Page 71 of Saving Sparrow
“Everyone calls us weirdos, but whatever. Let them assume what they want.” Quentin shrugged. “Miguel swears coming clean will get in the way of football. If it were up to me, I’d have already given him a dicking-down on the bleachers in front of everyone. Fuck football if being gay is a deal-breaker.” He seemed proud of that statement, like it was equivalent to him saying he wasn’t ashamed of what he and Miguel had and wasn’t afraid to let the world know it. This time he did catch Miguel’s scowl.
“I’m serious, fuck ’em.”
“I’m not looking at you because of that, you idiot.”
“Oh,” Quentin frowned. “Was it the fucking you on the bleachers part?”
Miguel clamped a hand over his mouth. “If you say one more word…” he warned.
They kept quiet while I absorbed everything they’d said so far. I still had so many questions, but which one did I want to ask first?
“And you’re sure your dad doesn’t know?”
“I don’t know. Other than sharing a room and sleeping in the same bed, we’re careful whenever he’s around—which isn’t often. We never wanted to give him a reason not to keep Miguel. He looks at us like we’re sick sometimes, but he’s the sociopath, so he can go fuck himself. Anyway, we’re eighteen now, and as soon as I get access to my trust, we’re blowing this shithole.”
A sharp stabbing pain hit me in the chest at the idea of them leaving. But they’d said I was theirs, that they’d take care of me. Did that still apply after tonight? Did I still want it to?
“The three of us,” Miguel whispered, staring at me. “Right?” He sounded unsure about my feelings now, and I hated that I’d made him feel that way.
“Am I still yours?” I asked them.
“Fuck yeah, pretty girl.” Quentin sounded relieved. “I’d go to war for you.”
Miguel nodded in agreement.
Quentin’s palm no longer settled against the racing pulse at my neck; the weight of it now rested on my knee. Miguel still held my hand tight, though. I frowned down at my lap, trying to recall something Quentin had shouted at Miguel. “What’s baby-gravy?”
Miguel coughed into his free hand, choking on his saliva while Quentin’s eyes bugged out.
“Er,” he said, deferring to Miguel. “Is this an example of something I should let you handle?”
“Yes,” Miguel choked out, holding up a finger. He cleared his throat and attempted to slip his now clammy hand out of mine. I squeezed tighter, not wanting to let go.
He glanced at Quentin, then back at me. “It’s cum,” he said, deciding to come straight out with it.
“Oh.” I looked at Quentin. “And you wanted to make sure it took?”
“Gotta stay like this for just a little while, Guelly. Gotta make sure it takes.”
Quentin scratched at the back of his neck, his cheeks flushing a bit. I’d never seen him flustered, at a loss for words before. “Yeah, well, I sometimes joke that he’s gonna be my baby daddy. That I’m gonna get him pregnant.”
“Oh,” I said again, sitting straighter. “But he can’t get pregnant.”
“It’s just some kinky dirty talk. Makes me hot imagining him walking around carrying my kid.”
“It’s not meant to be literal,” Miguel explained.
“And does him telling you to stop make you hot too?”
“Yeah, it turns us both on,” Quentin answered, grinning a little.
“Why?” I couldn’t wrap my head around it.
“Saying yes feels too easy.” Miguel chose to answer first. “Seeing him fight to have me and not letting anything stand in his way—not evenme—makes me feel special. Like he can’t stop himself, even if he wanted to, because he wants me that bad. It feels good to be wanted that much, to see him out of control. I have something no one else can give him, and he won’t let me keep it from him.”
I looked at Quentin, wanting to understand what he got out of it. He’d been aggressive, near violent, and I needed to not be confused about it.
“Because he’s mine,” he said simply and unapologetically. “That means I get to have him how and whenever I want, and I get to prove that whenever he tells me no.”
