Now that I’ve wrapped my head around it, I suppose it’s not as crazy as I thought. A protector, a dark knight but then I remember Charlie. How would he feel right now? Knowing that I’m thinking about his darker half. Aching for the cock of the night, instead of the day?
My stomach flips upside down, my dick still straining against my zipper when my dad’s voice cuts through my brain rot.
“Hey Austin. Anybody home?”
“Yes dad, just a little stressed with work,” I mumble, praying he doesn’t notice my tent aching for the wrong brother, as I scramble to cover up with a plush couch pillow.
“Well don’t you worry too much, you saw what it did to me,” He smiles, switching the tv channel to some home renovation channel. Two flamboyant guys in flannels debate which shade of white to paint a room.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Easier said than done.” I grumble, taking a long breath. My dad’s voice occupies the room, but the phantom presence of Drew’s taunting voice returns,remember Lover Boy, the daylight can’t last forever…
This man is going to drive me fucking insane. He’s already in my head, rewriting my thoughts so that I can’t tell whether they are mine or his. Maybe I should call my mother, to hear her honest voice, perhaps she can tether me back to reality. Get her unbiased take on the situation.
If I ask my dad, he’d tell me I’m crazy for letting Drew into my head. He’s too boring, too locked into his own neat world of playbooks and home-cooked dinners with French Vanilla Jackson Hicks at his side. The golden couple. A safe suburban fantasy, a perfect modern family.
My dad doesn’t do chaos—fuck, he doesn’t even fricking acknowledge it. He loves to play the oblivious card to anything notdirectly related to football. Of course he’d tell me to stick with Charlie, the house favorite. The golden boy kicker.
No way in hell he’d mention Drew by name. That brother doesn’t exist in his neat little version of our lives. The tattoos alone would be enough to make my dad's jaw drop.
Drew’s the stain on the carpet you cover with a rug, the smell you pretend you can’t smell. A bug that you squash without a second thought.
Yet, here I am, throbbing for the squashed mess on the floor.
Istepoutsideontothe patio, the humidity in the air beginning to fade. The black Range Rover is in full view at the curb. That son of a bitch has tinted windows, can’t tell if he’s in the vehicle or stalking me behind some bushes, waiting to pounce like a panther. My throat tightens as I dial my mom’s number.
“Hey mom, how are you?” I ask lovingly, trying to disguise the chaos ripping through my body.
“It’s great to hear your voice, Austin,” she says, warm but heavy with bittersweet guilt I know too well. “Haven’t heard a peep from you since your birthday. Anyways—how have things been?”
I rub my forehead, staring out at the Rover, making sure Drew isn’t sneaking up on me. I hear a rustle and glance over. My heart pounds on cue, a blue jay darts out of a tree, causing a few leaves to fall on the green grass.
I’m not the best at keeping up with her. She’s tucked away halfway across the country in New Hampshire, hiding out with her parents, allegedly writing a novel. A quiet life. The opposite of mine. One that she chose, one that allowed Jackson Hicks to become a permanent fixture of my life.
“Busy,” I sigh. “Football, you know. And Dad’s… engagement.”
There’s a pause on the other end. She hesitates when his name comes up. “I heard,” she says carefully. “Jackson Hicks, isn’t it? Your friend.”
Ex-friend.The word nearly slips out. Instead I just murmur.“Yeah.”
Silence takes hold between us. The Range Rover’s brights flash. Is he really trying to signal me? Pathetic attempt, but I do feel a bit exposed. Outside, all by myself while Jackson and my father are probably smashing lips to home renovation.
I press the phone tighter to my ear. “So anyways, mom, I’m calling because I’m in a bit of a pickle…”
“What kind of pickle are you in, honey?” She asks, her words laced with a mother’s concern.
I swallow, glancing back at the glow of the headlights.
How do I even phrase this?
That my boyfriend’s psychotic twin brother is stalking me like a predator, and worse—my body is stabbing me in the back by wanting it? That every time I see his name on my phone, I can’t decide if I want to block him or open the windows and beg him to lay under my sheets?
“It’s… complicated,” I say finally, voice cracking with an awkward laugh. “Guy trouble, I guess.”
There’s a pause. Then a gentle sigh. “Oh, Austin. It’s always guy trouble with you.”
For the longest time, my mother was the only person I confided in. She was my vault, the one who held every jagged secret of me. She knew before anyone else. Kept my secret for years while I tried to pass as straight for my teammates, my dad, even myself on some days. With her, I never had to explain the storm dividing me in half, never had to justify who I wanted.
I never felt comfortable telling my father. Football coach, man of discipline, who could barely stomach me dyeing my hair bleach blonde in high school for the state tournament. I’d thought he would disown me if he knew. But last year, I gave him a chance. I opened up, told him who I was, expecting judgment, maybe disappointment. Instead, he blindsided me with his ownsecret—that he’d been fucking Jackson behind my back. My best friend.
