Page 8 of Fractured Souls
No I’m not.
I follow him into his room and go to his closet, or what I like to call “the place organization goes to die.”
Pushing aside a mess of sweaters, instruments, and sheet music, I find a plastic bin with my clothes in it. It’s probably cold right now. Mornings in the fall are usually freezing, then blazing hot in the afternoons. Nothing like Septembers in Upstate New York where you never know what you’re going to get. I grab a white T-shirt and slip it on. I’ll shower when we get back. Pulling on a pair of dark-washed jeans, I find the hoodie I was wearing last night, slipping it on too.
I turn to Bo, watching him brush his hair into submission.
Heat flickers across my skin.
It’s soft and comforting and I get it every single time I’m here. It feels like coming home. Bo’s nose scrunches in the mirror as he looks at me in the reflection. “What?”
A soft chuckle escapes my lips, but instead of saying anything, I walk over to him and rest my chin on the top of his head, looking at him in the mirror. “I love you, Bobo. Thank you for being here for me.” The anger melts from his eyes.
“Always, Cam.”
Planting one last kiss on the top of his head, I go make us food. It’s going to be a long fucking day.
“Really quiet over there.” With Bo’s head pressed firmly against his window, I want to laugh. I thought we were past this. I know Bo isn’t finding any of this funny, but I thought over breakfast things were back to normal. It’s not even close to the most embarrassing thing either of us has done in front of the other.
Without my boner-fogged mind I can see it now for what it was. A simple sleepy slip. No big deal. It was an accident. My dick reacted. The skin along my stomach is just really sensitive. My dick took notice. He thought,oh, company. My dick loves company. It loves hands on it, especially when they aren’t mine. That’s all. It's an extrovert. It loves cuddles—my dick and I have that in common.
“Stop it,” Bo says.
“I’m not doing nothing!”
He glares at me before resting his head back on the glass.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Trying to figure out how much it would hurt if I opened this door and flung myself out to get away from you.” We need to move on. Luckily—or unfortunately—we turn down Siena’s street.
“Bowen,” I say softly, and he lifts his head from the glass to look at me. “Would it make you feel better if I touched your dick?”
“You’re such an asshole, Camden!”
“Okay, well then, stop. Stop worrying about it. It was nothing. An accident. No big deal. You two shook hands. A friendly little hello, it’s not—” I catch his hand before it can connect with my arm.
“Camden Anastasia Almeida—”
“Not my middle name, Bobo.” I grin. “He’s fine. I swear. He’s not upset with you. My dick does not hold grudges.”
“Stop talking about your dick like it has feelings!”
How dare he. “My dick absolutely has feelings. Thoughts. Dreams. Hobbies!”
A tiny smile slips onto his face. There he is. “Stop it.” He smirks, then laughs.
Score.
“Believe me. You’ve done way more embarrassing shit in front of me. Remember your first time drinking tequila?” He cringes. “What about the great buffet disaster of ’18?”
He visibly shudders. “I still can’t look at macaroni and cheese to this day.” We pull up to her driveway. I feel gross. My stomach’s in knots. I hate confrontation. It makes me shaky like my skin is vibrating. I hate it.
“I’ll be quick. Just grabbing my shit. I’ll be in and out, I swear.”
“In and out of the house, Cam, not her. Do not get titmatized.”
“Bo! I thought you knew me better than that!” I clutch my chest in mock offense. “I’m an ass man, okay? Have some respect.” Bo doesn’t laugh, though. His gaze is fixed forward on the house. “What’s wrong?”
