Page 49 of Choke

Sweet dreams, Lex.

Except Me

Adrian

16 Years Old

“I’m not feeling well,” Her voice sounds higher than usual. It’s the voice she uses when she’s lying and thinks I don’t know, “I’m just going to call it a night and go to bed. We can see each other at school tomorrow!”

Too high, too cheery.

I’m on my bed, wearing a towel around my waist. I showered when I got home from hockey, but our plans to go to Ronan’s house party have apparently gone out the window, so I didn’t get dressed. My entire body hurts after the endless drills the coach put us through today. I knead my knuckles into my quad, trying to release some of the tension.

“Okay?” she asks.

I sigh, “What am I supposed to say, Claire? You were so excited for this party. I’m excited for the party. Are you sure you’re not feeling up to it?”

“I swear, baby. I’m so tired.”

She doesn’t sound tired. She sounds wound up. I like it when she’s wound up. The thought makes my dick jump, the towel bumping up. A smile spreads across my face.

“You sure? Really sure? Maybe I could come wake you up…” My tone is suggestive, and she lets out that sweet little giggle that drives me crazy.

I can picture her lying on her bed, blonde hair fanned out around her, that bubble gum lip gloss she wears making them extra pouty andsweet, wearing that little silk nighty she wore when she slept here a few weeks ago. My parents went out of town; it was the perfect opportunity to fuck her without the usual need to also silence her. She’s so tiny, and I’d picked her up off the couch whenever I got bored with playing house and wanted to have her again. We’d fucked everywhere; my bed, the sofa, the kitchen table, the pool table, and last but not least, my parents’ bed. It was so fucked up and so fucking hot. She breathes into the receiver of the phone, and I move my hand from my quad to my cock, stroking the length of it.

“I could come over just to tuck you in.” I offer.

She giggles again. God damn—I love that sound.

“You can’t come here. My mom and aunt are drinking wine downstairs. Plus, I really don’t feel good. I’m getting my period.”

Her voice dropped at the end, similar to how I do it when I call my dad to ask to take a sick day. I make a face, not because her period bothers me; it doesn’t. But because it’s the excuse she uses to get out of sex when she doesn’t want it. I’m not winning tonight, and it eats me alive. I grind my teeth and bite back the urge to fight her harder on this.

“Okay, okay. I hope you feel better. I’ll pick you up for school in the morning.”

The lightness is back in her tone when she replies, “Okay! Love you!”

“Yeah, me too.”

She hangs up without pushing me to say it back—something is definitely up with her.

I drop my phone beside me, my hand still moving up and down my hard dick. I decide to jerk off when my phone rings, and I rush to answer. Maybe she changed her mind.

As soon as I pick it up, I hear the music and noise on the other end. Not Claire. Ronan yells into the phone, “Yo! When are you guys getting here? It’s already getting out of control!”

“We’re not. She’s not feeling well, and I’m not in the mood.”

There is a pause before he laughs.

“Aww, feeling rejected, Libby?”

People in the background laugh, and great—I’ve lost my hard-on.

“Fuck off, Ronan.”

I disconnect the call and stand. My insides churn—the call with Claire, the call from Ronan. Both left me feeling on edge. Add to that how turned on I was while talking to her, and I feel like a hurricane is inside my chest. I pull on some sweatpants and a T-shirt. In the last six months, I’ve put on about 30 lbs of muscle, and my once-loose sweat pants cling to my muscular legs. I turn to my mirror and take in my newly developed body—what a trip. A year ago, I barely tipped the scale to 160 lbs. Today, I’m nearing 200 lbs at the same height. My chest is broad; my shoulders are wide. My sweat pants sit low on my hips, displaying that v shape that Claire loses her mind over. My dick, mostly soft now, is visible through the gray sweats.

My stomach growls, and what better way to deal with not getting fucking laid than to make something to eat. I head out my bedroom door and down the stairs. The house is dark and silent. Dad is at work; Mom is at a friend’s house. I’m heating leftover lasagna when the phone rings again. I reach into my pocket and fish it out, tucking it between my shoulder and ear. The sounds of the party greets me again.

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