Chapter Six

 

 

 

It feels wrong, thinking about Carter when Layla’s right here, right in front of him, but he can’t get the - fight? Is that what just happened? He can’t get it out of his head. He thinks back over what he can remember through the pounding headache and overwhelming tiredness, trying to make some sense of it, but in the end, he’s just as confused as when he started.

Only one thing Carter said really stands out. Mistake. It was a mistake. Scott leans his head down on the arm of the couch and takes a deep breath. At least...at least he knows.

He wedges himself onto the sofa as carefully as he can, not wanting to wake Layla up but needing the comfort of her body next to his. He’s sore all over, and his head feels like it’s about to crack open, and all he wants right now is to close his eyes and feel the warmth of another person. One who does want him.

He falls asleep easily, too exhausted, too worn to hang on any longer or to worry about what the world will look like when he wakes up.

When he feels gentle fingers combing through his hair, Scott only knows time has passed because his headache has lessened from imminent death to a more reasonable pounding. He doesn’t want to open his eyes, but Layla somehow senses he’s awake.

“You feeling okay, baby?” she asks quietly.

“Hungover,” Scott mumbles.

“When did you get back last night?”

Scott shifts one shoulder in a half-shrug. His back feels tense and knotted; he falls back into his previous position. “Late. Early. Slept over.”

Layla makes a noise in the back of her throat, like a cough. “Slept over where?”

“At Carter’s. Sorry. Meant to call.”

“I was worried about you. I didn’t know if you were out drinking or passed out somewhere or if you crashed into a ditch or something.”

“I know, I suck. I’m sorry. We were just...up really late talking. I lost track of time. And then he was too drunk to drive me home.” Scott tries to sit up, but the room sways unsteadily as he does, and Layla sighs and pushes him back down.

“Here.” She reaches for the side table and comes back with pills in one hand and a water bottle in the other, and Scott looks up at her gratefully as he takes them.

“God, thank you. You’re way too good to me... I don’t deserve you.”

She stands up and shakes her head. “You’re right. You don’t.” And Scott wants to make it up to her, wants to hold her close and rest his head on her shoulder and ask what he can do...but she’s already walking away, and he can feel sleep pulling him back under. He rolls over and stares at the back of the couch, picking at stray fibers with one fingernail. She’ll forgive him. Or maybe she won’t and he’ll have to find a new place to live. He’s been through it all before. Nothing changes.

And then he shifts and feels the soreness in his ass, the not-quite-bruises where Carter’s hands have been, and he realizes that he’s wrong. This is different. This is new.

He hears Layla come back into the living room a few minutes later, stepping softly, almost soundlessly on the carpet. Scott blinks himself awake again, thinking she’ll want to talk, but she just leans over him and kisses his cheek.

“I’m going to be at rehearsal all day today,” she tells him. “Will you be all right?”

“Just gonna sleep.”

“Okay. Will you try and call your mother today, if you feel up to it? She left me another message last night,” Layla says, and Scott holds back a groan. He loves his mom. He does. But ever since the move, she’s been wanting to talk to him all the time. She calls him more from Hawaii than she ever did from a half-hour away.

Layla gives him a look, but eventually she relents and kisses his cheek again. Her lips are soft, and Scott rolls over onto his back, trying to chase them with a real kiss. His thighs rub together and Scott can feel the bruises there. He remembers Carter’s teeth scraping across that tender skin, and he can’t keep his face neutral. Layla strokes Scott’s hair away from his face and asks, “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“I’m fine, baby. Don’t let me make you late, too.” She gives him one last searching look, and for a second he thinks she’s going to press the issue. He closes his eyes and prays to no one that she just goes. He can’t...he just can’t right now. The words leave me alone are on the tip of his tongue, dying to escape, and he knows they’re cruel, knows he’ll hate himself even more if he says them. If she doesn’t go right now, he’s going to anyway.

But Layla just turns and picks up her bag, heading out and leaving Scott alone with an empty house and his own too-busy mind.

He means to go back to sleep, he really does. Instead, he gets up and stumbles his way to the kitchen, finding the coffee Layla’s left for him and pouring a long shot of whatever the nearest bottle in the liquor cabinet happens to be into the mug with it. Hair of the dog and all that.

He takes a deep drink and recoils at the taste, forcing his eyes to focus on the bottle still sitting on the counter and staring at it like it’s done him wrong. Why does he even have raspberry vodka?

Still, it’ll work, and it beats making a whole new pot. Scott shrugs and takes the mug right into the shower with him, letting the heat work him from the inside out, hot coffee and hot water and warm rush of fresh alcohol combining to finally let his muscles relax.

He scrubs hard at the sticky spots on his stomach, soaping himself up and rinsing off until his skin is squeaky clean and smooth, and he tries to do the same with his ass, but rubbing the loofa there just hurts, and the soap suds sting, and he has to hold onto the tile wall to stay upright. He turns around and lets the water run down his back instead, exploring with tentative fingers, half expecting to see blood when he pulls his hand away. But his fingers are clean when he looks down at them, and he decides he must just be sore - doesn’t know how anyone wouldn’t be after...Carter. He wonders if it always hurts like this, or... Carter said it shouldn’t. But how could it not? Maybe he’s just not meant for this, too small or too tight, just wrong. Maybe his body is telling him that it’s better to just stick to chicks. They don’t push him like Carter did. Much easier. Safer. And he doesn’t hurt the next day.

After washing his hair and his face, Scott steps out of the shower and stands, naked and dripping, in front of the full-length mirror on the back of the door. He looks himself over slowly, carefully, trying to pick out any suspicious marks on his skin. There’s a bit of red right at the corner of his jaw - he remembers Carter biting him there, but not hard - but it’s nothing Layla would notice unless she was looking for it. It almost looks like razor burn. Most of the rest of his body looks innocent enough, flushed pink from the shower but otherwise normal. Twisting around, he tries to catch a peek at his back, hardly believing that there could be so little left behind after last night. He feels like it should be written all over him. Like Carter’s fingerprints should be right there, burning into his skin, marking him as...something. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to call himself now. None of the words sound right. He didn’t have sex with a man. He had sex with Carter. It seems different, in his head.

He wishes there was someone to ask. To explain it to him. Instead, he finishes up the last of his drink and goes to collapse in bed, burying himself under the covers and pretending that he never has to come out.