Page 10

10

Atlas

I hold out for another two weeks before I eat the apple. The moment I reach for it, Henri’s eyes practically bug out of his head and he bites his lip so hard I can see the indent of his teeth. He looks so happy, I nearly put it back on the desk. But I’m fucking starving , and it’ll be hours before I’m able to go home and grab some food. So, Henri’s weird friendship apple will just have to do.

“Thanks,” I mumble, before taking a massive bite and using a full mouth as an excuse not to talk to him.

“No need,” he says, waving off my thanks with a smile on his face. The smile remains for the entirety of class, like me eating his stupid apple made his day.

I can’t seem to concentrate on the lecture at all, distracted by Henri’s scruffy cheek and the smell of lemons. It’s not important—I know it’s not important—but I don’t remember him smelling this way before, which means he changed something. Is lemon shampoo even a thing? Maybe I should lean over and get a good whiff of his damn polo shirt. He probably bought lemongrass detergent or some shit, and anyway, why do I care?

At one point during class, he fidgeted in his seat, and because my own legs were spread wide, his thigh bumped mine. Of course, he apologized and moved away, but my first thought was that I didn’t want him to move away. I wanted that thick thigh to come right back and bump me again.

“I think I need to see a doctor,” I say, shoving all my shit in my backpack after Dr. Robertson ends class. Henri looks at me, politely quizzical.

“Oh? Are you feeling ill? I shall walk you to the student health center.”

“Not that kind of doctor. I think I need a fucking psych eval.” Standing up, I sling my backpack over my shoulders and look down at Henri.

He’s still seated, hands resting on his thighs and face tilted up so he can look at me. Blue eyes and heavy eyebrows several shades darker than his hair. From this angle, I’m looking down on his head and can see the way the longer strands curl together. He’s fucking cute, like a little German puppy.

“Oh my god,” I mutter, annoyed. He’s not cute, and you don’t like him! I think, disgusted with myself.

“If you wait a moment, I shall walk you to the health facility,” he says, brow scrunched together in worry.

“It was a joke, dude. I don’t need a doctor. I need to go outside and smoke.” Also, find someone to bone, because apparently, I need to sweat Henri out of my system. He swivels his head, tracking me as I sneak behind his chair and down the aisle. My back prickles with the awareness of his eyes on me as I leave the lecture hall .

It’s not as though I had a lobotomy and am suddenly writing Mr. Atlas Vasel on all my school notebooks, but I definitely feel different about him. I can’t understand it—apparently, getting drunk and letting him take my pants off was enough to send my libido into a state of madness. I can’t believe I’ve devolved into finding a man wearing khaki pants and polo shirts attractive. It’s disgusting.

I pause suddenly outside of the building, ignoring the huffs of annoyance from the people who have to step around me. The thing is, Henri and I have another assignment we are supposed to do together, so it really wouldn’t be strange if I asked if he wanted to hang out tonight. With my luck, both me and the homework assignment would get done. I turn around just as Henri’s recognizable form exits the building. He sees me and smiles, walking over.

“Hello, Atlas,” he greets me, like we didn’t just come from the same fucking classroom.

“Want to do our assignment tonight? Just get it done?”

“Oh.” His face falls a little bit, eyebrows coming together between his eyes in a way that should not be as appealing as it is. “I am unable to do so now. I am having a date.”

Shoving my hands in my pockets, I rock back on my heels and smirk at him. “Another date, huh? Busy guy.”

“Yes,” he says, missing my sarcasm completely. “Shayla is studying French and I will sometimes assist her with her conjugations.”

“So, that’s what the kids are calling it these days,” I muse. Henri’s frown deepens as he tries to work out who the kids are and why they’re saying that. Instead of asking, he just moves on.

“We are going to have dinner. But perhaps, if it is not too late, we could work on the assignment later? I could bring dinner from the restaurant for you. Do you like Italian?”

“Won’t you be with this Shayla girl all night?”

More frowning. Christ, I wish he would stop doing that. A breeze blows a wave of lemon-scented air toward me, and I inhale involuntarily. Somehow, Henri smelling like goddamn Pledge makes perfect sense and is far sexier than it has any right to be. Maybe he scrubbed down his impossibly clean dorm room before class today.

“No, just dinner,” he tells me, head tilted slightly to the side like a giant, quizzical bird. “It will not take all night.”

“Okay, well, whatever. Text me if you want to do something later.”

“I will, my friend.”

“We’re not friends.”

“A little bit friends,” he corrects, pinching his thumb and pointer finger together and holding them up. I sigh, shaking my head and turning away.

“Whatever. Have fun on your date. Use protection.”

Walking away, I glance over my shoulder and see him watching me with another puzzled expression on his face.

When I get back to the house, I can immediately tell that it’s empty except for Nate. There is a steady twang of country music shaking the house at a volume that no country song should ever be played at. Standing in the entryway, I listen to a man sing about his truck for a few moments before walking upstairs and letting myself into Nate’s room without knocking. Predictably, he’s stretched out on the floor, shirtless, performing some sort of abdominal exercise that looks like torture. He grunts as I walk in and take a seat on his bed.

He finishes his set and collapses onto the floor, head tipped back so he can look at me. I let my eyes trail a meandering path from his face to his toes. Nate’s probably the hottest guy I’ve ever seen, so I might as well take advantage of the view while I’ve got it. It’s crazy to me that a body like that was built on a farm and not a stripper pole.

“What do you want, perv?” he asks.

“Just enjoying the show,” I shout back, trying to raise my voice enough to contend with the next country music star currently trying to blow out my eardrums. I point toward his Bluetooth speaker. “This is what gets you fired up to work out? Really?”

He presses a finger down on his phone, silencing the music. My ears ring from the sudden quiet.

“Buddy, I’m from the country,” he tells me. Admittedly, it’s a fair point.

“How’s baseball guy?”

Nate rolls over onto his stomach, pillowing his cheek on his arm. There’s a tattoo on the small of his back of a longhorn cow skull. He told me once he got the tramp stamp after losing a bet, but I’m not convinced. I’m pretty sure he’s just a redneck. A hot one, but a redneck all the same. At the mention of baseball guy, his face flushes and he smiles.

“Good.”

“Good? Really, that’s all I get?”

“I mean, sort of good. Nothing’s really changed. We haven’t hooked up in a while, but we text every day and we had a really incredible date. But then I saw him at the coffee cart one day and sat with him for a bit, and when I touched his hand, he pulled his arm away from me.” Nate shrugs and turns his face so the opposite cheek is resting down and I can no longer see his expression. “I think he’s probably not into dating. Or maybe just dating me.”

“Maybe,” I agree. “Why does it matter to you so much? Why not just be happy with banging in private and friends in public?”

I can hear it in Nate’s voice as he talks—the longing. It makes me irrationally angry, the same way I get when people complain about their significant others. It makes no sense to me, the way people throw themselves into relationships. It’s like purposely sticking your hand in a fire even though you know it will burn.

He sits up, bending one knee and stretching his other leg out in front of him. Scowling at me, he plants his hands on the floor behind him and leans back.

“Because I want to hold his fucking hand, Atlas. I want to kiss him after he wins a game. I want to bring him back to my uncle’s ranch for a visit, and teach him to ride a horse. I want to see if this could actually go somewhere. I feel like…I feel like I’m supposed to know him. I saw him and it was this immediate attraction and I’ve never had that happen before. I don’t want to just get laid, okay? I want to date him.”

I still don’t get it, but I know by the look on his face that he’s prepared to argue if I push it. I settle for a disappointed headshake. He’s giving this guy way too much power, and he’s bound to get hurt. Judging by the look on his pretty face and the tone of his voice, he’s already been fucking hurt.

“Maybe he already knows how to ride a horse,” I point out, and Nate snorts.

“He doesn’t. I asked and he said it’s not safe to ride things that have a mind of their own.”

I cast my eyes toward the ceiling dramatically. “That sentence is a veritable goldmine of gay jokes.”

Nate chuckles and bends forward to stretch out his quad. I wish I had something more concrete to give him in the way of advice, but I can’t even fake it. Relationships are a waste of time and energy. Happy endings are a fabrication used to sell novels and Disney movies—they don’t exist in the real world.

“How are things with Vas?”

“What?” I ask, the single word coming out sounding snappish and defensive. Nate raises his eyebrows. “How should I know?”

“Aren’t you guys partners in comm?”

“Oh, yeah, we are. It’s fine. He’s fine.” Fine to look at, more like. Fuck my life.

“You can admit you like him. The sky won’t fall, and I promise not to say I told you so.”

“I don’t like him. He’s annoying and perfect and way too fucking nice. There is—quite literally—never a hair out of place on his head. It’s all brown and soft-looking. Have you ever noticed how it’s wavy but also sort of curly in the front? Pick a fucking lane! Also, I bet he uses some fancy-ass lemon-scented shampoo and conditioner. Separate too, not the cheap, all-in-one shit I get at the drug store. And his stupid scruffy face is so… even . I think he shaves with a slide rule.” I hold my hands up, palms facing out like I’m warding something off. “He drives me insane. ”

“What I’m hearing is you’re in love with him.”

“What is it in the country air that made you so stupid?” I ask and Nate grins at me.

“You just talked about his hair for two minutes straight. I was sitting here listening and trying to picture his hair, but I can’t because I’ve never noticed before. Want to know why I’ve never noticed before? Because I don’t have a crush on him.”

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

“My guy has nice hair, too,” he says wistfully. “Thick. Like, really thick. And just long enough to really get your fingers into, you know? God, he’s cute.”

“You’re a little nauseating to be around, you know that, right?” I scrunch up my face in disgust. “Did baseball guy suck your brains out through your dick or something?”

“You should ask Vas out on a date. He’s such a hard worker, he deserves a break.” I give him such an incredulous look, he laughs. “He’s here on a student visa, you know? The stakes are a little higher for him to get good grades and maintain his spot on the team. Especially since he wants to stay after he graduates, so he needs to cultivate relationships and maintain a high GPA so that he can get a job.”

I stare at him, surprised that he knows so much about Henri. I’d assumed there wasn’t much real talk in the locker room. Just a bunch of naked dudes, slapping each other’s backs and talking about all the pussy they get.

“I don’t date, and I’m not about to start with Henri,” I tell him sternly. Sighing, I close my eyes and look up at the ceiling. God help me . “But, I would definitely fuck him if he asked me to.”

“Ha!” Nate laughs. “I knew it. Absolutely incredible.”

“Once,” I say firmly. “I don’t double-dip.”

“You’re missing out, bro.” Nate straightens, reaching his arms over his head and stretching. Because I’m a red-blooded bisexual man, I enjoy the play of his muscles beneath his skin as he does it. I wonder if Henri has muscles like that. “Sex only gets better when you go back for more with the same person.”

“Sure, Nicholas Sparks, whatever you say. You going to tell your teammates about the bi thing?”

“Yeah, I am. I already told one of them, actually. Also, Max—one of my linemates—is gay, and so is Coach Mackenzie. I don’t even have to worry about the other guys being chill, I know they will be.”

“Mm.” I pick at a loose thread in his bedspread, aiming for nonchalance. “And Henri?”

I glance up at Nate to find him smirking at me. He shakes his head.

“Honestly, I have no idea. Vas is the guy you go to for advice, but he doesn’t talk about himself a lot. I get the impression he might be demi, actually. Maybe ace.”

“Really? Why?”

“Nothing in particular.” He shrugs. “Just a feeling. Vas is quiet. The guys will all be talking about who they’re with and what they’re doing, and Vas will just be over in the corner listening. He’s definitely not the kind to kiss and tell.”

“Mm,” I hum in agreement, succeeding in picking the thread out of the sheet. Nate reaches over and slaps my leg. “Ouch.”

“You should ask him out if you want to.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Sounds like you kind of want to.”

“Sounds like you don’t know me at all,” I reply, but there’s no heat in it. He’s right. I do kind of want to.

Rolling his eyes, Nate rises up off the floor and starts rolling up his yoga mat. Again, I enjoy the ripple of muscles in his arms and back as he does it, and again I wonder if all the hockey guys look this good when they’re shirtless. If Henri does.

“Whatever, man. Let me know if you want me to wingman for you with Vas. I’ll put a good word in when we’re naked together in the shower.” He winks at me lewdly, before tucking his yoga mat away beside his desk.

“Please don’t talk about—or even think about—me when you’re in the shower,” I request, and he laughs. “And don’t talk to Henri about me, dude, I was just curious about him. We’re partners in comm, that’s all it is.”

“That’s all it is,” Nate mimics in a high-pitched, nasally voice that sounds nothing like me. “Famous last words, pal.”

Henri texts me at 8:42 to let me know that he is back at his dorm if I still want to work on the assignment. I wait five minutes before responding in the affirmative, embarrassed by how excited I am that he reached out like he’d said he would. I’m acting pathetic and there’s no reason for it. Sure, Henri’s attractive, but so are a lot of guys. What I really need to do is go out and find a guy to bang—get my first time over with and with someone who won’t try and make it more than it is. Then, maybe I won’t be so hard up that even annoying people look like attractive options.

When I knock on Henri’s door, he opens it so quickly I wonder if he was standing on the other side waiting for me.

“You are here,” he exclaims, grinning and stepping back to let me walk in.

“As always, you appear to have a firm grasp of the obvious,” I retort.

“Thank you,” Henri replies, letting the sarcasm just pass him by. “Have a seat, if you wish. I brought you spaghetti because this seems to be something everyone likes. Also, garlic toast.”

He points to two aluminum containers sitting on the corner of his desk. The small room smells strongly of Italian seasoning and garlic, and I can no longer identify Henri’s lemon scent from earlier. I try not to think too hard on the fact that I’m a little disappointed by that. Sitting down on his bed, I bypass the garlic toast and open up the spaghetti.

“Thanks, but you didn’t have to bring me food. I have food at home.”

“It was no trouble. Sometimes we must have a treat.”

“Mm,” I hum around a mouthful of noodles. The only treat I’m particularly interested in right now are his thighs. Fuck my life.

Henri sits down in the desk chair and scoots it close enough to me that I finally get a whiff of lemons. As he pulls out his notebook and a pen, I watch his hands. Are hockey players supposed to have hands like that? They don’t look rough at all, but smooth and unblemished. Prominent veins snake their way over his wrist and up his forearm. He’s like an anesthesiologist’s wet dream.

“Would you like to start now or perhaps finish dinner, first?” Henri’s smooth accent distracts me from wondering how soft his hands are. I think I need a solid slap in the face to knock some sense back into me. I can’t believe I was just sitting here sexualizing his veins.

“Eat first. How did your date go?”

I’m not asking because I care, I’m asking because it’s polite, I tell myself, even as I recognize that I care rather more than I should. I put a bite of spaghetti in my mouth before I do something insane like put his fingers there instead.

“It was enjoyable, thank you for asking.”

He smiles at me, but doesn’t seem overly concerned with expanding on that. Swallowing my half-chewed mouthful, I cough a little bit and Henri hands me a bottle of water like the gentleman he is. I don’t understand this guy at all, and perhaps that’s the draw of him all of a sudden. Maybe once I solve the puzzle, I won’t want to play anymore .

We work on our project for a few hours. I brought my laptop, so I type everything out to save Henri the trouble of handwriting it. The room is filled with the quiet click of the keyboard and Henri’s melodic accent. I blame the darkness outside, and the dim light of the room for how attractive the sound is.

“We have done good work this evening,” he says, carefully cleaning up the containers my food was in and placing them in his new trash can. “We make a good team.”

Instead of responding, I roll my eyes and stand up to stretch out my back. Henri stands as well, and I see a sliver of skin on his back where his shirt has ridden up, before he pulls it back down. My fingers itch to touch it.

“Do you ever hook up with guys?” I blurt out, allowing the madness to temporarily overtake me. Henri turns and looks at me, head cocked to the side. Fucking hell, I want to bone this irritating motherfucker so bad right now.

“I have never,” he replies, which answers half of my question but not really the important part.

“Are you straight?”

He thinks about this, giving it the sort of speculation one might give a particularly difficult mathematics equation.

“I do not think so, but I am unsure,” is what he ends up going with, which is exactly the sort of ridiculous shit I would expect him to spout off.

“You’re not sure,” I repeat, abandoning my laptop on his bed and taking a step closer to him. The room is lit by only a single lamp sitting on his desk; with shadows thrown across his face, his jaw and cheekbones look sharper. I wish he had his shirt off and I could see the light play over any curves there, as well. I bet there are quite a few.

I stop when I’m standing close enough to him to count his eyelashes. He’s taller than me, so I have to tip my head back to maintain eye contact. I’m not a very big guy, and I’m not comfortable with the thought of giving up control to someone else, which is why I’ve only pursued women thus far. It’s hard to find a guy smaller than me.

Except with Henri, I don’t feel that usual trepidation about being the weaker partner. He would, I realize, be the perfect person to experiment with. Someone I’m apparently physically attracted to, but have no possibility of falling in love with. Someone safe. I step a little closer to him, stopping once my chest brushes against his front.

“Want to find out?” I ask, and am again treated to another thoughtful silence. Evidently, he will not be one who becomes consumed by passion. I’m going to die of old age before I ever get the chance to see what he’s hiding behind all the khaki.

“I am unsure of what you are asking,” he admits. I roll my eyes, annoyed at having to spell it out. Flirting should not be this difficult.

“I want to kiss you. See if you taste like lemons.”

This sends his eyebrows slanting downward as he frowns heavily, trying to figure out what I’m talking about. I can practically see him mentally tallying all the meals he’s eaten today and coming to the conclusion that none of them contained lemons. I almost laugh—I’ve never met a more literal person in my life.

“Me? But I am not sure you like me.”

“Honestly, I’m not sure either, but you’re super hot and I think I need to do this so I can stop thinking about it and move on.”

“You wanted to kiss me when you were drunk,” he tells me. I nod. I’ll kiss anything when I’m drunk .

“I’m sober now,” I point out.

“Yes.”

“And I still want to kiss you.”

It’s a question even though it isn’t, and Henri gives it the same amount of thought he’s given everything tonight. After a few moments of quiet pass, he whispers, “Yes.”

My stomach jolts like I’ve just missed a step walking down a staircase. I hadn’t come here intending to ask that, and I most definitely didn’t expect him to agree. If everything goes according to plan, by this time tomorrow Henri Vasel will be kissed right out of my system.

I’m already close enough that I don’t have to stretch far to reach him. He looks down at my hands as I put them on his waist, as though he’s surprised I’m touching him. I wait for him to look back up at me, blue eyes meeting mine, before I move one hand to his neck. His breath hitches and he cocks his head to the side again, eyes bright in the dim of the room.

He stands perfectly still as I lean forward and press my mouth to his. The moment I do, his breathing stutters again, and he makes a soft gasping noise in the back of his throat. I pull him toward me until our chests are pressed together, and tilt my head, teasing the seam of his lips with my tongue to try and get him to open.

The smell of him is overwhelming, with my nose against his face, and his scruff scratches deliciously against the pad of my thumb. I want to kiss him hard enough to feel it against my lips. I want him to kiss me back.

Leaning back until I can see his face, I frown at him.

“What are you doing?”

“Kissing,” he says, completely without guile. I raise an eyebrow at him.

“Really? Because I’ve kissed mannequins with more life than you.” I glance down at his arms, which are hanging loose by his sides. “You can touch me, if you want.”

“Why are you kissing mannequins?” he asks quietly.

“I told you: I’ll hit on anything when I’m drunk. Stop dodging the question. Why aren’t you kissing me back? You can be honest—if the problem is me, just say it.”

“It is not you,” he whispers. “I am not sure what to do.”

Frowning, I lean back a little more, trying to get his damn lemon-scented skin out of my nose so I can think.

“Henri, just kiss me back. It’s not rocket science. Do whatever you usually do. Whatever feels right.”

“I have never before.”

I realize I’m still touching his damn face, thumb sliding back and forth idly over his scratchy jaw. Dropping my hand down to his shoulder where it’s safer, I let go of where I’m also still holding his hip. I don’t need to have my hands all over him if we’re not making out, but I can’t bring myself to break all points of contact just yet.

“Okay, I’m sorry, are you telling me you’ve never kissed anyone before ?” He nods. “How the fuck is that possible? You’re weird as shit, sure, but you also look like a fucking movie star.”

I can see it on his face that he’s about to say something literal and ridiculous. Putting my palm over his mouth, I give him a stern look.

“Are you a virgin?” He nods, lips warm on my hand. I curse under my breath and let him go, backing up a step. He licks his lips and my heart rate speeds up dangerously. “Are you serious? How? What about all these dates you’ve been going on?”

“I am sorry,” he says, looking crestfallen. “Perhaps I should have told you. But I thought I might like to kiss you and you did offer.”

He looks so apologetic I can’t help but laugh, even as a small seed of worry sprouts in my stomach. I just gave him his first kiss. Under no circumstances should I be providing anyone’s first anything. I’m a plague, and a scourge. I’m the place love goes to die.

“It’s fine, you don’t have to be sorry,” I tell him, rubbing a hand over my eyes.

“I have never been interested in kissing before, until I met you,” he says, head tilted and eyes contemplative on mine. His gaze drops to my mouth. “But I like your hair, and I like talking to you even though you can be rude and think I’m strange. I like looking at you.”

“Oh, well, sure. All of that makes sense.” Shrugging, I offer him the smallest of smiles. I never smile, but I’ve also never kissed a guy, so I guess tonight is a night for trying new things. “You should always determine attraction based on hair.”

Henri sighs. “I am hearing sarcasm.”

“You’ve got good ears.” Reaching up, I tug gently on a wavy lock of caramel hair. “You’ve got good hair, too. And…sorry about calling you weird. You’re not, I’m just a dick.”

Pulling away from him completely and taking a few steps away feels like I’m a planet trying to wrench itself out of orbit. He looks a little forlorn as I back away. If he had floppy ears, they’d be drooping to the floor. Again, he’s giving off puppy vibes, and, again, I do not find it adorable.

“You are not wanting to do more kissing,” he states glumly. I shake my head.

“I don’t do serious relationships, or virgins. Or Germans.”

He barks a startled laugh and grins at me. I don’t grin back, even though I want to. Even though I can feel it fighting to be free. Picking up my backpack and slinging it over my shoulder, I glance back at him. He hasn’t moved from the spot where I kissed him, as though the bottom of his feet sprouted roots. You need to leave , I tell myself, as I open my mouth to find another reason to stay.

“Feel free to tell me to fuck right off if you don’t want to answer this, but…are you ace?” When he just stares at me, I clarify. “Asexual.”

“Oh.” He pauses to think, and I wait patiently for once. I actually sort of appreciate that he doesn’t just blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. I know his answer, whatever it is, will be sincere and well thought out. “Yes, I think I might be. I do not know how I would be sure.”

I point over at his daily schedule, pinned to the wall.

“I’d say scheduling a time to jerk off is a pretty clear indicator.”

Another chuckle, low and sexy in the dark room.

“I made a mistake in leaving that up, yes?” he asks, looking amused.

“Oh, yeah. I’m going to make fun of you for that all year.”

He doesn’t look annoyed. If anything he looks a little pleased. Half of his mouth is pulled up into a smirk and his eyes shine in the lamplight.

“I have never wanted to touch anyone like that, and I do not know that I would enjoy someone touching me,” he admits quietly. “But I should like to try. I think, perhaps, it might depend on the person.”

“Yeah,” I agree, even though the person doesn’t really matter much to me. I could sleep with anyone at all. The act means nothing to me. I don’t have it in me to do the feelings part .

“I enjoyed kissing you,” he adds, almost as an afterthought. “I wanted to.”

I enjoyed it, too, I think, surprised at myself. I really shouldn’t have enjoyed it. It was, as far as kisses go, one of the worst. And yet, if he asked me to, I’d drop my backpack on the floor and dive right back in for more.

Clearing my throat roughly, I turn to the door. “I’ll see you in class, Henri.”

“Goodnight, Atlas,” he murmurs as the door closes behind me.