Oh my god, is it in my hair?
“Ziggy,” Holt says again. “Hey.Hey. I’ll get the spider.”
“Is it on me?” I gasp.
“No.”
It is. He’s trying to make me feel better by telling me it’s not, but I itch.
I itch everywhere.
The spider’s on me.
I start to spin again, but warm hands grip me by the shoulders. “It’s not on you. I can see it. Hold still. I’ll get it.”
I finally blink up at him.
He’s staring at something behind me.
The spider.
He can see the spider.
I gulp for air.
He angles past me, limping.
Oh no.
Oh no no no no.
“Don’t hurt yourself,” I choke out.
“I can handle this one.”
“Your foot?—”
“It’ll be okay.”
“But—”
“It will be okay.”
I look down.
But I don’t see his foot.
I see black boxers, half-tented with a thick hard-on, and my gaze freezes.
Not so much that I don’t also take in hard, flat abs and massive thighs, but enough that I momentarily forget I’m worried about his foot.
You’re an asshole friend, Ziggy.
His foot.
I need to worry about his foot, and instead, I’m staring at the outline of his penis.
“Got it,” he says. “Flush it or let it go free?”
