Page 5 of Bruised

Mason sets the peanut butter jar aside and dumps the spoon into the sink. “Anyway, boys, this has been fun, but I think I’m gonna crash.” He pushes himself off the counter and squeezes Oliver’s cheek again. “Nice catching up, little bro.” Then he turns to me with a wink and a lingering look that adds new fuel to the fire in my gut. “Bye, puppy.”

Oliver and I stay in the kitchen, staring after Mason as he saunters up the stairs and clicks a door shut.

Then, silence.

“Puppy?” I ask, a little puzzled, a little pissed off, and a lot turned on. I can’t let Oliver know about that last part, though.

Oliver groans. “Just ignore him.”

“Is he always like that?”

“Worse.”

Silently, I wonder, How can he be worse than that?

“I’m serious, Lane,” Oliver warns. “He might try to bait you, but don’t take the bait.”

“Bait?”

Oliver scoffs. “You know what I mean. You’re his type.”

“His… type?”

“Stop acting dumb. You know exactly what I mean.”

I shrug, offering a small, coy smile. While Oliver makes breakfast, I lean against the kitchen counter, where Mason had his back only minutes ago. I bring a hand up to my choker and fidget with it absentmindedly, trying to replicate the way Mason hooked his finger into the ring and pulled hard enough to restrict my breathing.

I watch Oliver—how bothered he looks, how deeply he’s frowning as he butters our toast.

My thoughts drift back to Mason—his overbearing presence, his intimidating way of, what, flirting?—as well as my opposing feelings of annoyance and arousal fighting themselves inside me.

I’m here for Oliver. Not his hot-as-sin older brother. I’ll do my best to ignore said brother, but something tells me my chill summer is about to get a lot hotter than I signed up for.

2. SOME FUN

My room is different from the last time I lived here. Cleaner, but cluttered with moving boxes filled with stuff from my old apartment. The walls are blank, unlike when I was a teen, when they were filled from floor to ceiling with posters. Hot movie stars, Transformers, that sort of thing.

The most important item—the bed—is the same as when I was a kid, though. It’s a full with dark blue covers, fluffy pillows, and a bunch of happy memories. My teenage years were a fun time; my countless one-night stands would agree.

After dumping my duffel bag on the floor, I sit on the bed, letting out a deep sigh.

Barely got any sleep last night. They woke me up before sunrise. No goodbyes, no gathering my shit—just sign the damn paper and walk.

Now I’m back in this house that doesn’t smell like me anymore, even if almost everything is the same as I remember it: the fridge still smells like old socks, Oliver still thinks yelling makes him sound grown, and the photographs lining the wall still showcase our past lives. Our little family of four—happy, the way we used to be.

One thing’s different, though: now there’s some kid with eyeliner in the kitchen wearing a collar.

He’s cute, that’s for sure, but there’s something sharp about him too, something defiant. Most of all, that collar around his throat says it all.

The memory of my finger hooking into the silver ring and his little gasp as I pulled him forward… The way he glared at me, unflinching, without fear, but with unmistakable arousal behind his big brown eyes. The whole encounter has me smirking, even through my exhaustion and sullen mood.

He’s just my type: a shy, horny boy who silently begs for something he can’t put a name to. They’re all the same; as soon as they lay eyes on me, they both hope and fear that I’ll give it to them.

All in due time, though. For now, I’m too tired to even think straight. Before I crash, I make a few phone calls and arrangements. If I’m going to live here for the summer and maybe longer, I need to make it at least bearable.

My last thought before I fall asleep is of that kid with eyeliner. He might make this summer more than bearable. He might even make it fun.

When I open my eyes, the sun’s still up, which is unexpected. Something must’ve woken me up.