Page 97 of Forever We Fall

While I wait, I think about my best friend, my guy, the person I don’t deserve to have in my life. In particular, I think about how Nate begged him to pound his ass. It was a week after that everyone came back from Christmas break. The wrestling season was long behind us, Nate’s final wrestling season at Willoughby Ridge. I remember how good Hota's bare chest and hanging pants looked as he plowed into Nate’s mouth as punishment for begging for what he couldn’t have.

Hota’s words, not mine.

I’m surprised with Nate and Miss Booth coming to our room on rotation once every couple of weeks, never together, that Hota hasn’t really and truly fucked either of them.

He’s still a virgin.

The dirtiest, most experienced virgin who’s ever existed, I’m sure.

I have dreams about taking his virginity. Both diving into his skin and allowing him to dive into mine. Those are the nights I wake up screaming.

The dreams always start perfectly, then devolve into horror. I’m chained and being dragged away from him. Or he’s chained and my uncle…I can’t even think it in the daylight.

The door opens behind me and in walk the detectives I remember from last time, Wentzel and Baymain. Behind the two drab men strolls a woman in a navy pantsuit. Her hair is pulled into a low bun, and her shoes are sharply pointed pumps that add several inches to her height. They put her taller than the men and right around my height.

She takes the headmaster’s seat, eyeing me all the way. Wentzel sits next to me while Baymain props himself against the wall.

I stay relaxed back into my seat with my elbows resting on the arms of the chair and my fingers entwined over my middle.

“Mr. Judge?” The woman has a posh London accent that I recognize from the posh London kids whose parents dumped them at this school. There’s something shrewd about her. It could be the rod that makes up her spine or the gleam in her eyes.

“Yes.” I nod.

“Sorry it’s taken us so long to get back to you about your uncle.” Wentzel turns toward me. His level gaze is soft, meant to make me feel comfortable for sharing.

“I’m sure you have been doing all you can to find him.” I incline my head toward him, as though I accept his safe space.

None of them are on my side.

“What’s with your voice?” She crinkles her nose at my raspy and broken voice.

“They say grief can do it.” I shrug.

“You don’t seem distraught over his disappearance,” the woman states matter-of-factly.

“Should I be?” I shrug. “He’s an adult. He can do what he wants. I don’t blame him for taking off. He didn’t know about me, and I didn’t know about him until after my parents and brother died. He made it clear he wasn’t cut out to be a guardian.”

“How so?” she demands.

“Who are you?” I ignore her question just to piss her off. I’ve seen Hota do it masterfully to professors and students alike.

A harsh breath leaves her throat. She straightens, pulls a file from her bougie bag, and smacks it onto the table. “Detective Inspector Rose Dean. CID out of Oxford.”

The town of Banbury might have its own dedicated criminal investigation department, but the fact that sharp shoes was here from Oxford told me they didn’t have one robust enough to deal with this case.

“Thank you.” I nod. “Detective Inspector Dean, my uncle ignored me for the majority of the time I was ‘invading his space’ as he put it.”

“And the other times?” she prompts.

“The rest was spent cursing my father for having ever been born. It was not a pleasant time, and we did not talk beyond the necessities. There was no bonding over tea. And if I ever got tea in his house, it was cold and grainy.”

“That’s child abuse.” Baymain snorts from his spot against the wall.

Wentzel chuckles. I don’t and neither does Dean.

“Did you ever wish ill upon your uncle?” she asks, cutting off the laughter.

“Sure.” I shrug. “You wish ill upon the guy who cuts you off in traffic. Why wouldn’t I upon the guy who talks shit about my dead dad?”

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