CHAPTER nine
Ethan woke up the next morning to pain. His head felt like his brain had been replaced with an anvil ready to break free of his skull. A dry coat of phlegm coated his mouth. The last remnants of jungle juice churned in his stomach. He hadn’t thought he drank that much last night. He’d had two cups of juice. Maybe three? He’d stopped counting as soon as Preston’s lips crashed onto Blake’s.
Am I hungover?
Ethan stared at his ceiling. He feared if he moved any which way, the headache and the nausea swirling inside him would get worse. He wondered how many kids across campus were waking up with hangovers this morning.
His dormmates wouldn’t let him fall back asleep. They ran through the hall as they prepared for the football game this afternoon, making plans, borrowing green face paint, devising plans to sneak in alcohol into the stadium. Were he in better condition, it would’ve sounded fun.
Since he couldn’t move, he continued staring at the white ceiling and let his mind do the wandering. The party played on a loop in his head. Why had he turned down Preston’s offer to play beer pong? Because he was boring?
Sometime later, a knock blared in his head and caused a sharp pain. He stumbled out of bed and crept to the door. Why is everyone awake at eight-thirty?
Including Jessica.
“Hey, did you want to go to Azucar for breakfast?” She was all dressed and smiling and ready to go, but then she noticed Ethan’s appearance. “Are you okay?”
He brushed his palm over his hair in a feeble attempt at freshening up. “Yeah. I just woke up.”
“You sure?” She peered closer. “Are you hungover?”
He laughed that off, which did not help his headache. “No. Just tired.”
He wasn’t sure if she believed him. She was a journalism major, after all. She was trained to spot a lie.
“Coffee will help,” she said.
And water, too. I am so freaking thirsty.
“Want to meet in the lobby in ten minutes?”
Ethan leaned against the door. Not for cool points, but to avoid collapsing into a pile of pain, dehydration, and utter exhaustion. “Can we do twenty?”
Thirty minutes later, his crew strolled through the Browerton campus en route to Azucar. They passed clumps of students decked out in lime green trekking up to the stadium. Jessica didn’t say much to Ethan. He knew how she felt about punctuality and drinking. He had a feeling her future children would either turn out to be nuns or juvenile delinquents.
Azucar was the Starbucks alternative in Duncannon, and it screamed quirk. Each wall was painted a different color, and instead of uniform tables and chairs, there was a variety of antique furniture. Ethan and his friends staked out a trio of fainting couches. Ethan sprawled out on a periwinkle chaise and left the end for Anna to squeeze onto. He was about to fall into a nap right then and there, but then he saw Preston.
With Blake.
They sat down at the empty fainting couch. Preston had on a crisp lime-green T-shirt, while Blake wore the same outfit he’d had on last night. Nausea flared up inside Ethan again, but not because of his hangover. If it wasn’t bad enough that he’d had to watch Preston and Blake make out in front of his eyes at the party, he now had to spend time with them during the day.
Preston didn’t waste any time introducing Blake to their circle of friends. Blake was a journalism student, so he knew Jessica, Dave, and Anna already. It was almost too easy. He got along with everyone. He was chatty, funny, smart. He spent part of breakfast having a heated argument with Jessica about the cancer danger involved with Sweet’N Low. And his mom’s family was from Kansas, so Anna was a fan.
The worst part for Ethan was watching Preston and Blake share small moments of affection. A lingering glance here. A handhold there. They thought nobody could see or that nobody would care. Wrong on both counts. That could’ve been me. He’d had a window of opportunity, and he’d blown it.
Ethan tore into a blueberry muffin, not realizing how hungry he was until the sweet taste hit his tongue.
“GO WHITETAILS! WOOO!!!”
Ethan jumped about five feet out of his chaise. A trio of students covered in lime-green face paint ran back out the front door. He could see them through the front window, pumping their fists in the air and dancing (or wobbling) down the sidewalk.
Jessica shook her head and heaved out a sigh, then sipped her drink.
Another passerby held his mouth up to the window and breathed onto the glass. It was juvenile, rude, and just plain stupid.
Ethan stifled a laugh.
As they were leaving Azucar, Preston touched Ethan’s elbow. “Can I talk to you for a second?”
Despite everything he’d witnessed in the past twelve hours, Ethan held onto a scrap of hope. He couldn’t stay angry at those green eyes.
Ethan hung back with Preston as their friends walked ahead.
“I wanted to apologize about last night,” Preston said. “I brought you to the party to help you meet our LGBT brethren at Browerton. And then I…” He glanced at Blake, gabbing away with Jessica. “Anyway, I’m sorry I disappeared on you. Did you have fun at least? I think I saw you talking to Devon. She’s cool, right?”
He realized Preston was referring to the girl Ethan had asked to dance. “Yeah.”
“She’s funny. She tells it like it is,” Preston said with a laughed. Apparently Devon had never called Preston boring. There was no harsh truth about him to uncover.
“Thanks for inviting me,” Ethan said.
“We’ll have to do it again some time.” Preston looked directly into Ethan’s eyes, and his hangover vanished. “You, me, and Blake can hit up some future parties.”
And suddenly, Ethan felt a pain inside that made a hangover seem like a paper cut.
Φ
By the time Tuesday came, Ethan didn’t care about being late to Constitutional Law. He took his time trudging past happier students. He enjoyed the crisp air breezing through the leaves and the general beauty of the Browerton campus.
Ethan entered class on slide two of Professor Sharpe’s lecture. He couldn’t get excited for it. Not when the professor viewed him as a latecomer. Maybe latecomer was a nice word for boring. For stiff. Ethan had thought college would be a fresh start for him, but perhaps he was destined to be blah no matter where he went.
He took his usual seat.
“You’re really late.” Greg was reading something about basketball on his phone. He shook a mock-concerned finger at Ethan.
Ethan didn’t have the energy to respond.
“No biting retort?”
“Not today.” Ethan focused on the professor and applied himself extra-hard to wake himself out of this funk. He figured that schoolwork was the one constant in his life he couldn’t afford to jeopardize. Yes, he was down in the dumps about his so-called boringness, but he wouldn’t let that tank his GPA and risk his future. Being a boring Supreme Court justice wouldn’t be a terrible way to spend a life.
Ethan scribbled away. He peered to the side, and Greg was copying his notes.
“I thought you didn’t care.”
“I don’t, but Sharpe is being feisty today, calling on students at random. I want to be prepared.”
“Well, take your own notes.”
“If it’s possible, you’re even less fun today,” Greg said while copying away.
He still looked like he’d rolled out of bed, but in his casual sexy way. His large, thick fingers drummed against his notebook. Ethan thought about the locker room, but then shoved the visual out of his mind.
“And what case argued for the right of legal defense in all criminal cases?” Professor Sharpe asked the class. The first student he tried didn’t know. The room stayed quiet. Ethan could hear the shame rippling through the auditorium at the kid’s screwup.
“Anyone?”
“Gideon vs. Wainwright, sir,” Greg said.
“Good. Yes…” Professor Sharpe said before launching back into his lecture.
Ethan’s eyes bulged. He hadn’t known Greg’s voice could be so booming. Ethan was not a yeller. Even when he was supposed to yell, it came out as a stern talking voice. He wished he could be one of those guys not afraid to raise his voice, even though most of the time it was super-obnoxious.
But Greg’s loud voice was the last of Ethan’s problem.
“You took that from my notebook,” Ethan said. That could’ve been him. He could’ve saved the class, received a compliment from Professor Sharpe, had latecomer expunged from his record.
“You weren’t saying anything,” Greg said.
“Since when do you need brownie points?”
“I don’t. But now it’ll keep him off my back.”
“Thanks to my notes.”
Greg cocked his head to the side and gave Ethan a “now really” look. Hair fell into his eyes. “It’s not like you were going to shout it out.”
“What?”
“The answer. You had it there. But you weren’t going to shout it out to the class.”
“Yes, I was.”
“You weren’t.”
Ethan didn’t know why he still let himself get offended by Greg. By now he realized that every word that came out of Greg’s mouth was designed to tear him down. That didn’t make it any better.
“I saw you. You were too scared to shout out the answer.”
Ethan turned back to the professor. Why was he letting Greg suck him in once again?
Greg’s face softened a bit. “I’m sorry for taking your answer. I’m just joking around with you, dude.”
“Stop. Calling. Me. Dude.”
Greg held up his hands in surrender, but that smirk was still there. “Let’s just call it even.”
Another explosion of anger burst onto Ethan’s face. “Even? Even for what?”
“I sneaked a peek at your notes, and you sneaked a peek of me in the locker room.”
Ethan felt his cheeks turn fifty shades of red. A lump of air caught in his throat. Panic zipped across his face.
“What are you talking about?” Ethan squinted, acting as confused as possible.
“I caught you checking me out as I walked to the showers.”
“No.” Ethan shook his head. He had visions of getting beat up, of the news spreading around the school. “I thought you said something so I turned around, but you didn’t.”
“Sure, sure. You turned and waited a good long moment.”
“No, it was only a second.” Heat rose up his neck, burned inside his head.
“Don’t try to deny it, dude. I caught you red-handed. I’m flattered, by the way.”
Ethan’s hand trembled. Just keep denying, he told himself. He could never admit to that. “I turned around and saw you for maybe half a second. I wasn’t staring, and there wasn’t much to look at.”
A total, complete lie. But this was not a time to stroke Greg’s ego.
Greg’s eyebrows leapt up. “Not much to look at?”
“Yeah.” Ethan let out a mini-laugh. He could see this was pinching at something within Greg. “It was so small, I could barely see anything.”
“I think you’re mistaken.”
“I don’t think I am.”
“I beg to differ.”
And then Greg grabbed his dick through his warm-up pants. Ethan glimpsed the outline of his thickness. It was long, imposing, commanding. And it wasn’t even hard.
Ethan wanted to jump with shock. He wanted to scream at Greg for being obnoxious and disgusting and immature. But that’s what Greg expected. That’s what everyone expected.
Greg let go of himself. “Toldja you were mistaken.”
Before Ethan could double-think his actions—hell, before he could think about them at all—instinct and impulse conspired together. He grabbed Greg’s dick. He felt the heat radiating from under those pants.
Greg’s reaction was priceless to Ethan. Now he was the one shocked, caught completely off-guard. Ethan’s heart pounded in his chest. Neither of them said a word. Both of them held still. Surprise remained etched onto Greg’s face.
Ethan was going to remove his hand, but then he noticed that Greg was not doing anything about it. They looked at each other and shared some weird telepathic moment. Greg’s expression changed. His pupils got wide, and he seemed not to hate this. They both got locked into this moment, where Ethan forgot where he was—who he was.
Ethan felt Greg’s dick hardening up, so he began stroking it over his pants. Slow strokes. Greg’s eyes remained fixed on Ethan, watching his hand slide back and forth. Someone in front of them could turn around at any second. Professor Sharpe could call on them. Someone could exit through the adjacent back door. All of these things could happen. Ethan ran the risk assessment, and it kept coming back as, Abort.
And yet, somehow, that made him stroke harder. Greg reached for Ethan’s notebook and used it as a cover, then readjusted himself so Ethan could get better leverage.
Ethan didn’t know what he was doing. He didn’t know what Greg was thinking. They’d crossed a threshold. Fear and exhilaration coursed through his veins, gave his body a jolt of energy. He felt alive.
“We’ll continue this tomorrow,” Professor Sharpe said to the class.
Students started up conversations again. The flapping of closing notebooks broke Ethan from this trance. It had to be a trance, right? Suddenly, he looked down at himself giving Greg Sanderson a semi-hand job in the middle of the most important class of his undergraduate career.
Ethan swiped his hand back. Exhilaration scampered off. Now he was left with terror. Greg readjusted himself, and the realization of the moment struck Ethan. He was in the real world. He was Ethan Follett. What am I doing?
He swooped up his books and backpack and rushed out of class.