“That’s one way of putting it,” replies the other, dragging her sunglasses halfway down her nose to get a better look at Luke’s abs.
“Luke!” I call out. “Time to go home.”
On the way home he buys me a bottle of water and lets me run for two minutes and walk for one. I’m so astronomically grateful that I find myself looking at him and making a vow to myself; I’m not going to mess with him. I’ve hurt people who are way, way tougher than him in the past. I’ve done it without even meaning to. I’ll stay away from him. I’ll stop thinking of him like I’ve been thinking of him and for the love of all that is holy, I won’t eventhinkof talking to him through the bedroom wall again.
It's simple. I’m going to leave him alone. It’s not hard to do. The guy is my stepbrother. My father is legally married to his mother. For better or worse. For once in my life, I’m going to be the bigger person and do the right thing. I feel so pleased with my decision I almost start to believe post-exercise endorphins are a real thing.
My resolve is solid. Strong. It lasts all day. Through lunch, through the afternoon, and well into the evening. It lasts until eleven thirty PM.
Then it cracks.
It cracks the next night, and the next, and the one after that too.
Every night is the same as the first night. The same, but worse. I wait until I hear him start jerking off and then tell him what to do. Every night I edge him harder, and my instructions are darker and dirtier than they were the night before. On Wednesday night I make him pinch his nipples so hard they’re dark pink and peaked the next morning and he flinches when he sinks down into the ocean. I spend the whole time we’re at the beach after our run trying not to look. I try not to look when he’s on the lounger at home and I try not to look when Gould and Chase come round in the afternoon and he’s wearing a soft cotton tank that clings to his chest. I do allow myself brief leeway to fantasize about strangling Gould with the phone charger he finally remembered to bring over when he drapes his arm around Luke and his hand hovers a little too close to those tight, pebbled nipples for my liking, but I feel that can’t be helped.
On Thursday I make him taste his precum and tell me he likes it. I make him squeeze the tip of his dick until he’s squealing and begging for release. Then I make him wait until I’m convinced he’s lost his ability to speak or reason.
On Friday I resolve to be gentle. I do my best, but gentle has never come naturally to me. I make him ride the wave of his peak over and over, pulling back at the last second each time. The fourth time he says, “Jessie,please.”
I tell him to lick the middle finger on his free hand and I make him circle his hole. I make him repeat my instruction back to me and I make him swear he’s doing as I say. I make him tell me he likes it. I tell him the only way I’ll allow him to come is if he presses his finger inside himself all the way up to the second knuckle. His orgasm comes less than two seconds later. It sounds guttural and harsh. Almost violent.
I spend all day trying not to think about the sounds he makes when I tell him to touch himself, low groans when I tell him to stroke and anguished whimpers when I make him back up. The sounds travel through plaster and paint and land like a soft caress on my skin. I try not to think about how when it’s over, I lie on my side, facing the wall, pathetically pressing my hand against the wall and I wait. Every night I wait for him to say it.
“Jessie.”
His throat sounds dry when he says it. I try not to think about how much I like the way my name sounds coming from him.
I lie there aching, arousal running so thick in my veins, my heart feels like it’s taking serious strain pumping blood to my limbs. I don’t touch myself. I don’t allow it. I wait until I’m positive he’s asleep. He sleeps with his door open. Last night I stood in his doorway and peered in, making sure his eyes were closed and his breathing was deep. I watched him for a while then I jacked it in the shower, like a grown-up.
And yes, I’m someone who currently takes at least two long showers per day.
Why do you ask?
Most of all the thing I try not to notice and the thing I try not to think about is that as the days go by, Luke looks worse and worse. He looks tired in the morning. Dark circles have appeared beneath his eyes. Yesterday we watched an entire episode of The White Lotus and he didn’t say a single word the whole time. Not one.
This morning he’s wearing his goddamn sleeping shorts again, his hair is standing on end, and he has two cups of coffee and only one breakfast. No fruit snack whatsoever. No assault, sexual or otherwise, on any part of the yogurt container.
I’d love it if I didn’t have to see his bare chest all the time. His nipples look normal again. Flat and soft dusty pink. The sight of them makes me feel dangerously inflamed. “Could you put some clothes on?”
He looks at me for several beats longer than such a simple request warrants. He holds my gaze and clenches his jaw so slightly you probably wouldn’t notice it if you weren’t a person making an idiotic habit of studying his face. He lowers his jaw. I do the same. An image of two bulls locking horns comes to mind.
“No,” he says lightly.
“D’you mind if I take your car? I want to go for a drive, get my bearings a little.”
“Sure,” says my dad, tossing his keys to me.
“Can I come?” Luke’s lips are quirked up at the sides. They’re soft and puffy. A little too soft and too puffy for his masculine face. Something about them makes me want to hold his head firmly in both hands and bite down hard on his bottom lip.
“I’m a nervous driver,” I lie. “I like to get to know the car before I drive a passenger.”
Luke’s face falls but my dad looks impressed at how responsible I am.
“Why don’t we dust off the boards, Lu?” says Rachel. “The waves look good today and it’s been ages since we went for a surf.”
“Nah, I don’t feel like it. Might just chill here.”
I swing my backpack over one shoulder and head out. As I turn to give them a wave, I see Rachel leaning down, feeling Luke’s forehead with the back of her hand.
