Page 65 of Alphas Like Us
Can I shotgunyou?
It sounds sexual in my head. Maybe it’s the way Farrow said it, his voice quiet but rough but silky-smooth all atonce.
Or maybe it’s because I have no goddamn idea whatshotgunentails.
I know about “calling shotgun” in terms of a passenger seat in a car. And I’ve seen a guy puncture a hole in a can at college and shotgun a beer. Neither of which seem that relevant rightnow.
So I’m lost and too inexperienced to make complete sense of hisquestion.
I swallow a ball in my throat. “With…?” I can’t even get any words out; a stabbing sensation detonates again and again.FuckingChrist.
Imagine a nonstop sledgehammer banging on your bones and insides—and you can’t cast the sledgehammeraside.
It just slams andcrushes.
Ignoring this torment—it’s close toimpossible.
I clutch Farrow’s knee in a death-grip.God,I’m nearing a point where I just want to passout.
I need this toend.
I need this toend.
“Donnelly,” Farrow calls, and to distract myself, I try to focus on things that my brain loves. Like Farrow Keene’s precise movements. How he stretches his arm out and takes something from hisfriend.
I try to concentrate on hisage.
Twenty-eight. Six years older than me. I breathe through my nose at a sharp pain.Brain, you annoyingly love that he’s older. Don’t act like you’re disinterestednow.
Twenty-eight. He’s twenty-eight.
I shut my eyes for a longer second and open them slowly. Lying down between his legs with my head on his thigh, my view mostly consists of the ceiling rafters andFarrow.
My head is in his lapis a song that plays too softly on repeat. That track should be blaring and drowning out I_Feel_Like_I’m_Dying.mp3 andFuck_This_Shitty_Feeling.mp3.
Farrow bends somewhat over me, blocking the rafters from view. Pieces of his white hair fall to his lashes. “This is a blunt,” he explains, pinching the blunt between two inked fingers. “Shotgunning is where you take a hit from me. You don’t need to hold the blunt.Okay?”
He’s asking for mypermission.
Because he’s a good guy. He’ll tell you he’s not, but heis.
I think for half a second and then nod with my chin. Giving into my body’s pleas. I’m not as afraid of weed like I am Vicodin orOxy.
And it helps that I trust Farrow with my body. I’d never fucking agree to this withouthim.
“Okay,” Farrow repeats in relief, and he collects a lighter that’s thrown on my bed. I can’t tell fromwho.
But I just watch Farrow. Every damn movement. How he puts the blunt confidently between his lips. How he cups his hand around it while he strikes thelighter.
How his eyes lock onmine.
You wouldn’t even believe how much this helps. Just observing Farrow. Because for a fleeting second, I forget I’m in pain, and I’ll take that second, even brief. Christ, I’ll takeanything.
A flame eats the paper as he inhales. Blunt now lit, he blows smoke up at the twinkling rafters. After that, he spins the blunt backwards, the burning end facing hislips.
I’m confused about how thisworks.
“Suck in the smoke, wolf scout,” Farrow tells me. “That’s all you need to do.” With two fingers, he places the blunt between his teeth, burning endinhis mouth, the other side sticks out—and he leans over meagain.
