Page 55 of Good Losers (Lochkelvin Academy)

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Finlay does nothing for a long time. He doesn’t move, he doesn’t speak, he doesn’t even appear to blink. He just stares at Rory with a mix of longing and fear, as though inspecting the source of the command.

And then, slowly, he approaches his chief.

Distantly, I wonder how many people over whom Rory has power. I wonder how many people do whatever Rory Munro tells them to because he’s handsome and rich enough to want to appease. A natural-born leader, a supreme kind of royalty, better and superior to the everyday common folk.

I wonder if I’m in over my head.

I wonder if I’m worshiping a madman, the same boy who tortures others for pleasure.

I wonder if this is a kind of torture now. From the expression on Finlay’s face, it certainly seems so.

Finlay rears back slightly, his hands in front of him but his head at a sharp diagonal, as though to check Rory’s sincerity. Very briefly, Finlay glances at me sidelong, and maybe he realizes it then, from the fascination that must be all across my face: we’re Rory’s, both of us bound together by the same worshipful, submissive qualities toward the blond chief.

So perhaps I’m not Rory’s equal, after all. I don’t think I ever could be, and part of that, maybe, is why I like being around him so much. It’s a novelty. He makes my tiny heart thrum. I’d always considered myself an equal, even a superior, to most boys and men — but this one? No. He’s too powerful. He makes me wax poetic. He claims me in ways I don’t understand.

Finlay, on the other hand? When it comes to Rory, I’m Finlay’s equal through and through.

With nimble fingers, Finlay slowly unbuttons Rory’s waistband. His face is frozen, as though not daring to move more than necessary to conserve the quietness, the stillness of this moment. And then he pulls down the zipper. It’s a quick metallic hiss in the night, the whisper of a snake, a sound so loaded with meaning in the humid, balmy air that it sends my pulse screaming.

“Lower them,” Rory orders, and I can sense Finlay biting his tongue. At any other time, in any other scenario, there’d follow an irritable snap ofLower them yerself, dickhead.

But tonight is different. Tonight is miles away from our comfort zones. Tonight is about the moon and magic and new meanings being written, new threads being woven into tapestries we might never get to see.

Finlay guides the fabric down past Rory’s hips and, as though automatic, sinks down with it. When there is no further to fall, no more room to kneel, he glances up at Rory, his messy dark hair spilling across his forehead.

A smirk tugs at Rory’s lips as he drinks in the sight, stepping free from his clothes.

I’m rooted to the spot watching the two of them, but even with the heaviness in the air around us, I keep assuming Finlay will bounce up, leap to his feet with an indignant cry, and maybe even punch Rory in the nose. Normal Finlay things.

But he doesn’t. He sits on the sand and rocks before Rory’s bare feet, his head bowed like a subject awaiting an honor to be bestowed upon him.Honormeaning anything from a glance to a barked demand — anything, as long as it’s coupled with Rory’s attention.

Rory’s attention drifts from the boy by his feet over to me. His gaze rakes my naked body from head to toe, and heat blooms beneath my skin.

In a gentle voice, one gentler than he gives to Finlay, he instructs, “Enter the water.”

This seems like such a good idea in the sizzling summer heat. I lift my toes from their position in the sand and cross to the cool, calm pool in front of us. The wide, white globe of the moon spills its light across the surface of the loch. I see my watery reflection — curious eyes and gently parted mouth, my lack of clothes making tonight resemble a painting from a time long ago in the distant past. Did they conduct ceremonies and rituals here in the age of the Pre-Raphaelites? Before then? Did girls stand spellbound at the edge of the water, gazing at themselves like painted Narcissus, further through the centuries?

I glance over my shoulder and find Rory watching me. Naked but for a silk-looking pair of boxer-briefs, he nods his head at me once.

I walk into the water.

There’s an air, a heaviness, an enchantment to this moment. It feels like anything could happen tonight, and I half-expect the water to split before me as I wade into its cool depths. But it doesn’t. It accepts me, the water rising to my chest, its soothing chill sliding up my body and teasing all my hidden parts.

When I glance behind me, Rory’s gesturing at Finlay to rise. He does without so much as a stumble, as though he’s a puppet whose strings are expertly controlled by Rory.

Finlay watches me in the water and then, as though unable to help himself, begins to remove his shirt.

Rory touches his arm, and Finlay’s hands fall by his sides. “What?”

There’s a twisted kind of smile on Rory’s face. “I said we need a witness. Not a participant.”

Finlay’s eyes narrow. “Are you tellin’ me,” he begins in a low voice, “that I’m meant tae just watch the two o’ ye together?”

Rory shrugs as though this is a perfectly reasonable request. “Why not?” He leans forward and adds with a devilish smirk, “I know by now you get hard for both of us.”

I choke back my gasp. The absolute arrogance of Rory is breathtaking — but is he wrong? From the surly look Finlay shoots him, it seems not. We both watch Rory approach the water, still clad in his boxers, the moonlight glinting across his bare white skin.

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