Page 33 of He Should Be Mine
His hand moves to the neckline of Molly’s dress. He yanks violently. The material rips. Sequins scatter. The creamy skin of Molly’s chest is exposed. I can see the top of a lacy black bra. The sight of it is burning like fire through my veins. My mind is completing the image, filling in the gaps. Molly’s flat, unmistakably male chest and pink nipples covered in lacy black. His nipple piercings showing proudly through the thin material.
I rouse myself. The tear in the dress is jagged. Like a wound. It was a pretty dress, it matched Molly’s eyes. Now Riccardo has gone and ruined it.
“I don’t want to watch,” I hear myself say. My voice is calm, low. “I’m not interested in men.”
Riccardo’s pupils widen. Two pools of darkness. Then his eyes narrow. Fuck. I’ve said the wrong thing. I was trying to reassure him that I have no interest in Molly. But it has come across as a dig. An insult. An implication that I’m better than him because I’m not tainted with unnatural tastes.
“Dario, get out of the way,” Molly whines suddenly. “I want Rick’s big cock. I need it.”
Riccardo’s expression shifts. He is stupid enough to be stroked by flattery. Vain enough to be distracted by it.
Molly shoots me a pleading look and somehow my feet move. They step aside. Molly doesn’t want me intervening. He knows it won’t help. It will only make things worse.
I watch Riccardo shove him into his bedroom. I watch the door shut. My heart sinks and my fists clench by my side. My lungs have stalled and there is a high-pitched whining in my ears.
Robotically, I go to my room. I fetch my headphones, then I go and sit on the sofa in the living area. I turn on the TV. Perhaps visual stimulation along with loud opera will force all thoughts from my mind. It’s worth a try. Nothing else has worked so far.
The music blares. The TV flickers. I don’t find any peace at all. Molly is in my thoughts, hell, he is in my DNA. I can’t escape. I have breathed him in. He has seeped into my pores. I no longer know where I end and he begins. He is with me always. The only damn thing I’m capable of thinking of.
I don’t know what to do about it.
I don’t know if Icando anything about it.
Right now it is taking every molecule of self-control I possess not to burst into that bedroom and wring Riccardo’s neck. I want to gouge his eyes out. Feed him his own fucking intestines for daring to touch Molly.
Resisting the urge is consuming all of my willpower. There is no strength left for anything else. There is no more fight left in me. Exorcising thoughts of Molly is a hopeless dream.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. Maybe I need to find a way to fuck him. Get this out of my system. Whateverthisis. Experimenting won’t make me gay. Maybe then thisaching desire will go away. It could turn out to be nothing more than infatuation, as insubstantial as smoke.
That would make far more sense than these feelings of wanting to be far more than friends. I don’t love Molly. I can’t. It has to be obsession. Childish craving. He is Riccardo’s toy, Riccardo’s plaything, so I want it and I want it now. I don’t want to wait my turn.
Add in a bit of misguided protectiveness, and that could explain everything. It’s not unreasonable to think that he could invoke protective urges. Molly can be sweet sometimes. Like hiding his glasses, and being afraid of the dark. Trying for six months to make me the perfect cup of coffee. Those fucking pajamas.
The fact that his birth name is Matthew and he’s only twenty-three.
I sigh. I wish I had not seen that fucking driving licence. I wish my mind hadn’t noticed his date of birth and done the math. Of course, I knew he was younger than me and Riccardo. But Twenty-three? He should be barely out of college. His eyes should not be so world-weary.
He is nine whole years younger than me. How the fuck do I get the feeling that in someways he has seen more shit than I have? Is it because while I have been inflicting horrors, he has been the victim of them?
Twenty fucking three. It’s almost obscene. It should be enough to snap me out of my longing. But it’s not.
Maybe I’m right and it is protectiveness? Perhaps some part of me sees him as the little brother I never had and that’s why I want to wrap him up, keep him safe and get him far away from Riccardo?
I take in a deep breath and try to hold it for as long as I can. No, I have to admit that’s not it. I am confused abouta lot of things. Possibly in denial about others. But even I have to confess that my feelings for Molly are not at all brotherly.
I let out my breath and try to focus on the words of the opera blasting in my eardrums. Molly is a puzzle I cannot solve. Not tonight. Possibly not ever.
A shadow in the periphery of my vision has me jumping up and pulling my headphones off. Disorientation washes over me in a dizzying wave. I did manage to zone out and hours have passed.
And Molly is standing in front of me with an utterly blank look in his eyes. Whatever Riccardo has given him has sent his mind far, far away. I hate it.
The sound of the shower reaches my ears. Seems like Riccardo is cleaning up and Molly has wandered off.
I step towards him carefully, as if he is a wild animal. I swallow tightly. He is naked, and strangely, I don’t want to look. I don’t want to see if the reality matches my fantasies. The only thing Molly’s nudity is doing to me is making me ache for his vulnerability.
I step even closer. There are bruises on his slender neck. Fingerprints on the pale skin of his arms.
His beautiful blue eyes are hazy and unseeing. Laced with fear.
