Page 86 of The Revenge Game
I run my fingers through his hair, marveling at its softness.
His arm is draped across my waist, thumb absently stroking my hip in an unbearably intimate way.
Then Justin nuzzles into my neck, pressing his lips against my pulse point.
When he shifts to look at me, his expression is so open, so unguarded, it steals my breath.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
He exhales a shaky laugh. “I’ve never felt this right before in my life.”
Oh god. The sincerity in his voice feels like a knife to my heart. Because this feels right to me too. So right that it hurts.
But it’s built on a lie.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Justin
We’re still tangled together on Drew’s couch, my head resting on his chest while his fingers card lazily through my hair. The sun slants through his window, warming patches of my skin. Neither of us seems inclined to move, even though we probably should clean up.
I can’t remember the last time I felt this…peaceful. Like some tight band wrapped around my chest for years has finally loosened.
“How long have you known you’re attracted to men?” Drew asks. His voice is soft, his fingers still moving through my hair.
I instinctively tense but then force myself to relax. This is Drew. Drew, who just shared something incredible with me. Drew, who makes me want to be brave.
“I worked out I was attracted to guys when I was fourteen,” I say. “Though I spent a long time trying to deny it to myself.”
His hand stills in my hair. “Why?”
His voice is gentle, but something about the way he says the word gives it an odd weight.
I shift so I can look at his face. He’s studying me with whiskey-colored eyes, his forehead puckered like nothing ismore important than understanding every bit of me, even the broken pieces.
“My stepfather…” I start, then have to stop to clear my throat. “I told you before how Bobby Ray had very specific ideas about what made someone a ‘real man.’”
Drew’s arm tightens around me. The warmth of his skin against mine gives me the strength to continue.
“I hero-worshipped him at first,” I say. “I was eleven when he started dating my mom, and suddenly, there was this larger-than-life guy who wanted to teach me football and took me fishing. Who made my mom smile in a way I’d never seen before.”
I trace my fingers along Drew’s arm, focusing on the solid reality of him as the words scrape their way out of my throat. “He seemed perfect. Made my mom feel like she’d finally found someone who’d take care of her after struggling alone for so long.”
“What changed?” Drew’s voice is quiet.
How to describe exactly how it happened? The slow change in Bobby Ray’s behavior, the way his smile tightened when I got excited about things he didn’t approve of, and how his praise always came with conditions attached.
It was like one of those magic eye pictures. At first, all you see is the surface pattern, the perfect stepdad doing all the right things. Then, suddenly, the image shifts, and you can’t unsee what’s really there: criticism disguised as concern, control masked as care.
“It was subtle at first. Comments about how the things I liked were too girly. How I was too sensitive.” The memories rise up like bitter smoke. “He told my mom I was too much of a mama’s boy, that I needed to toughen up to be a proper man.”
Drew swallows hard. His fingers resume their gentle movement through my hair.
“I had this snow globe collection,” I say, the words coming out rough. I can’t believe I’m telling him this, but I don’t know how to stop now that I’ve started. “They were nothing fancy, mainly from thrift stores or yard sales. But Mom and I would spend our weekends hunting for them. Each one felt like holding a tiny perfect world.”
Drew’s chest rises and falls steadily under my cheek as I continue. “My favorite was this ridiculous thing from Florida with flamingos wearing sunglasses. The glitter was bright pink. Mom found it at a church sale and saved it for my birthday because she knew I’d love how completely over-the-top it was.”
I have to pause, the memories suddenly too vivid. Drew’s hand slides down to rub slow circles on my back, and I use his touch to anchor me to the present.
