Page 25 of Someone Like You

That wasn’t supposed to happen.

I had meant to just…talk about it. The elephant in the room. Our obvious attraction for each other that I wasn’t ready to act on. Just talk, that was it. Get it out in the open, see if he really was feeling the same way, see if maybe he’d be interested in…something physical, down the line. But instead, I found myself pole-vaulting right over the line I’d tried to draw for myself, right into territory that my desperate dick wanted to land in.

Brody had been squirming over on the other end of the couch, and even with the laptop—or maybe because of the laptop—I could see that he was hard. I could see the way he kept looking at me, kept rubbing his hand over himself. And I couldn’t take it anymore—I had ended up bypassing any kind of conversation and skipping straight to the good part.

Even though I was terrified of being touched like that, the need to see Brody touch himself, to hear what he sounded like when he was losing control, to catalogue every facial expression, every moan and pant and grunt when he came, had overridden any kind of sense I thought I’d had.

Brody coming beside me on the couch had unlocked something in my depraved mind. Something that had been shoved way down deep, something I wasn’t sure would ever be resurrected. A single sexual encounter with Brody had done what no one—or nothing—else could.

And it was going to haunt my dreams—or, more accurately, my fantasies—because he’d said my name in a guttural growl that had ricocheted deep in my balls and had me coming faster than I ever had in my entire life. God, watching him had been the single most erotic thing I’d ever seen. The way he expertly stroked his cock—which was huge, by the way—and how his abdominal muscles kept clenching when he twisted his palm over the head.

He’d destroyed me without even touching me.

And then he’d asked—begged—to touch me. And I’d done what I do best—ran out of there and left him soaking in his own release.

I had never hated myself more.

With a growl of frustration, I snapped my textbook shut and flopped back on the bed. It was Monday, and I hadn’t heard a word from Brody. To be fair, I hadn’t tried to reach out either. But still, I wished he would say something. Anything. I’d told him I wanted to get him out of my mind, but by doing what we’d done, it had only seemed to strengthen whatever hold he had over me. Maybe, like quicksand, the more I struggled, the more I resisted, he’d only pull me deeper. If I gave in, if I let him touch me, maybe then I would see that there was nothing to obsess over.

“Dude, what is happening over there? You look like a despondent teenage girl. You sound like one, too, with all the heavy sighing going on.”

I turned my head toward Jordan, who wasn’t even looking at me, was typing something on his laptop as he sat propped against the headboard of his bed.

I sighed. “Nothing,” I said. “Do you still need a ride today?”

“Duh. Do I look like I sprouted wheels where my legs are? I’m not an autobot.”

“Well don’t make me wait like you did last week, I was almost late to class because you couldn’t decide which color scarf looked best with your eyes. The answer is none. It’s always none. Your eyes are the color of poop.”

Jordan gasped. “Well we can’t all look like cute little Keebler elves, can we!”

“Just be ready at twelve.”

“I will be. I’ll show you.”

He did not, in fact, show me. An hour later, when Jordan wasn’t downstairs at twelve, I found him changing scarves in front of the mirror and grumbling to himself.

“Just wear the purple one. Purple looks great with poop.”

“Fuck you, Isaac!” But he wore the purple one, and then we were on our way to campus.

Before we parted ways, Jordan said, “I’m gonna ride with Josh later, so don’t wait up for me and my shitty eyes.”

Sometimes it felt like we were twelve, not twenty two, but I really loved Jordan. He was the first person in my life that I had truly connected with, and in the four years we’d known each other now, he’d become like a brother to me. He was always there for me, and I appreciated that more than I could ever put into words.

Plus, he made a mean pound cake.

Class was a drag. I had two back to back—a four hundred level writing course and a math elective I’d put off until now because I loathed the subject—and by the time I was out, I was utterly exhausted. But I still had a four hour shift to get throughat the bookstore that started soon, so that was where I was headed.

When I rounded the corner of the library, I stopped dead in my tracks. Someone behind me bumped into me, practically sent me to the ground, mumbledsorryand kept walking.

But all my attention was on Brody. I could see him across the little open garden with a fountain in the middle. He was wearing his red flannel coat, one hand holding the strap of his backpack over one shoulder, black hair looking shaggy and a little tousled. He was talking to another guy, smiling at him, and I was floored by the overwhelming rage that shot through me when the guy reached out and wrapped his hand around Brody’s bicep. His fingers squeezed, then played with the fabric of his coat, gliding down toward his forearm.

Irrational anger flooded my system, and my mind was a ruthless flurry of furious, shouting thoughts. Thoughts that had no basis in reality or logic or sanity. My feet were taking me toward the duo before anything rational could reach me.

I hadn’t even touched Brody yet, and here this motherfucker was, tugging at the sleeve of his coat, rubbing his hand up his arm. I wanted to chop his fingers off one by one. I wanted to bite a hole through his wrist and kick him in the dick. How fuckingdarehe!

Brody saw me coming. At first, he looked surprised, which quickly shifted to something that was maybe happiness or excitement, and then, the longer he stared at me, he looked confused. A little worried.

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