I look over at his bed, even though I can't see anything. "Why are you so obsessed with that fanfiction?"
"What if I want to read it?"
"I assure you, it's not the type of thing you'll want to read."
"You don't know that."
"It's a romance," I say. "A lot of fanfiction is romance."
"I can read romance."
"It's explicit."
"Oh?" Curtis says, and I can hear the tease in his voice. "I can read explicit content."
"Good for you," I say.
"Does it include some weird kink, and you don't want to expose yourself —"
"It's not that," I say.
"Is it full of feet? Do you have a foot fetish —"
"Piss off, Curtis," I grumble, but there's no venom in my words.
He laughs softly, as if he's covering his mouth with a blanket. "One day I'll figure it out."
I bring the blankets up to my chin. My pillow is cool under my cheek. "I'd like to see you try," I murmur.
11
Curtis: Good Friend
I'm having a delicious dream, and I know it's a dream because colours are running and blurring into each other like watercolour. I'm leaning over someone, though I don't know who, because their face is pressed into tangled white sheets. It's not Kennedy, though, that's for certain. This person's hair is short. Shorter than Kennedy's.
They make a soft sound, and I press myself harder against the curve of their ass. It's a dream. I can enjoy this. I can rock against them and kiss their neck, and I'm not so fragile that I'll think it'll mean anything.
Of course, before the good part happens, my body decides it's time to wake up. My eyes snap open and white bed sheets come into focus. My cheek is crushed against my pillow, and my erection digs into the mattress. I roll over, keeping myself covered. It doesn't matter, though, because Liam's fast asleep, mouth slightly open, as per usual.
I check the time. Six-thirty. I sigh and close my eyes, trying to return to the dream. I can't go back to it — I never can — and end up lying there, thinking about it. I try to ignore my erection for about thirty seconds before my willpower breaks, and with an annoyed sigh, I roll myself out of bed and head to the bathroom. I switch on the tap for the shower, blasting steamy hot water. As I strip, I notice the remains of dried pimple cream on my chin.
Once inside the shower, I lean against a wall and close my eyes and my hands wander south.
*
"Curtis. Curtis. Are you dead?"
Someone pokes my shoulder and my eyes flutter open.
Liam stands over me, face close enough for me to see his individual lashes. They're thick and curled and accentuate the deep chocolate brown of his eyes. No wonder girls think he's so pretty.
Boss me around. What do you want me to do? I'll do anything you tell me to. His words from last night fly into my mind, and I shake my head to get rid of them. Why am I thinking about that?
Liam's finger approaches my shoulder, but I slap it away before he can poke me again. "I'm not dead," I grumble, voice raspy from sleep.
"I can see that," Liam says. Instead of his sweatpants, he's dressed already, his face washed and cleanly shaven. The only thing that's dishevelled about him is his purposely messy hair.
Horror runs through me because if Liam's ready, that means —
