Getting It Twisted (Unforgivable Needs #1)

7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Nathan

After wiping my shirt so furiously it almost rips, I exit the bathroom, on the hunt for a drink. Or several drinks. Only, I don’t get far before a hand grabs hold of me and George leans into my ear.

“You want what you came here for? Come with me.”

He leads me into the bedroom opposite Daniel’s. Rummaging around in a drawer, he comes up with a ziplock bag containing the lone key to my house. When I reach out a hand, he returns the key where he found it and steps in front of me, obscuring it from view.

“First, you’re going to tell me what you’re planning.”

“Planning? With what?” I cross my arms, instantly bored. At least boredom is better than the sting of rejection. My jaw clenches when I think of how Daniel pinned me down and jerked me off like it was a damn chore. As a cherry on top, he refused to fuck me too.

At least he kissed me. Damn, he’s a good kisser. And his callused hand jerked me so rough and hard, just the way I like it. Maybe it wasn’t so bad after all, but it wasn’t enough.

“Planning,” George says, “with Daniel.”

“What? Oh. Well, I was coming back to town. What was I supposed to do?”

He throws his hands up. “You could have—I don’t know—left him alone!”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

“So that’s all this is to you? Some ‘fun’?”

“What else would it be?” I ask, crossing my arms. There’s no way I’ll reveal to George just how much Daniel means to me. Besides, it’s easier to let him think I’m a careless sociopath or whatever. More fun too.

“He just went through a breakup, okay? He’s . . . sensitive. Fragile.”

“What do you mean?”

“Why do you think he couldn’t handle college, huh? Four years ago, he could barely get out of bed. He didn’t shower, didn’t eat. He flunked out of his spring semester. Around the same time, his parents got divorced, so God knows they didn’t have time for him. I visited him on campus once, and I . . . I’d never seen him that way. I worried he’d end up like our uncle Ralph.”

“Who?”

“My dad’s twin brother. He hung himself in the shower curtain when they were nineteen.”

“Oh,” I huff. “Maybe that’s why old Wayne is such a stuck-up, miserable fucking—”

George’s fist hits me square on the jaw. The impact causes my teeth to slice the inside of my cheek, filling my mouth with blood, and the back of my head slams into the door.

The world goes black for a moment. When I come back online, George’s fist is clenched in my shirt, and the look in his eyes is one of pure and utter hatred.

“Go on.” I show him my bloody teeth in a smile. “Hit me again. I know you wanna beat the shit out of me. What are you waiting for?”

If I can’t get fucked tonight, I need to see blood. Somebody else’s or my own. The pain of that punch lit up my synapses in much the same way a good fuck would, and now I want more. More pain. More of that sick thrill I get from being at somebody else’s mercy.

If George started beating me for real, maybe Daniel would intervene and finally see his cousin for the asshat he is. He’d take me back home and patch me up. Assure me that everything will be all right, like in the good old days.

But when I don’t fight back, George seems to lose some of his steam.

“I’m not doing this with you,” he says, hand still gripping my shirt. “This is about Daniel. Not you and me.”

“Yeah, you tell yourself that.”

“Where was I?” he continues, paying me no heed. “Right. Daniel’s post-Nathan slump. I thought he was bummed out about his parents’ divorce, but all he ever spoke about the year prior was Nathan this, Nathan that. And that’s when I understood: It was because of you . Whatever went down between you two, you really did a number on him by leaving.”

I glare at him glumly, not giving a response. Everything makes a lot more sense now though. Daniel’s wariness toward me. His anger. His downright paranoia. I already figured that my leaving didn’t delight him, but it was a necessary sacrifice at the time.

“I dragged him out of college,” George continues, “and got him a job. During this last year or so, he’s been doing well, okay? He’s dated other people. He was starting to forget about you and was better off for it. But then you have to barge in here and make every little thing about you and your need to ruin everything in your path.”

I run my tongue over my bloody teeth, tasting iron. “You always think I’ve got some conniving reason for everything I do, that I’m some criminal mastermind or whatever—”

“No, I don’t; I think you’re a thug.”

“—and sorry to shatter your worldview, but that’s not the case. I’m here ’cause my mom died, and I gotta take care of her mess of a house. And while I’m here, Daniel and I are just hanging out. Not because I wanna ruin his life or anything. Nothing like that.”

“What do you want with him, then?”

A smirk spreads across my lips. “Take a guess.”

“I knew it,” George growls. “So what’s your plan? Get him to fuck you a few times just to prove you can, then skip town again?”

“A few times? Way to underestimate me.”

He lets out a guttural sound and shoves me harder against the wall. I laugh, holding my hands up in surrender.

“I was kidding, I was kidding. You’re so fucking easy,” I say with a sigh. I guess he won’t let me off the hook unless I let some truth out. “Is it so hard to believe I just want my friend back? Daniel and I had a blast when we were kids.”

“And you’re gonna try to recreate that now, five years later?”

“Why not?”

“So it doesn’t matter to you how it might affect him if he gets hooked on you and then you leave again? ’Cause the world is your playground, is it? Everyone’s emotions are yours to toy with?”

I smirk again, but this time, some darkness slips into my tone. “Right.”

Fuck you. Fuck you. You’re lucky Daniel wouldn’t like it if I smashed your teeth in. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be smiling right now.

George’s grip on me loosens, and his voice goes solemn and quiet. “You knew how he felt about you—no, you know how he feels about you—and you like it. You take advantage of it.”

“What do you mean?” This time, I’m not faking my confusion. As far as I can tell, Daniel doesn’t feel much more for me than annoyance, frustration, and a sprinkle of pity. A part of him might want to fuck me, sure, but that doesn’t mean he likes me. Quite the opposite.

“I think you know what I mean,” George says. “I know you don’t care, but . . . it doesn’t take much to tip him over the edge. If you think you’re just gonna come here and wreak havoc on his life again, you’re wrong. I’m onto you.”

I smile, savoring the taste of blood on my tongue. “Oh, I’m terrified.”

“And don’t even get me started on the criminal stuff. He’s out of that lifestyle, and the last thing he needs is your bad influence ruining all his progress.”

“I’m not into that stuff anymore, I’ve already told him.”

“Yeah, right. My father says a criminal is like a zebra—never changes their stripes.”

“Oh, your father . Yeah, that’s a well of wisdom right there.” Fucking Wayne Hastings. Sadistic piece of shit.

George looks as if he’d like nothing more than to hit me again. It won’t take much to blow his fuse . . . My fingers itch to do it. Bruised ribs and a split lip would numb the bad in me a little. I know that from experience.

But . . . Daniel’s downstairs, and I told him I would behave. Looks like I’ll have to get my rocks off some other way.

“Gonna let me go now?” I ask. “Or are you enjoying yourself a bit too much to stop? Getting you all hot and bothered, is it—pushing me up against the wall like this?”

George surges back with a disgusted scoff. “You’re an asshole.”

“You and me both, babe. Now gimme my stuff.”

He grabs the ziplock bag and shoves it into my hand. “Remember what I said. I’m not done with you.”

I blow him a kiss. “Thanks for the key.”

I leave the room, mind buzzing with suppressed anger, and worse: the cold clench of anxious energy I haven’t yet found an outlet for.

Daniel lounges on the living room couch with a drink in hand, laughing at somebody’s joke. Our eyes meet as I bound downstairs. No reaction. He looks at me as if I’m nothing but a vague acquaintance, gaze vacant and dispassionate.

I’m used to guys ignoring me after sex. I’m used to them doing worse things than ignoring me, like calling me a faggot after I’ve sucked them off. I just didn’t expect it from Daniel. But if that’s the way he wants to play, then fine.

I head toward the front door with a scowl.

“Hey!” He stumbles off the couch to come meet me. His cheeks are flushed, his movements uncoordinated. “Are you leaving?”

“Yeah,” I say, holding up the key. “Got what I came for.”

His hand shoots out and grabs hold of my jaw. I try to yank away, but he holds me fast, and his thumb grazes the corner of my lip.

“What happened?”

“What do you think?”

We look at each other for a long moment. I want him to dig his fingernails into my flesh. I want him to yank me closer. I want . . . I want him to lean in and kiss me again.

My cheeks flush with a jolt of embarrassment. Why would I want that? Kissing is fun, sure, but only if it leads to sex. And it won’t, not here. So then why . . .

“George?” Daniel sends a sharp glare into the living room, where George is reuniting with his friends.

“He doesn’t like me very much,” I say dryly.

Daniel’s thoughtful gaze flicks from my eyes to my lips, and is it really the blood he’s looking at now? The grip on my face tightens, the callused edge of his thumb catching on my lower lip . . .

He’s drunk as hell. Would he even remember it tomorrow if I leaned in and brushed my lips to his? My eyes flutter shut, and I lean unconsciously closer.

The next moment, his hand is gone.

“I’ll come over tomorrow,” he says. “We’ll fix that window.”

I lick my lips. “Okay.”

“And I’ll tell George to chill the fuck out. It’s not okay, what he did.”

“Whatever.” I slip through the door and out into the pitch-black yard.

Maybe me getting punched is the best thing that happened tonight. Now I’ve got something to hold over Daniel’s head where George is concerned. The newfound tightness in my chest when Daniel looks at me or touches me, however? That’s the worst.

I slam the driver-side door shut with enough force the sound must carry a mile away. Shit, if this is what happens after he jerks me off, what’s going to happen after he fucks me?

When all else fails and frustration takes hold, I need to break stuff.

I gather up every empty beer, vodka, and whiskey bottle I can find. Some are strewn across the yard. Some are in my mother’s room, which I never venture into unless I’m desperate.

I throw them all into a cracked washing basin and carry them into the woods behind the house. There’s a brick foundation of an old, burned-down cabin here. I used to hide behind it when I was little—huddle into the charred remains, curled up like an animal.

I fling one of the glass bottles into the brick wall. It shatters with this satisfying, ear-splitting sound that makes birds flee from the trees. The act calms me down but only somewhat.

Last night is stuck in my brain, replaying again and again how Daniel pinned me down, kissed me, shoved his hands into my pants, and jerked me off with ruthless efficiency. Even though it didn’t happen the way I wanted it to, the more I think about it, the hotter the memory becomes. The thought of his hard-on pressing against my thigh, his viselike grip on my wrists and my cock, gets me all hot and tense. I can’t wait until he lets me blow him, or better yet, until he fucks me.

I bet he can take me the way I want. I bet he can pull my hair and slap my ass and feed me his come until I’m dripping in it. I bet he can be ruthless about it.

Men tend to fuck me better if they hate me, as if their anger is some fucking aphrodisiac.

But that’s the issue. I want Daniel to like me, and at the same time, there’s that sick thrill I get when he flares up at me—when his eyes narrow and his hands ball into fists.

Another issue is my jokes don’t seem to work on him anymore. I’ve been gone for so long I’ve forgotten how to make him laugh, or maybe he just hates me too much.

I’m tired of thinking of all the ways I can get him to like me again. He can hate me for all I care. It would only be fitting.

After all, I’m used to not giving a flying fuck about the people I have sex with. They’re a means to an end—bags of flesh for me to play with and get off on. Sometimes, I even hate them. I hate them for fucking me, for wanting me. I hate them for hurting me, even when I order them to.

I don’t hate Daniel. Far from it. He frustrates the hell out of me though.

Another shattered bottle. Another explosion of glass. I lose track of time and space and fail to hear the approaching footsteps before they’re too close.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Daniel. Of course. I all but repressed he’d come over today.

Without turning around, I grab another bottle. “Nothing.”

“Doesn’t look like nothing.”

After sending another bottle to its death, I spin around to glare at him. He’s wearing his faded jean jacket and brown leather boots. His hair is styled, swept to the side with some kind of wax. He looks good. Too good.

I’m starting to get used to the shorter length of his hair, though I’m not yet sure which I prefer. He looks more proper and boring with his hair short. More like his father and cousin. And uncle. But his dirty-blond hair, baby-blue eyes, and freckles are all different from them. They’re not from his asshole father or his bastard cousin. They’re all Daniel.

“Did something happen?” he asks.

The question is fair, I suppose. I must look insane with my hand around a bottle and a pile of broken glass around me.

“Like what?” Like you making me come and then ignoring it ever happened? Like me obsessing over the unbidden fantasy of getting your hands into my hair and your tongue into my mouth?

I should just be able to let him jerk me off and move on, and not think about kissing him twenty-four fucking seven.

I should drive him away. Piss him off for good. Make him leave me to my devices, to fall apart out here until I go insane.

But I won’t.

I want him here. I need him here. And that pisses me off even more.

I hurl another bottle to its death for good measure.

“I brought the tools and stuff,” Daniel says. “Are you going to keep breaking bottles, or are we going to get to work?”

I don’t give a rat’s ass about the house, to be honest. But if this is what it’ll take to keep him around, I’m game. Anything that makes him pay attention to me.

I grimace. Jeez, I need to get a hold of myself.

We walk toward the house. Daniel slides his hands into his pockets, glancing my way.

“I brought cleaning supplies too, so now we can really start fixing this place up.”

“Fine,” I say. “But just . . . don’t look through any of my mom’s shit.” Hidden among all the dust and junk is stuff I’d rather leave alone. Stuff I don’t want Daniel to find out about.

“Why not?”

“You wanna find her old dildos and thongs?”

His nose scrunches up. “I get your point.”

We’re at work until well into the night. We fix the window. We scrub the bathroom, the kitchen, the hallway. We sweep the floor. We wash and dry the bedsheets.

Come sunset, we go to the patio to take a break. All this work has made us hot and sweaty, and Daniel fans his shirt at his front, shooting me a questioning glance.

“Oh, go ahead,” I say with a slow smirk. “Take it off. I don’t mind.”

He lifts the front of his shirt with both hands, revealing his naked torso glistening with sweat. Without clothes to hide them, his muscles look even more impressive. His wide shoulders, the curves of his biceps . . . Not to mention his hands. They’re real handyman hands: large, rough, and callused.

He could give me what I want with those hands. He could hurt me, make me feel right.

Heat pools in the pit of my stomach as I imagine it: his hand twisting into my hair, his lips by my cheek, his cock stretching me open . . .

I want to taste him all over. Lick his sweat. Feel the spray of his hot cum down my throat. Want him to pound my ass until I see stars and we’re both dripping in sweat. We could be perfect together. I could blow his mind if he’d just let me. Why can’t he see it?

My fingers itch with the urge to pull him close. To grab him by his meaty shoulders and kiss his stupid, hot-and-cold mouth. To get down on my knees and make him moan.

But instead of doing all that, I push my hand into my pocket and get out a prerolled joint.

“This is her old spot,” I say, nodding to the ancient wooden bench we’ve settled down on. “Theresa. She used to sit here all day long. Chain-smoking, drinking. Going on and on about how I stole her chance at the spotlight.” I scoff and flick my lighter. “As if her getting knocked up with me was the only reason she wasn’t yet a Hollywood star.”

“What do you mean?” Daniel asks.

“You didn’t know? Get this: At sixteen, my mom runs away to LA, right? A year later, she shows back up on Daddy’s doorstep, eight months pregnant.”

“Who was the father?”

“He could be a pimp or a john or some famous actor for all I know. Mom never disclosed that shit to me.”

Daniel wipes his face with his shirt. “Is that what you did when you left? Went to LA to find him—your father?”

“Come on, you know me better than that. You think I care about some lowlife who nutted in my mom? He doesn’t give a shit about me, and I don’t give a shit about him. No.”

“Then what?”

“There’s not much to tell.”

“Tell me anyway.”

I send him a glance to make sure there’s no ill will in his gaze. Nothing. Only curiosity, and perhaps some concern. I take a drag deep enough for my lungs to burn, keep it inside for a few seconds, and exhale.

Then I tell him.

“I drank, drugged, sucked, and fucked my way through state after state. Whenever my funds ran out, I took on some dead-end job. Slept in my car to save up cash. Once I’d saved up enough, I quit and did it all over again.”

My pulse quickens while I wait for his response. I’m sure it’s the weed, though that’s not all.

It’s not like I’m ashamed of what I did during those years. I’m neither ashamed nor proud. It was all just shit I had to do to keep myself from going insane. During the first couple of years, it was like I was possessed by some demon. Egged on by the young, wild rage inside me, and the need to take my mind off all I’d left behind.

The horrors and the good times. Daniel. Always Daniel.

“Do you want to go back out there?” He gestures toward the road.

“Not really,” I say, far quicker than I meant to.

“But wouldn’t it be better than here?”

“Why? My grandpa’s long gone. Now my mom is too. There’s nothing bad here left.” Except for me, of course.

“Tell me about him. Your grandpa.”

“I remember him locking us inside the house a lot. I remember how afraid she was of him.” The yard swims before my eyes. The same trees, the same sky—everything’s the same as back then. My mouth moves on its own, and words spill out. Words I never meant to say. “She never held me when I was a baby, you know? She hated me from the start.”

“I’m sorry,” Daniel says.

“Why? You couldn’t do anything. No one could.”

“That’s not true. The authorities—”

“Oh, like Wayne Hastings?” My lips curl into a vicious sneer. “That bastard. He was here, you know? Shoved his dick into my mom like the rest of them. Got her drugs and everything.”

“What?” Daniel turns to me. He sounds disturbed. “You never told me about that. Does George know?”

My shoulders shake with laughter. “What do you think?”

“Nathan. I’m serious.”

“You don’t think I’m serious?” I think I smoked too much. The world presses in on me with a greater weight than before, and my heart is jackhammering in my chest. My thoughts flit away when I try to grab onto them. Maybe I shouldn’t smoke weed or drink in Daniel’s presence. My tongue is slippery enough when I’m sober. And now I can’t breathe. I can’t . . .

Daniel rises from the chair. “Stand up.”

“Why?”

“Just do it.”

I get to my feet, and he opens his arms and pulls me into a hug.

Surprise hits me first, with a spike of anxiety, followed by a rush of relief. I return the hug, wrapping my arms around his sweaty bulk, feeling his warm muscles against my skin. I close my eyes and fill my lungs with his scent. He’s so warm. He smells so good. For the first time since I came back to town—maybe for the first time in years—I feel safe. And I almost say it.

I came back for you. Not for the house. For you.

His palms stroke my back. “Sorry about the sweat.”

“It’s okay.”

It’s more than okay. Better. I’m way better now. My heartbeat slows, and my chest doesn’t clench quite as tight. I sigh into the embrace as his arms tighten around me. He rests his head on my shoulder and breathes in, sniffing my hair.

I huff out a laugh. “That tickles.”

“Sorry.”

He backs away. I don’t want him to, but we can’t stand here hugging forever, I guess. Just then my stomach growls.

“Hungry?” he asks.

“Yeah.” The last meal I had was breakfast, consisting of a lonely ham sandwich.

“I’ll make us dinner.”

I’m about to tell him good luck finding something, but then he shows me a grocery bag. Of course. So he brought me tools, cleaning supplies, and food.

He fries up bacon and boils pasta in a creamy sauce. By then, munchies have set in for real, and I moan unabashedly while I scarf down the food.

He watches me with a pleased smile on his face. “Good?”

“So fucking good.” I can’t remember my last “proper” meal, except for that steak at Albany. For the past week, I’ve survived on Cup Noodles, lunch meat, instant coffee, and cigarettes.

I wipe creamy sauce off my chin and jerk my head toward the patio. “How did you know that would work?”

“You always used to calm down when I hugged you.”

I take another bite, ignoring the flutter in my chest. “I did?”

“Remember when you fell off your bike and scratched your knee up real bad?”

“Yeah. I still have the scar.”

“You were shivering like mad and freaking out, and then . . .”

“Then you hugged me.”

He nods. “And you calmed down. I thought it might work this time too. You need to be touched.”

Well, in that he is correct. Our eyes meet, and even though the goal is wide open for a flirt, I can’t bring myself to do more than smile at him.

I’m losing it. Off-my-rocker losing it.

“Here.” He throws me a lollipop from the grocery bag. “They were on sale.”

I unwrap the candy and pop it into my mouth. “What’s this? A substitute for your dick?”

He laughs and shakes his head. “You’re an idiot.”

“Yeah, but I’m hot,” I say, words garbled around the sucker.

He raises a brow at me and smiles. It’s a fond smile, much like how he used to smile at me a long time ago, and my heart does a weird flip in my chest. I swirl the candy in my mouth, letting the sweet red flavor coat my tongue.

I’m not sure how to say this. I’m not sure why I say it, but I do. Must be the weed.

“Hey, so . . . George told me about . . . About how bad you were doing. A few years back.” His shoulders stiffen, and I look down at the table, suddenly finding it hard to meet his eyes. “If I knew you’d go off the rails so badly, I wouldn’t have acted the way I did.”

“Okay.”

“But we were kinda falling off at that point if you remember.”

“Yeah,” he mutters, “’cause you’d rather hang out with Joshua Tennyson and his idiot drug dealers than me.”

A dark, heavy weight descends on my shoulders. “Right . . . So, anyway, I didn’t know it would mess you up that badly. If I’d known, I wouldn’t have—”

“Skipped town without a word?” he asks, spearing me with a glare. “It’s not even about what happened at the grad party, you know, at least not for me. We could’ve kept being friends. But no—you had to turn your back on me and hurt me in the worst way possible and cut me off like you never knew me.”

“I’m sorry, okay? I was fucked up, and I freaked out. But you gotta know I cared about you.”

“You had a shitty way of showing it.”

“Hey, how many times do you need me to say I’m sorry?”

“I don’t know. A thousand maybe?”

“Sheesh. Well, we’re gonna be here all night, then. You ready?”

He yawns and stretches his arms over his head. “No, I’m too tired for that. Maybe tomorrow.”

At least he wants to see me tomorrow. That’s something.

“You could sleep here, you know.” Please say yes. Please don’t leave me alone out here.

“I don’t know. This place freaks me out enough in the daytime.”

“You can have my mom’s room. I sleep in the other one anyway.”

“You sleep in your old bedroom? That bed’s tiny.”

“It’s not so bad.” And I won’t set foot in my mom’s room if I can help it.

His gaze roams the ceiling and the corners of the walls. “You sure it’s not haunted?”

“Don’t worry, babe,” I say with a smirk. “If it is, I’ll protect you.”

We brush our teeth and say our good nights. It feels oddly domestic and reminiscent of the many sleepovers in our past.

There’s a distinct difference though: Whenever we slept under the same roof back then, it was always in the same bedroom. His bedroom. Sometimes in his bed, if we were exhausted enough. Or he’d sneak into the hallway and fetch a spare mattress from the closet.

One time, I showed up at his window with my face soaked in blood after my blackout-drunk mother threw a bottle at me and nearly took my eye out. Daniel took me in and patched me up with his parents’ first aid kit. Afterward, he put me to bed and held me until I fell asleep.

But tonight we’re sleeping in separate bedrooms. I hear him tossing and turning on the other side of the wall. Seems like I’m not the only one who can’t sleep.

I take a deep breath and get up. My feet pad over the rough wooden floor.

He flinches when he sees me in the doorway, but then he lifts the cover and pats the bed. “Fine. Come here.”

I climb in next to him and lie on my side. We stay like that for a while, breathing the same air, feeling the same darkness.

How come tonight feels different from the nights I’ve spent here alone? How come my throat is all choked up and thick, as if I’m about to start crying?

Daniel brings it out of me. He always has. I don’t know if I should resent him for it or accept it as one of the many things he makes me feel.

For once, I’m not even that horny. I don’t want sex. I just . . . I just want him to hold me. Will he do it on his own? The kind of men with whom I usually share a bed would consider it their God-given right to touch me. But if I have to ask for it, I . . . I don’t know if I can. I open my mouth, and my voice is hinged on a thin string, beyond my control.

“Daniel,” I croak.

“Yeah?” His breath puffs against the back of my neck.

“Could you just . . . hold me? I won’t try anything. I promise.”

As soon as I’ve said it, my chest feels tight enough to burst. What if he says no? What if he—

There’s a grunt. Then he wraps an arm around me and slots his body against mine.

The warmth of him against my back is the best thing I’ve felt since he pinned me down and kissed me breathless. His hand curls over mine, and his thumb strokes my own. Bit by bit, I relax into the embrace. The knots in my muscles unwind, and some of the cold in me melts away.

I’ve never really . . . felt like this. Certainly not with any of the hookups I met on the road. Whenever they wanted to cuddle me after sex, I always felt like a prisoner in their arms. Uncomfortable and clammy. Wrung out like a rag. Impatient. I wanted out and off to the next thing.

But not with Daniel. With him, I want to stay right here. With him, even the horrors of my childhood home can’t faze me.