Page 14 of Fractured Souls
Don’t think about the way his lips softened against mine, the way his hands gripped my biceps. Don’t think about the way he tasted, or his soft moans as they mingled with mine.
Or the way he was just as hard as I was, grinding into me.
Or the way, for just a second, I wanted to know what he tasted like there.
I squeeze my dick hard.
Bo snores softly, and his pretty lips part with every breath. His soft face, black lashes, and sleep-mussed hair . . . Warmth. Bowen is warmth personified. It hits my chest, fills my lungs. Bo has always been Bo to me, but last night he felt like more.
He felt like mine.
What the hell is wrong with me? How is one kiss winding me up like this? Last night, if I can admit it, was the hottest kiss I’ve ever had. Bo is a great kisser. Okay, I really need to stop thinking about it. None of it even matters.
We we’re both tipsy. Yeah, that’s it. Tipsy. Bo was hard because he’s attracted to men, and I’m a man. Two plus two equals four. That’s it. It’s math. Simple. You can’t argue with math.
I was lonely, and I don’t know . . . sad. Sad because my girl cheated, and she isn’t the first. That’s all. Sad and lonely and slightly drunk. None of it matters. None of it. What Siena said to me hurt, and yes, she’s just one woman, but I can’t argue the history. You can’t argue with math. If you’re always broken upwith, you must be the problem, right? Iamthe problem. I fuck everything up. Even if—and it’s a huge if—I was attracted to Bo.
Which I’m not, because that’s silly.
Sure, of course he’s cute, he’s fucking beautiful. But I don’t like guys, so again, even if—a huge if—I was attracted to him in that way, I refuse to ruin the most important relationship I have over kisses and sex. I can’t do that.
Which I don’t want to, I don’t. I’m just . . . lonely. That’s right,lonely. I was lonely and horny, and I love Bo, and that feeling just got a little fuzzy is all. Bowen’s my safe place, and I let that feeling spill over into uncharted waters.
When my father would hurt me or my mother would be so far gone she didn’t notice me, Bo was there. He’s been there through everything with me—the beatings, the fights, the screaming, the words and hurt that are still branded in my DNA. Sometimes my father would get so drunk he’d wake me up in the middle of the night and beat me. When he got really drunk, he’d lurk in my doorway like my own personal bogeyman, watching and waiting for me to fall asleep. Then he’d drag me out of bed and hurt me.
He always took his anger out on me since she was never lucid enough to react to him. My father loved a show—he loved a fight—and my mother drugged herself so she wouldn’t be able to give him one.
Bowen’s family had emigrated from Hong Kong. I remember the day I saw him for the first time. I smile at the memory, not letting myself linger on it too long, though. We found out we lived on the same street. There’s this tiny playground there, where I used to run to when my father was on one of his tirades.
I remember one day I snuck out of the house and ran to the playground. I saw Bowen on the merry-go-round, just sitting. Not moving. He was so tiny even then. Big glasses, cute little scowl. He was scared, but that tiny attitude never fazed me. In fact it egged me on.
Soon we were inseparable, then his family became my second home. Whenever I could escape I found myself at their house, in the warm shelter of love I never received at home. I found out years later that his mom suspected something was going on. To this day she still checks in with me every week, calls me on my birthdays, and asks me if I’m doing okay or need help.
I love her, I love them, I love him.
Time goes on. Relationships come and go, but Bo remains the same.
Which is why I need to apologize when he gets up. If there’s one thing I will not do it’s risk him. Us. It’s never worth it.
I’m not worth it.
Hours later, Bo finally comes staggering out of his room, his fingers running through his silky black hair. A tiny smile slips onto my lips watching pieces fall obediently back into place. His glasses are on, and maybe last night fucked with my brain chemistry . . . but damn does he look good. Sleepy and sexy, and wow.
Get it together.
What the hell came over me last night, and why won’t my brain go back to normal? Go back! Cautiously he walks to the island counter and drags out a bar stool, the sound louder than it should be this early in the morning. He hops onto it.
“You made food?” He slowly grabs a plate of eggs. “Are we stress cooking again?” I give him a couple of slices of wholegrain toast and slide him the small bowl. “Special butter?” I nod. Whenever I’m here I make him this garlic butter that he loves because I know he doesn’t exactly love sweet foods. Last night hewas humoring me while I spiraled about Siena. “And why am I getting your special garlic butter?”
Mindlessly he spreads the butter across the pieces of gluten free toast. This brand is nearly seven dollars a damn loaf, but it’s the only kind I’ve found so far that I can stomach and he can eat. “I know you like it.”
He nibbles on the piece of toast, and his eyes flick up to mine before focusing back on the piece of bread. Then he sighs, his thin shoulders drooping. “Go ahead, Cam. Give me the speech.”
“The speech?”
“The ‘last night was a mistake’ speech.”
This is so hard. “Bo, I’m not—”
