Page 11 of Lust

Fuck. Of course he did.

“Just some growing pains.”

“You like your roommate?”

“Yeah, Alexei’s cool. My only friend here right now. Some guys aren’t great. And others don’t seem very friendly.”

I noticed this ramped up after my chat with Brad that morning in the kitchen, so I’m wondering if he spread some rumor or if Seth is running around performing his wizardry on our peers.

“Are you being bullied? You think you need to talk to an administrator?”

I hear the concern in his voice, as he surely reflects on the issues I had in the past.

“This isn’t like when I was younger,” I insist, and at his suspicious gaze, I confess, “But yeah, I might need to. Better than using fists.” That’s the right thing to do, and if there wasn’t this fucked-up element to it that I don’t yet understand, maybe I would have already talked to someone about it. “Sorry, but can we talk about something else?”

Dan reminds me that if I’m threatened, I need to report the incident to administrators, if not the police, before embracing a subject change. We talk about this conference he’s looking forward to attending in a couple of months because it’s in Hawaii. And once we’re all caught up, I say, “I do have a little work I need to finish up before class. Then I have a pickup game.”

“Pickup game?”

“I’m playing soccer with some of the other students.”

“Soccer? This hasn’t come up.”

“Just a way to meet new people. Alexei talked me into it last week.”

Dan chuckles. “Sounds good. I’m glad you’re getting out and socializing, even if some of the kids are being assholes. Fuck, I shouldn’t say that. I mean—dammit.”

Dan’s worked so hard to stop cursing since Mom’s death, when he decided he needed to be more of a positive role modelfor me. It’s sweet of him, and we get a good laugh out of his fumble, then say our goodbyes.

I pack up and head out to Brit Lit, where Prof. Strauss lectures on the reading from last night, and we have a quick class discussion. After class lets out, as I’m passing his desk, he says, “Mr. Waters, could I chat with you for a minute?”

I approach his desk, waiting as he types on his laptop. I’m wondering how long this will take, but a minute later he stops and addresses me. “These short responses I assign in the first month are designed to help me gauge where my students are at, and I must say, I was surprised when I read your recent one.”

I’ve always gotten props for reports and essays, so I’m ready for him to give me the sort of compliments I’m used to, when he says, “Yours was…substandard.”

“What?”

“Overly simplistic. Like you were rushing. Or not really thinking it through. I expect more from my students. I know you’re a transfer, so I suspect that has something to do with this. And I don’t just speak for my own class—I can’t imagine this was sufficient at Emory.”

He’s so matter-of-fact that I’m running back through what I thought was a sophisticated philosophical argument about God’s fucked-up design of his garden inParadise Lost. But clearly, I was mistaken.

“I’m sorry. Could I have a chance to rework it?”

“That’s not how my class works, Mr. Waters. The grade you get is the grade you earned. I just wanted to give you a heads-up because you have another essay response for next week, and I’m really hoping you’ll put the time in that the assignment deserves.”

I spent an hour on that. I thought it was good. But now I’m like…fuck me. It’s like the whole fucking school’s against me.

The interaction really puts me in a mood, and though I’ve been dreading this pickup game all week, it’s nice to have an excuse to let off some steam. I’m not a soccer player, but I’m impressed with how quickly I pick it up, mostly to piss off Brad Henning.

I’m still a fast fucker like I was when I trained for track. Guess all those years of desperately trying to run from my pain paid off, even if they never made the pain go away.

I use my speed to my advantage throughout the game, noticing Brad somehow manages to change positions so he can play defense to my offense every chance he gets. I return the favor, and during a play, as one of his teammates kicks him the ball, he takes off with it, calling back to me, “Come on, Pretty Boy. Show me what you got.”

Damn, it doesn’t take much for him to get me on edge, and I’m right on his ass when Alexei comes from the side. Brad looks like he’s about to dodge Alexei before he kicks the ball between Alexei’s legs and goes the other way so that I wind up slamming into him at full speed.

He’s like a brick wall, stopping my body, but my leg kicks under his and he trips up, grabbing me as we both tumble to the ground. As we land, his weight crushes down on top of me.

“Fuck,” I groan, but even with the pain, as our bodies are mashed up against each other, there’s a rush of sensation. Not as intense as when he grabbed my wrist the week before, but still fucking electric, exhilarating. It drives me so wild, I can’t even bring myself to get the fucking guy off me. I’m gasping, and I know it’s not because he knocked the wind out of me.

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