Page 16 of Poetry On Ice
“Let me guess, in this wrong time and place, you swung first?”
“No. I didn’t.”
Now that I’ve started talking, I seem to be on a roll. “Why didn’t you go to Josh?” Josh is currently tucked in, three floors down, easily accessible to someone who doesn’t give a shit about waking people in the middle ofthe night. “He’s obviously the best man for the job. He’s a trained professional. Dealing with this kind of shit is his wheelhouse. His bread and butter.”
God, I hate it when I start talking like this. Wheelhouse? Bread and butter? Who am I right now, my grandma?“You should go to him.”
Decker sighs and rolls his eyes so hard I’m surprised they don’t get stuck at the back of his head. “I was leaving a gay club when it happened, okay, Princess? And I’d really prefer not having to explain that to everyone.”
“Och, um, oh. That’s, well, that’s fine. It’sfine.” It is fine. It’s more than fine. Who Decker fucks is none of my business. Literally doesn’t have a thing to do with me. He can do whatever he likes in his own time. In fact, I’m done asking questions now. I’m just going to glue his lip and let him be. “So,” I hear myself say, “why’d you come to me? We can’t stand each other. Why didn’t you go to Luddy or—”
He sighs deeper than before and this time, when his eyes settle back into their usual position, they’ve darkened to near black. He’s standing less than a foot away from me in an enclosed space, and like a true fucking idiot, I’ve gone and provoked him.
Shit, it’s tight in here.
He’s really close to me. He’s so fucking close I can feel the night air radiating off him. A frosty bite that overwhelms me and leaves me unsure if I’m hot or cold.
“I, er…” I have less than no idea what I plan on saying, so it’s a relief to hear my voice peter out.
A relief to me. Not to him. By the look of him, I just got on his last nerve.
He gets to his feet, eyes not leaving mine, and glowers at me. He lowers his head, crowding me, leaning forward so we’re almost nose-to-nose and I’m forced to look up at him. He looks different from here. More human. More animal too.
Jesus, he’s close. Too close. Way too close. It confuses my senses, and I start reacting like I did in the locker room shower. Veins and arteries. Blood and capillaries. Pulse racing.
“Because,” he says like he’s speaking to a blithering idiot, “you’re the only other guy on the team who likes dick.”
My head whips back and forth, a quick, idiotic left-to-right, to check if anyone heard him, despite the fact we’re completely alone.
My throat goes bone dry, but I feel compelled to say something. “Gguck,” is what I come up with. I swallow hard, swirling my tongue around my mouth as I searchmy mind for words, any words that might work in a situation like this. “I-I don’t like dick,” I manage at last.
It seems I’ve managed to provoke him again. And this time, it’s worse. His eyes go blank, black orbs that suck me in and swallow me whole, and he moves like a cat, lightning fast, pushing me against the wall until the towel rail digs into the small of my back. His hand on my bare chest is rough and hot. It burns like a brand. He tilts his head and curls his top lip into a snarl that shows me traces of blood, old scars, and new scars that haven’t knitted themselves together yet.
“Oh no?” he says, eyes not leaving mine. “Why’s your dick hard then?”
I shake my head and open my mouth to deny it. My jaw clicks, but no other sound comes out. I’m going to push him away. Obviously, that’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to do it any second now.
I’m going to do it as soon as my heart rate slows and my brain comes back online.
I reach out and watch, removed, as my hand clenches and my fingers knot into the fabric of his T-shirt. I mean to push him away. I do. In fact, I’m as surprised as he is when I hold him in place and thrust my hips microscopically toward him.
He doesn’t miss it. Instead, he takes it as an invitation, reaching down, top lip still curled, eyes laced with a distant trace of something that would look like mirth if he were anyone else, and cups my balls. His movement is quick, so sudden and unexpected it makes me see stars. His grip is firm, just hard enough to make me squawk. Before I have time to struggle, his hand trails up my shaft and circles me like a vise.
It’s so wrong it almost feels right.
“Hmm,” he says, stepping back and dusting his hands off like the absolute asshole he is. “Feels hard to me.”
It’s hard to explain what’s happening in my body right now. There’s anger coursing through veins, thick and red-hot. Shock too. Oh, there’s plenty of shock, prickly tingles that run up my neck and make my face feel numb. And though I’ll deny it with my last breath, there’s arousal as well. A fuck-ton of it. My cock’s acting like it’s never been touched before. Like it’s never had another person near it. Never been stroked. Never been tugged. It’s straining in my sweatpants, like the traitor it is, trying to get closer to Decker.
I cross my arms tightly over my chest, pressing my lips together, and do my best to ignore it.
“I’d like an apology,” I say when I’m able.
Decker blinks twice and his lips quiver with the effort it costs him not to laugh. “I’m sorry I made your dick hard, Princess.”
I close my eyes and imagine myself taking him by the throat and putting his head through the mirror behind him. It’s a violent, bloodthirsty thought that calms me a little.
“You didn’t make it hard,” I clarify, using an overly clear tone typically reserved for middle school teachers, “I was asleep. It’s morning wood…evening woo—it’s middle-of-the-night wood, okay?”