Some Boy (What's Love? #1)

by Jenna Cox

  As gently as I could, I parted his hair and brushed the wet matted clumps of it out of the way, searching for the origin of the blood that streaked his face. I had to clench my teeth together as my stomach lurched, when I found the gash in his hair. It was still oozing blood, and I couldn’t really see clearly how bad it actually was. There was blood under my fingernails when I took my hands away.

  I turned to the sink, opening the cupboard underneath it to peer inside. “Clean towels or anything in here?” I was saying it almost to myself, because the state of the house wasn’t giving me much hope of finding a clean anything. And the cupboard contained a few random pill bottles, some mouthwash and bottles of shampoo, but nothing even close to a clean towel. The two hanging on the towel rail, and the one in a damp ball on the floor didn’t look promising.

  “There’s alcohol in the kitchen.” I assumed he meant for cleaning the wound and not for drinking, but I couldn’t be sure. “And get a clean shirt from my room,” he added.

  “You want to use a shirt?”

  “What else are you going to use?”

  I opened and closed my mouth a few times. “Okay. Which is your room?”

  “Door at the end,” he said, pointing me in the right direction and I left him in the bathroom to investigate. I passed a door plastered in pictures of boyband members and Keep Out signs, and then came to his at the end of the hallway. It had a heavy lock on it, one you’d normally find on a front door, not a bedroom. But the wood was splintered on the door and the doorframe, like someone had forced their way in. I ran my fingers over it, blinking slowly. A shiver ran down my spine.

  Inside, Brendan’s room was almost a shocking contrast to the rest of the house. The draws of a tallboy in the corner had been opened and the clothes inside thrown on the floor. But under that was a clean room, surprisingly neat. Sparse, but warm. And it smelled like him. While the rest of the house had the aroma of mould and smoke, his room was almost sweet and musky. Maybe a hint of tangy boy sweat, but mostly appealing. I had the urge to lie down in his neatly made bed and wrap myself in it.

  But I roused myself and crouched down beside the clothes dumped on the floor. What had gone on here? Someone had been searching for something, clearly. I grabbed an old but clean shirt, dropped it off in the bathroom and made a quick trip downstairs to the kitchen where I found a bottle of vodka in a cluster of alcoholic drinks on the bench. I’d seen it in movies, so I hoped you actually could use it to disinfect wounds. Then I climbed back up to the bathroom where Brendan was leaning over the sink splashing his face with water.

  He glanced at me through the reflection in the mirror then stood and leant against the sink.

  “I can take care of it now. You can go.”

  “I can help—”

  “You don’t have to—”

  “I want to. Fuck Brendan. Just let me fucking help you.” I marched up to him and grabbed him by the shoulders, forcing him to sit back down.

  Then I started running the taps.

  “You’re a scary nurse,” he said, and I glanced at him. Then realised my face was set in a hard scowl. But I couldn’t seem to relax it. I was afraid if I did, I’d start crying.

  “Just sit still,” I said. And I started mopping up the blood with the dampened edge of the T-shirt. “I hope this wasn’t your favourite shirt or anything,” I said. Brendan just winced and hissed through his teeth as I pressed against the cut on his head. The grey cloth was quickly stained dark red. I peered closer at the cut in between dabs, trying to get a look at it before the blood oozed again.

  Then I took the bottle of vodka, took a breath, and tipped some of it over the wound. Brendan’s eyes squeezed shut for a moment, but he kept his jaw clenched and didn’t make a sound until it was over. I could see it more clearly with the blood washed away. I pressed the T-shirt against it again.

  “What’s the damage?” he asked.

  “Well there’s no glass left in it, I don’t think.” I pressed firmly, then lifted the fabric up again. The blood didn’t rush back quite as quick this time. “And the bleeding is slowing. I don’t think it’s as bad as it looks. The cut anyway.”

  My heartbeat seemed to thud loudly into the silence.

  “My life, on the other hand…” Brendan murmured. I swallowed.

  “I’m not judging—”

  “Why not?”

  I chewed on the inside of my lip, concentrating on pressing the wadded up T-shirt against the cut on his head. Brendan sat stoically and silently, leaning his elbows on his knees and staring at the floor.

  “What happened? Did…was this your dad?”

  More staring. I resigned myself to not getting an answer. And then his breath hitched, and he blew out air shakily. I watched a tear roll down his nose and cling, trembling, to the end before he raised his hand and passed it roughly over his face.

  “The man who did this stopped being my dad a long time ago. I don’t even know him anymore.”

  I blinked my hot eyes. “I’m sorry.” It barely came out as a whisper. Brendan shifted, sat up and took over applying pressure to his head, leaning back to look at me. I breathed shallowly for a few moments, then sank down to sit on the edge of the bath. My coccyx protested the sharp angle, and I winced, shifting to perch on a different part of my backside.

  Brendan frowned. “Alright?”

  “Uh, I just, fell. Earlier. I was a bit drunk before I puked it up.” My face grew hot at that memory, not that Brendan seemed fazed by it. “I’m fine. How are you feeling now?”

  “My head’s okay.”

  “Keep it on for a bit longer,” I advised, when he seemed to be considering taking the T-shirt away. He complied. We looked at each other, before Brendan dropped his gaze away. “And what about the rest of you?” He didn’t say anything. I got up from the edge of the bath — a horribly uncomfortable seat anyway — and put my hand on the T-shirt against his scalp. He dropped his hand away. I lifted it gingerly and peered underneath.

  “I’m not hurt anywhere else. The bottle did it’s job,” he said quietly.

  “That’s not exactly what I meant,” I murmured, but I didn’t press it if he didn’t want to talk. The cut wasn’t bleeding much now, and I could see it more clearly. “You’re lucky though. I think it’s only a shallow cut. It could have been a lot worse.”

  “Lucky. Ha.” I didn’t respond to that. I just concentrated on gently cleaning up the blood from his skin and hair as much as I could. I did it slowly, giving myself time to think, a reason to stay in contact with him, because I felt like as soon as he could say he didn’t need me anymore, he’d ask me to leave.

  “Why did your…why did he do this?” I murmured, holding my breath as I waited to see how unwelcome the question was. Brendan was silent for a while, as I expected, but then he took a breath.

  “He comes every so often. To get money. And I got in his way.”

  “He doesn’t live here?”

  “No. Just leeches off us. Off me.”

  “Did he break into your room?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What for?”

  “That’s where I keep it.”

  “Money?”

  “Anything valuable.”

  “Did he… did he find anything?”

  “All of it.”

  “Like—”

  “Like, everything. Every single penny. No, that might not be true. I don’t think he went through the couch cushions this time.”

  “How much?”

  “Why do you want to know? Wanted to get to know me and my life — this what you were expecting?” He leant back away from my hands, and I let my arms fall to my sides, the bloody, wadded up T-shirt in my fist.

  “Being honest, no,” I said. His eyebrows flicked up. “But so what? It doesn’t matter to me.” Brendan snorted and turned his face away. I bobbed down in front of him, took his face between my palms and made him look at me. His skin was cold and damp on the surface, but I could feel the heat of him underneath. I wanted
to kiss him. “It doesn’t.”

  He grabbed my hands and pulled them away from his face, but kept hold of them as he looked down at me. His expression was unreadable. His jaw clenched rhythmically a few times.

  “You should go.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “This freaks you out, I can tell.”

  “It doesn’t.” My voice cracked a little. “And so what if it does. That just means I’m human. But that doesn’t mean I want to run away.” I didn’t think. Part of me did want to, maybe. But something held me. Something magnetic and forceful, that overpowered the fear and bewilderment of the night.

  I slipped my hands out of his, and reached for his face again. He shied away, but I gripped him.

  “I’m just checking your eyes for signs of concussion,” I said, digging my fingers into his cheeks to make him sit still. He frowned at me dubiously, and I bit my lip to stifle a grin. “Just look at me.”

  He did. Held my gaze steadily. His pupils were dilated, but if I was looking for a normal reaction I was getting it. Desire. Same as what I was sure showed in my eyes. My face felt hot. My whole body did. And I leant forward on my knees, rising up to bring myself closer to him. His hands went to my waist, hesitantly, like he was trying to decide whether to pull me in or push me away.

  “Life is shitty, right? Take the good that’s in front of you,” I said, paraphrasing his own words. He gave a small smile. And he didn’t move as I leaned in a pressed my lips to his.

  One of his hands slid up my back, drawing my body closer. He stood, pulling me with him, crushing me against him, and my hands left his face to wrap around his neck. His tongue teased against my lips, and I parted them to let him in. My whole body was trembling with longing for him, and I didn’t stop to analyse, didn’t worry about the wisdom of this whole night. I just gave into it. Let him walk me backwards, out of the bathroom and down the hallway towards his room.

  He gripped my backside and lifted me, carried me, my legs wrapped around his waist, the rest of the way to his bed, where we tumbled down in a tangle. I felt him wince against my mouth and pushed him up.

  “You just lie back,” I murmured, slipping out from under him and pushing him down against the bed. As I straddled his hips, he stripped of his damp shirt and then laid back, bare chested below me. My gaze roved over him, breath catching in my throat. God he was beautiful. I traced my fingers over the lines of his muscles under taught skin, licking my lips unconsciously. Brendan grinned at me and dragged his fingers along the bare skin at my hips, where my light shirt had lifted up. He trailed one hand lower and flicked the button open on my jeans, slipping his thumb inside and running it over the top of my knickers. I gasped breathily as heat flared there.

  Then I stripped off my top — I wasn’t wearing a bra, and the cold air hit might nipples, making them peak tightly. Brendan’s eyes darkened as he watched me, still stroking languidly, teasingly over my throbbing heat with his thumb. I ran my own hands over my breasts, watching his hungry reaction, then I stood off the bed to slip out of my jeans, then my underwear, until I stood completely naked in front of him. He sat up to grab my hands and pull me back to him, laying back onto the pillow and pulling me with him; I was straddling him again and leaning over to kiss him, tendrils of wet hair falling down around us.

  His hands slid up my thighs, and he brought his thumb against me again, pressing firmly and stroking a few times until I was shuddering and writhing. I searched for his jeans and unzipped them; I tucked my fingers into the waistband of his underwear underneath and pulled everything off together, moving down his body to remove them and fling them away.

  I looked up at him from where my face hovered above his thighs, biting my lower lip as I slowly moved up again, letting my hot breath graze over his throbbing nakedness, kissing the skin of his stomach either side. Kissing up higher and letting my breasts graze across him. Brendan dropped his head back on the pillows and closed his eyes with a groan, as my fingers circled around his hardness, and I slid them up and down the length of him.

  I bent my head down and took the tip of him into my mouth. He was salty and musky, and I took him deeper with a moan, running my tongue and my lips up and down.

  “Fuck,” he murmured, breathlessly, and my movements sped up slightly, one hand still gripping him, and the other raking over his skin. “Get on me,” he said, reaching for my hips to pull me up. I let him guide me until I was hovering over him, feeling him throb and brush against my hot, wet centre. I leaned down and kissed him as I lowered, meeting the tip of him, inch by inch letting him slide inside me, feeling myself clench and spasm around him. We panted against eachother’s mouths until I fully enclosed him. I could feel him pulse, filling me.

  I sat up and started to rock, slowly at first, moving my hips against his. The liquid heat between my legs flared hotter with every stroke. Brendan gripped my hips and held me tightly as his own body rose to meet mine, thrusting and gasping. I rode him faster, harder, leaning forward to grip his shoulders and drive myself against him.

  My hips jerked, my whole body seemed to tighten and shudder at the impending explosion, and I cried out as I burst. I was blinded with white heat, and every cell seemed to pulse with the orgasm. Brendan followed quickly after, driven on by my tightening around him, and my cries of ecstasy, until we were both spent and I collapsed down against his chest.

  We panted together, his hands running over my back in slow strokes, as we caught our breaths and I tried to recover full consciousness.

  “God, I love you,” he murmured, his lips against my ear. Then we both stiffened, rigid and still.

  I was still trying to bring my brain back from the mush it had turned to, and now I was thrown completely off kilter. What did I say to that? Did I pretend I hadn’t heard. My heart thudded wildly. What did I even want to say to that — I didn’t know yet. I hadn’t thought about it.

  Instead of saying anything I just turned my face to him and kissed him, slipping off him to the bed to tuck into his side. Still kissing. My eyes were closed so I didn’t have to look at him. Just kiss him. Maybe he’d forget it had even happened.

  But my whole body still hummed. And I couldn’t help running the words over and over in my mind. I love you. And the question — did he actually mean it?

  *-*-*

  A frantic banging woke me suddenly, and I jerked my eyes open, disoriented. It took me a moment to remember where I was.

  Then Brendan was moving next to me, getting out of the bed with a squeak of springs, and I watched him groggily. There was more banging and a muffled call from downstairs.

  “Who is that?”

  Brendan glanced back at me as he tugged his jeans onto his hips, then reached down into the pile of clothes still on his bedroom floor for a shirt.

  “Just stay here.”

  “Wait—” But he was already out the door, and I could hear him padding down the stairs.

  I crawled out of the bed and searched for my clothes, tugging them on as fast as I could, and wincing as my bruised tailbone flared up. The heat of lust had completely burned the pain away while I was in it, but now I felt stiff and sore. I was still getting my arms in the right holes of my top as I poked my head out of the doorway and looked towards the stairs.

  “He’s not here,” I could hear Brendan saying. I couldn’t make out the slurred response. “Nah, man, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  I crept closer to the landing, ducking down to see the front door below. A balding man with a rash of silvery stubble on his cheeks was shifting from foot to foot in the doorway, and Brendan had his arm across the gap baring his entry.

  “I said, he’s not here.”

  “What have you got? Lend me fifty quid, hey?” the man said and then coughed, a raspy, unhealthy sound, right in Brendan’s face.

  “He already took it all. I’ve got nothing.”

  “Even for a good friend of your dad’s?”

  “Any friend of his is no friend of mine. Get
out of here.” He shut the door forcefully and put the chain across as the man on the other side banged on it violently, shouting obscenities.

  Brendan looked up and saw me watching.

  “I told you to stay up there.”

  “I am up here,” I protested, then stood to my feet and started descending towards him. He met me halfway. Kissed me, then rested his forehead against me. A step below, his eyes were level with mine.

  “I’ll give him a moment to forget what he was even doing here and wander off, and then you should go.”

  “It’s the middle of the night.”

  “All the more reason for you to get out of here. I’ll take you.” He let go of me and moved past, heading up the stairs, and I turned.

  “Shouldn’t we talk,” I said after him, quietly, not convinced even as the words left my mouth. He froze on the stairs without looking back at me.

  “About what?”

  My mouth felt dry. I was still sticky between my legs, but sharper in my memory than the pulsing orgasm he’d given me, were the words he’d said afterwards. But I couldn’t bring it up. “Uh, I just mean… do you need anything. I can lend you money if you need? You know my parents give me too much of it.”

  I saw the muscles in his neck draw taut and braced for the rebuke, berating myself for not being able to keep my mouth shut. But he stayed silent. Then he slowly turned to look down at me, and there was something like sadness in his eyes. Regret. Shame.

  “I’ll be fine. I’ll work something out.” His jaw clenched briefly. “I’ve got something for you, though.”

  My brow dipped. “What?”

  He tilted his head, and I followed him back up the stairs and into his room. There I stood awkwardly in the middle of the space, watching him and feeling tendrils of anxiety creeping over my shoulders. He reached under the bedside table and I heard the rip of tape being pulled away from laminate. He turned with something in his hand; he was looking down at it, like he was still deciding whether to show me what it was or not. All the tendons in his neck were taut. My first thought was drugs. Was it drugs after all? Was it not really his dad who had done this — or it was his dad, but they were in some family business.