Chapter 12
Eamonn
The next week went by in a flash of classes as Eamonn’s flatmates buckled down in their studies. They only went to the pub once and turned the kitchen table into a library. Eamonn didn’t want to feel left out and joined them to do homework, though he didn’t appreciate them wasting their final year of uni stuck in a book. Rafe turned out to be an academic renaissance man. He helped Eamonn with his maths homework and worked with him to craft an essay for his business ethics class. Eamonn resisted the urge to play footsie with him under the table or kiss his shoulder when he leanedclose.
Eamonn was grateful that what had happened on the football pitch hadn’t made things weird between them. That hadn’t stopped him from thinking about that evening, though. He found himself dreaming of Rafe’s lithe body bouncing up and down on his cock and then waking up with a massive erection. And the only way to take care of that was to wank off while picturing fucking Rafe’s brains out. He kept this to himself, though. Rafe was his friend, and he didn’t want to risk mucking that up any further by attacking him with his lips again. Plus, Rafe was making no effort to snog or flirt with him, so Eamonn figured his attraction was one-sided.
On Friday evening, Eamonn came into the kitchen and found Heath and Rafe with their bloody textbooks open yet again. It was simplyunacceptable.
“No. I can’t let this happen.” Eamonn shut both of their textbooks. “It is Friday night. You are not staying in to dowork.”
“I was just finishing up.” Rafe scribbled a final note in the bottom corner of hispad.
“I expected more of you, Rafe. You’re an American abroad. You should be binge drinking and consuming copious amounts of drugs and doing things that would get you extradited back to your home country,” Eamonnsaid.
“The night isyoung.”
“And you.” Eamonn turned to Heath. “What happened to my mate who once wrote a ten-page essay while smoking a spliff and watching a marathon ofBlackMirror?”
“Still here, wanker. Hoping tograduate.”
“Hopeless.” Eamonn turned back to Rafe. “Apothecary?”
“Didn’t you tell Rafe you would take him to a gay bar?” Heath asked. “The Yank is here for newexperiences.”
Rafe pointed a pen at Heath. “I agree with MountEverest.”
“All right then. Laffly’s itis.”
Rafe nodded his head with excitement. “Maybe I’ll have better luck offcampus.”
Eamonn deflated at the remark. “Maybe.”
He caught Heath looking at him, and like any good mate, he seemed to get itinstantly.
Rafe
They took a cab to Laffly’s. For a second, Rafe worried that he wouldn’t be allowed in because he was underage, but then he remembered where hewas.
Eamonn wore a fitted, button-down shirt that pulled against his chest and flat stomach. His hair was properly mussed, up and out of his eyes. Rafe hoped Operation: Slut would be a success tonight. He hoped he could find a guy who’d make him forget about the one guy hewanted.
The cab drove down a cobblestone street with quaint cottages and storefronts. Everything was so old in England, like it was all a historical setpiece. This block alone was probably older than all ofAmerica.
“How old do you think those cottages are?” Rafeasked.
“I reckon about 300 years,” the cab driversaid.
Rafe took pictures with his phone, savoring the history around them. In his suburb, “old” meant 1970s. His town had been basically torn down and rebuilt for modern amenities. Ye Old Strip Mall didn’t have the samering.
They stopped at a light. He took pictures of Eamonn with an old cottage in thewindow.
“What are you doing?” Eamonnasked.
“Commemorating.”
“Nothing says Jolly Old England like a picture of a house taken through an automobilewindow.”
“Unless I get a shirt that says ‘Jolly OldEngland.’”
