I alternated between disbelief, elation, anger, and the desire to march into his room all night. But what would I do once I was in there? What would I say to him?

No, I need time to cool down. To get some sleep, to clear my head. What if I'm wrong?

I really don't think I am, though. The more I think about it, the more all the signs line up. There's very little doubt in my mind, and the doubt that is there is mostly just a product of my disbelief. Without it, I think I would have seen it earlier. I've kissed Gabe Rodgers. Touched him. He touched me.

Holy fuck.

But why all the secrecy? Why pretend to be someone else? Is he ashamed to be into me? Or is he not actually into me, and this is just some kind of game?

The bitter notes of strong coffee reach my psyche, and I blink my eyes, refocusing on the here and now. Elliot is holding a steaming mug out to me. "You look like you're going to be sick."

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