He nods with a flat little quirk of his lips that doesn’t make it into smile territory. This dull reaction is the opposite of his usual Labrador-enthusiastic response. He’d have buried Ash in questions about besties’ tattoos while filling his iPhone browsers with ink searches.
Since he arrived from California this morning, he has been acting…odd. Lost into his head. His football team won last week. I watched the game on TV, and he played beautifully—at least that’s what the commentator said. So that can’t be the reason behind this atypical behavior. He is sporting a cut under his eye from that game, and I’m sure he has bruises all over his body as well, but he’s never complained about football injuries in all the years he’s been playing it.
Is it related to his transfer here, then? I expected a hint of melancholy about him leaving Stanford, but Brad makes friends as easily as rabbits breed—on top of fitting in anywhere he goes. Is it a girl? I try to remember if a name has come up more often in his stories about his life in California, but it doesn’t seem to be the case.
We leave the tattoo shop, sending another goodbye to Ash, and walk in silence the short distance to Brad’s rental Jeep. I rack my brain for a plausible cause for his odd mood, but I come up empty-handed. As soon as I climb in the passenger seat, I turn toward him.
“Spit it!”
He frowns. “I’m not chewing gum.”
I slap his hand. “What’s with the Lurch Addams mood? And don’t even try to tell me you are fine. I know you inside out, Bradley Lucas Eaton. I could hear solely from your voice over the phone that something is up.”
He sighs and lets his head drop back on the headrest, confirming my suspicions.
“I thought you were stressed because of the transfer. And why are you even transferring here?”
“Sully…I…sorry.”
“I don’t want you to apologize. I want you to confide in me. I kind of feel like you’ve been keeping things from me since…the attack,” I confess.
His head snaps toward me, and a “fuck” leaves his lips. He turns his cap backward, something he does when he’s…uncomfortable. “It involves my father.”
Of course the scumbag is involved, I should have known. He is the reason why Brad went all the way to California. I move my hand over his and squeeze it.
Brad and I met when I started tutoring him. He was two years younger than me, popular and sporty, and I was a nerd with no friends. We came from very different backgrounds, poles apart. He was born in an affluent and wealthy family, with an ancient lineage dating back to the Mayflower—I don’t know why people are proud of descending from pillagers, murderers, and grave desecrators. Still, they do. Me? I don’t even know who my mother is, and I had a drug dealer for a father. But Brad’s always treated me with respect, not caring about my origins and past.
We began hanging out. He invited me to his school games, and I made him fall in love with country music. I spent almost all my afternoons at his house after seeing how lonely he looked in that huge place all by himself. When I won a scholarship to his high school, we became inseparable.
I still think that the fact that we had two assholes for fathers was what really strengthened our friendship at first.
“Is he forcing you to move back?”
His move to Stanford was a hard blow for me. I was used to seeing him every day; he practically lived with me at Rague and Ollie’s. But I got it. Stanford was an amazing opportunity for him, and it took him away from his father.
“No. The opposite.” He huffs.
“So, did something happen at Stanford?”
“No. I mean, yes. I mean…fuck! It’s complicated.”
I have only ever seen him this worked up after the attack I suffered. Is whatever is happening that serious? I’m worried about him, but I don’t want to pry. I know how hard his relationship with his father is. Mine abused me physically until the day he died, while his prefers the mental, controlling kind. Brad is such a sweet soul; he really doesn’t deserve it. Nobody does.
“It’s okay. When you are ready, know that I’m here.” I give his hand a light squeeze and let it go.
“Thank you.” He turns his blue eyes toward me, and they hold wry unhappiness. I don’t like it at all.
“What about you? Anything to spit?” he suddenly asks, turning the engine on.
My mind races like a bullet train from the masked man to the hot dreams, to Lori’s sex toy, and then stops on Ezra. I haven’t told Brad any of it. But there is a more pressing matter I want to say to him face-to-face, before he finds out from others.
“I’m gay,” I let out. My brain isn’t satisfied dropping such a bomb, so it makes me add, “and last week a car almost ran me over.”
The Jeep is backing out of the parking spot when Brad slams on the brakes, making my body lurch forward. The seat belt prevents me from propelling all the way against the glove compartment, but my hands reflexively land on the cold leather surface.
“Fuck, Sully! Warn a dude.”
I raise my palms up in total surrender. “I-I know I should have told you before.”
