Page 7 of It's Just You

“Sure, as long as it’s not too late. I’m hanging out with Finn tomorrow.”

“Finn?” The name was familiar, but I’d blanked it out. I didn’t remember any of his friends’ names.

“Yeah, you know. Finn.”

I waited for more of a description, but the sounds of machine guns interrupted our brotherly bonding time as he grabbed the remote. “Night, Sam,” I told him before dragging myself up the stairs.

I peeled my clothes off in the bathroom, wrinkling my nose at the stench of booze and smoke, and tossed them into the laundry bin. A long shower was just what I needed to shake off feeling too sorry for myself — and to wash away the humiliation of the night.

I groaned as I stood beneath the water, and I considered a quick jerkoff just to get it out of my system. But that man’s face flashed before my eyes just before I grabbed hold of my cock, and it startled me enough to stem my burgeoning erection.

Fuck, I couldn’t even masturbate properly tonight. Not that it was a huge deal; masturbation was more like scratching an itch than a necessity, but it would’ve been nice to have the high from an orgasm on my side.

I bathed instead and got out of the shower, toweling off and collapsing into bed, only bothering to put my boxers on. It didn’t take long to fall asleep, and before I knew it, I was out cold.

True to his word,Sam woke me up bright and early.

I grouched at him, but he reminded me that if I wanted a free ride to the bar, I had to get up now. Great. I got up and pulled on jeans and a t-shirt with ripped sleeves that showed off both muscles and tattoos.

Sam glanced at me. “You got new ones,” he commented when we got into the car.

“Yeah, working on getting my right sleeve finished now,” I told him. One of the ways I got through all this shit was my ink, the prick of the needle in my flesh over and over until it became a sweet pain that left me feeling alive. Our parents thought it was excessive, but as long as I stayed employed — and close — they only grumbled a little.

“You’re gonna run out of places to put them. Don’t tell me you’re going to start getting your face tattooed next,” Sam said as he pulled out onto the street.

I scoffed at him. “There’s still plenty of space.”

“Not where I can see—” Sam started, then he made a face. “You know what, never mind. Let’s just leave it at that.”

It didn’t take long to get back to the bar, even with morning traffic. “Thanks for the ride,” I told him before I got out and closed the passenger side door of the car.

It wasn’t like it would be long before we saw each other again. My only plans were to go home. Maybe tonight, the guys from work would be up for a few drinks, but most of them were settling into family men. They didn’t have time to spend away from their wives and little ones to go drinking, and it wasn’t like I could get too sloshed in case something happened with Dad.

The ride back to the house was quick, and I parked beside Sam’s car. It wasn’t like my parents were going to go anywhere, and I could always move my bike if they decided to. I went inside, where Sam was studying the label on a box of instant pancake mix.

“You use this?” he asked without turning around to look at me when I entered the kitchen.

“Yeah?” I asked more than said as I hung up my helmet. “It works.”

He shook his head. “You have flour and milk and everything else. Why use the instant shit?”

“Because this takes ten seconds, and it tastes fine,” I replied. I was already getting irritated by my brother’s presence. I was glad he’d only be home for the summer. Let him deal with all the shit I did and see if he wanted to make pancakes from scratch, for fuck’s sake. “Mom and Dad not up yet?”

“Dad’s still sleeping, but Mom’s watching TV.”

“Well, if you don’t like the instant stuff, you can make the real things,” I told him, sitting down at the table. “Just make enough for everyone.”

“Oh, is that how it’s gonna be?” Sam asked, arching a brow as he looked at me.

“Well, if you’re going to go through the effort, you might as well.” I smirked.

He rolled his eyes, but he started pulling things from the shelves and fridge. Flour, eggs, milk, whatever other little containers he pulled out… I had no idea. I wasn’t a cook. That had always been Mom’s department, or Sam’s when he was home.

“I’m not cooking the whole time I’m here,” Sam said.

“You are if you want something decent to eat,” I told him. “I’ll buy the groceries, but you know you don’t want me cooking unless you want — gasp — jarred spaghetti sauce and instant pancakes.” Both of which were fine to me, but it seemed like a complete insult to my brother.

Sam made a face. Before he could think up a retort, though, there was a knock on the door. “Can you?” He nodded to the bowl in front of him, showing me the eggs in his hands.

---