Page 28 of Catcher's Lock
“That doesn’t mean he’s not gay.”
“It means his shouldn’t be the first dick you suck.”
I shrug.Not touchingthatwith a ten-foot pole.
“Why do you even want to?” he asks. “He’s. A.Dick.”
“I want to getlaid, Quill. Like”—you—“everyoneelse.”
“So you’re gonna settle for the first dick that comes along?”
“Like you’re so discerning about where you stickyourdick.”
“That’s different.”
“Why?”
“Because…you’re not like me.”
“Because I’m a virgin? Or because I like dick?”
He eyes me over the paper towel pressed to his nose, and a snort escapes him. My own lips twitch into a grin.
“How many times do you think we’ve said ‘dick’ in the last five minutes?” he asks.
“A lot.”
“You’re a dick glutton.”
“You’re a dick whore.”
He cocks his head, dropping his hand to his thigh. “I’m not sure that came out exactly right.”
“‘I do not think it means what you think it means,’” I say in my best Inigo Montoya voice, and he collapses forward into my lap, laughing.
“You’re getting blood on my jeans.” I shove him off before he can noticemydick starting to get ideas, and hand him a fresh paper towel from the roll at my side. “Here. You need to keep pressure on your nose.”
He takes it from me with a sigh and flops onto his back. “This party sucks.”
“It’s your party,” I remind him. He pestered Hals to let us raise the tent for months, specifically so he could throw these parties. It took us a whole week to set it up, even with half the lacrosse team helping, and Hals helped me rig the sound system and let me hang a few of the lights. It was the best part of the summer, almost likebefore. Gem even agreed to rigging his Chinese pole and has been practicing sporadically—a mixed blessing, since I love watching him burn off energy in away that doesn’t involve alcohol or sex, but loathe how it leaves me achy and frustrated.
“It still sucks.”
“We could hide out in the Airstream and watchRick and Morty,” I offer. “Since I’m not getting laid, and all.” Not like I was seriously considering it. Ethanisa dick. But it was nice to feel wanted for a minute.
“Nah. My dad’s in there, and he’ll freak if he sees my face.”
“He’s gonna find out eventually. You’re gonna have a black eye tomorrow.”
“Worth it to put that asshole in his place,” he mutters, and my heart does a stupid little flip. Why does he have to be so fucking complicated? Every time I try to put some healthy distance between us, he pulls me right back into his drama.
“I can’t believe you cock-blocked me tonight,” I say.
“You’re not really mad.”
I hate that it’s not even a question.
I hate that I’m already thinking about how I’m going to jerk off later to this image of him—sprawled in the truck bed, with blood spilled on his bare chest from fighting overme—pretending he threw the first punch because he was jealous rather than being overprotective and infantilizing.
