Page 33 of Lost Boy
“I need to take my sticky boxers off,” Fallon insists, but I can see his glassy, half-lidded eyes because of the moonlight peeking through the open curtains. He’s fucked up, slipping into the abyss, and I’m worried he’ll regret it.
He stops licking my nipple and peers up at me. “Can I come again too?”
The earnest question catches me off guard, like he’s asking to tag along to the movies with my friends and me, not if he can take his underwear off and nut bare-skinned against me.
I can’t give in yet.
“Fuuuuck,” I groan. He’s going to be the death of me.
CHAPTERELEVEN
FALLON
“Rise and shine, birthday boy!” Uncle Joel shouts, and I crack one eye open as he comes bustling into my room with a tall stack of pancakes and a candle.
Is this breakfast in bed? That actually exists? People do this for other people?
He’s too loud, and it’s too early. I can hardly remember what happened last night. My head is killing me. I groan and blindly reach for a pillow, covering my face and possibly attempting to smother myself. Birthdays haven’t meant shit since Dad died. I was lucky if my mother even remembered and bought a cake and a card. Those were the good birthdays.
“Fallon, don't be grouchy. You’re eighteen now. That’s something to celebrate.You’resomething to celebrate.”
His words punch through my shield and hit me right in the gut. I don’t like it.
“I am not a proponent ofit’s my party and I can cry if I want to, so sit up and enjoy your favorite breakfast food and blow this candle out before you collect more wax than butter.”
Uncle Joel tugs the pillow away, the cool, cotton pillowcase slipping through my fingers easily.
I’m tired. It’s one ofthosedays. Doesn’t matter that it’s my birthday.
“Fallon!” he gasps, quickly setting the breakfast tray on the end of the bed and perching next to me. He even has a little vase with a daisy in it.
I don’t deserve a flower.
Uncle Joel reaches up to touch my face, the tender flesh of my cheekbone aching.
Memories from last night flood in. The party. Drinking. Smoking. Sofie.Fucking Dustin.Then. . .holy shit. We. . . Ryder and I. We. . .
I wiggle around, hoping my morning wood goes down fast. I definitely don’t regret any of it. I just wish I had a clearer head for it.
Maybe he’d want to do it again?
Sober.
I don’t know if I can ask him that.
“Fallon, what happened?” Uncle Joel’s stern tone cuts through the headache and lingering fog. Sounds like it’s not the first time he’s asked that. It makes me uncomfortable.
“Nothing.” I don’t feel like talking.
Uncle Joel sighs heavily and grabs the tray from the end of the bed. Guess he already blew the candle out for me.
“Well, I’ll grab you some ibuprofen. I want you to have a good birthday. Regardless of what happened last night.”
“Nothing happened.”
“That’s what Ryder and Jamison told me,” Uncle Joel says with creased brows.
I glance away, unable to maintain eye contact, when the easy lie slips off my tongue. Uncle Joel’s been nothing but kind to me, and I can’t even be truthful with him.
