Page 31 of Lost Boy
“I’ll be right back,” I whisper gently.
And then I lean down to kiss his forehead. I have no idea why I do it, and I can only hope he’s too drunk and high to remember it.
I jump up, rushing for the kitchen in search of snacks. Not even five minutes later, I’m back with ice, drinks, snacks, and a chocolate cupcake with bright blue frosting. I set my goodies on his desk and walk the cupcake over to him, sticking a candle in and lighting it.
“Happy Birthday, Blue,” I tell him, licking the frosting off my finger after he grabs it.
I’m going to take care of him tonight. Especially since he got beat up on his birthday, defending my little sister’s honor. I prop two pillows behind him, helping him sit up. “Lean against the headboard while you eat that. I’ll rest a bag of ice on your ribs, and you can hold one to your eye after you're done. You don’t want that swelling shut.”
“Mm’fine,” he mumbles around a mouthful of cupcake. “You don’t have to bother with me.”
Bother with him?
Why would he say it like that?
“You’re on some unknown substance, drunk, high, possibly concussed, and it’s your birthday. You aren’t a bother, Fallon. I’m worried about you.” I say this again, trying to make him understand. Seems like he hasn’t had anyone care about him in a long time, which makes me sad for him and the little boy who lost his dad too young.
“Okay,” he agrees, and I climb onto the bed next to him, setting a towel over his stomach and placing the bag of ice on top. I watch goosebumps erupt across his sensitive skin and glance away, the urge to touch him riding me hard.
Fallon finishes his birthday treat while I flip through my Netflix list until I find a mindless comedy to zone out on. A million thoughts race through my mind, and I can’t turn them off.
Light snoring comes from next to me, and I realize I spaced out so much that I let him fall asleep.
Fuck!
“Fallon, wake up.”
No response.
“Wake up,” I say louder.
He doesn’t move a muscle, and I freak out just a smidge.
I hover my ear over his bare chest to check his breathing.
The steady rise and fall of his chest and the rhythmic thumping of his heart stall my rising panic. I sigh in relief and drop my head to his heart, lying there for a moment, relishing each and every breath. The feel of his smooth, warm skin and the alluring smell of him that’s uniquely Fallon. A mix of fresh laundry soap and something sweet and fruity. Strawberries maybe.
He’s intoxicating. Better than a drug.
“What are you doing?” His chest shakes my head when he speaks.
“Making sure you’re still alive. You went to sleep.”
“You went to sleep first,” he counters, and maybe I did. I spaced out, at least.
“I’m fine, Ryder. Really. We’re both tired; let’s just sleep. You can stay,” he adds in a vulnerable whisper.
He sounds like he’s starting to sober up a little.
“Okay,” I agree, and we maneuver under the covers.
“I’m taking my pants off,” he declares boldly, breaking some of the tension.
“Oh, thank fuck, dude. I can’t sleep in jeans. The thought of waking up with a zipper imprint on my dick doesn’t appeal.”
“Has that happened to you? Sounds like it’s happened to you,” Fallon responds cheekily, and I wish I could see him better, but we’ve already turned the TV off. The only other light is from the hallway nightlights shining under his door.
“Fuck, dude. It has. Do not recommend.” I laugh lightly, and we both wiggle and shuffle around until I hear two thunks of our jeans hit the bedroom floor.
