Page 128 of Keeping 13

I gasped. “So you went out and got your dick pierced?”

He shrugged. “It’s actually kind of genius if you think about it.”

“Gibs, you voluntarily allowed someone to stick a needle through your penis,” I said, gaping at the piercing on the underside of his shaft. “That’s not genius, lad, that’s lunacy.”

“It’s not so bad,” he said in an upbeat tone, stroking the crown of his dick. “It’s almost healed, and it looks a lot better when I’m hard—”

“Don’t you dare pull on your dick in front of me!” I warned him. “What the hell is wrong with you? I don’t want to see you hard!”

“You wanted to know my plan,” he huffed, tucking himself back into his jocks. “So I showed you my frenum piercing.”

Shaking my head, I hissed, “Frenum?”

“Yeah.” He nodded eagerly. “Like a Jacob’s ladder without the ladder.”

“What…how…” I gaped at him. “Are you planning onaddingto it?”

“No,” he replied. “Not for a while, at least.”

“You’re fucking insane,” I choked out. “Deranged, even. And you’ve scarred me for life.”

“I’ve scarredyoufor life? Yeah.Sure,” he scoffed. “I showed you a piece of body art, lad. You showed me your gangrened ball sac.”

“For the last time, I didn’t have fucking gangrene,” I snapped. “I had a torn adductor.”

“Whatever you say, lad.” Laughing, Gibsie sauntered out of his room with me trailing after him, still visually traumatized. “But those were the most discolored balls I’ve ever seen in my life.”

“I hate you,” I grumbled, hobbling down the staircase after him. “I hope you know that.”

“And I love you, too,” he snickered.

“Is it sore?” I asked, still grimacing at the thought.

“Nah. It’s just heavier. It’s taking a bit of getting used to.”

“Ah, shite…”

“Boys, have a bit of respect,” Gibsie’s mother ordered when we thundered into the sitting room to say goodbye to her. “The Angelus is on.”

Grimacing, Gibsie and I both blessed ourselves and mumbled off the prayers imbedded inside of us since birth as the familiar church bell rang loudly on the television. Sadhbh Allen was a religious woman, and for one solid minute, there would be no talking permitted while we waited, heads bowed, for the signal of the 6:01 news to come on.

“Now,” Mrs. Allen said, muting the television when the news came on. Walking toward us with her giant white Persian cat in her arms, she smiled brightly. “How was school?”

“Fine,” we both replied in unison.

“Johnny.” She flashed me a warm smile. “How are you feeling since Dublin, pet?”

“I’m grand, thanks,” I replied, offering a smile. I stepped forward to give Brian a rub while Gibsie lunged away from the cat. “I’m getting back on track.”

“Your poor mother must have been beside herself with worry.”

“Yeah.” Grimacing, I gently scratched Brian under the chin. “You could say that.”

“Where’s Fa?” Gibsie asked, using the pet name for his stepfather, Keith Allen. He’d been in Gibsie’s life since the age of eight. It was short for father—a term of endearment and sign of respect to the man who had helped raise him. A man who wasn’t quite his father, but much more than just Keith. Fa was the middle line, and Gibsie had called Keith that for as long as I’d known him. “I thought he’d be back by now?”

“He’s still on the building site, pet. There was a delay with a delivery, but he’ll be home tonight.” Mrs. Allen stepped closer to Gibsie and he comically dived backwards.

“Keep that beast away from me,” he choked out, eyeing Brian warily. “I don’t trust him, Mam.”

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