“This is why I hate gay people,” he sneers, voice low and vicious. “Why the fuck do you walk around the house like that. With your fruity-ass lotion and shiny lips, wearing those tight little shorts, like you’re begging for someone to want you. That is tempting as fuck.”
I force myself up onto one elbow, glaring back at him.
“It’s my mother’s house,” I spit, breathing hard. “I’ll wear whatever the hell I want. And if you think that’s tempting, Tim, then maybe you’re the one with a problem.”
His sneer falters—just a crack—but then his face twists into pure rage.
“Maybe,” I add, tone sharp, “you’re the one that needs to come out of the damn closet.”
His whole body goes rigid. Red climbs his neck to his ears, his jaw clenches, then the slap comes.
Hard.
Right across the side of my face, his palm connects with my ear so brutally, I swear I hear ringing. My head jerks to the side, my breath catches, and then another strike lands, this one across my mouth.
I taste blood.
“I’m not gay, you little freak,” he snarls, his voice shaking with something raw and ugly as he grabs my shirt and drags me up by the collar. “You think this is some kind of joke? You think I want you?”
He’s so close I can smell the liquor on his breath, the sweat on his skin.
His gaze drops to my mouth, then lifts slowly and deliberately back to my eyes.
“For someone who isn’t gay, you sure as hell want to kiss me, from the way you’re breathing in my face,” I snap, even though pain is still ringing in my ear like a bell struck too hard.
Josh chuckles, low and cruel. “He’s got balls, I’ll give him that.”
“Not for long,” Nate says from somewhere behind him. I turn just in time to see him open a bag Caleb’s holding. A cheap tequila bottle—my mother’s favorite brand—gleams under the dim light. He pops the cap, downs a swing, then walks toward me like he owns the floor beneath us.
I flinch when he shoves Tim aside and grabs me by the back of the neck, yanking my head up. The bottle scrapes against my skin before the liquor slashes across my mouth and face—cold, stinging, burning my eyes. I try to shove him off, but his grip is like a vise.
“When I’m done with you,” Nate breathes, his lips grazing my cheek, “that smart little mouth won’t be able to snap at anyone ever again.”
Something in his tone makes my blood chill. It isn’t just a threat. It’s a promise.
He sees the fear tightening my throat, creeping up my spine like ice water, and he grins, slow and unholy.
“That look turns me on.”
My gut twists.
I shove him. Harder than I think I can. Somehow, I break free, lungs bursting, but I barely make it up before Tim’s on me again.
And puts a blade to my throat.
Everything stills.
“Stay. Fucking. Still,” Tim hisses, pressing the tip of the knife just enough for me to feel the bite. “You move again, and I’ll cut your neck open and watch you bleed out. And then—when you’re done, I’ll take this knife and carve your best friend Tyler into something unrecognizable.”
My heart claws against my ribs. My legs are shaking. I can’t breathe.
Not because of the knife.
But because now, it’s real. This isn’t just a scare tactic; this is a trap I walked into, and I know deep in my gut: I’m not walking out the same.
Maybe not at all.
“On your knees, Lucas,” Nate says, voice like gravel. He’s standing just beside Tim now, arms crossed, jaw twitching. “Get off that damn floor and kneel.”
