Page 23 of Pucked Up (Punk as Puck #2)

CHAPTER

TWELVE

BODEN

What was I doing? Oh God, what was I doing ? Panicking, that was what. Everything was changing, my dad was calling me more for some god-awful reason, my apartment was too quiet, and there was a weight on my shoulders now about the fucking community league hockey that hadn’t been there before.

I had the urge to split my skin and peel it off my body as though somehow that would make me feel better.

Instead, like a dipshit, I texted Hugo back when he sent me a message.

Now, I was sitting in front of his apartment like I had any right to be there, hoping he would tear me apart and put me back together in a shape that made sense. I swallowed heavily and stared down at my crotch.

Nearly every time I’d even breathed the same air as Hugo, my dick threatened to break free of my pants. Now, it sat limp and useless against my thigh. I wasn’t wearing boxers, just sweats, so it was even more obvious.

I should go. I should turn around and go home. Or go to Jonah’s. Or Micah’s. Or Ford’s.

Hell, I could probably call Mike or Cooper or fucking Tiago and find a place to crash. Of course, I’d have to explain why, and then things would get awkward because I was a terrible liar, but for a few moments, I might have peace.

I didn’t do any of that. I left my phone in my pocket, thumping against my thigh as I slowly made my way to Hugo’s front door. At least he’d gotten a ground-floor apartment. Or…condo. Whatever the fuck it was. I leaned on my left crutch and used my right hand to knock.

For a moment, there was nothing but silence. Of course, there was a good chance I just couldn’t hear the footsteps on the floor, which turned out to be true because it scared the absolute piss out of me when the door swung open and Hugo stood there.

He was like some kind of avenging god. He looked almost…angry to see me. His eyes were narrowed, his lips set in a straight line, his hands curled into fists at his sides. What had I done this time?

“Who hurt you?”

I frowned at him.

“I know it wasn’t from a game or practice. You haven’t been on the ice in two days. ”

I kept staring because what the fuck was he talking about?

His hand lifted after a beat and caressed my cheek. Right. I had bruises all over my body so damn often from either hockey or tripping over my own legs I’d stopped keeping track. “This absolute dickhead.”

He looked even more furious. “I want a name.”

Something about his tone said he would literally fight the sun if I said I was too warm, and that made me feel a type of way I was refusing to acknowledge because I wasn’t here for that. “First name door. Second name knob.”

He blinked. “This isn’t a joke.”

“I know that. I’m not joking. He has cruel parents. Mr. and Mrs. Shitty Apartment.”

“Boden!”

“Christ, alright. Remove stick from ass, please.” I elbowed him to the side and eased my feet over the threshold, closing the door with my backside before speaking again. “I fall a lot.”

“You…fall a lot.”

“Yeah, I know. Classic excuse, right? Except I have cerebral fucking palsy, and you have literally seen the way my legs spasm. It’s like they’re doing a tap dance without my consent. You try staying upright like that, even on crutches.”

He sagged immediately. “I’m sorry.”

“For me falling?”

“For forgetting.”

That…was not the answer I expected. He actually had forgotten. That was…weird. Half of me was pissed off because when people forgot, they also did dipshit things like invite me to places with a million staircases or to events with background noise so intense I couldn’t hear anything at all.

I had no idea what it meant. Or if it meant anything at all.

“I’m sorry,” he said again.

“Doesn’t matter.”

He sighed. “Yes, it does. I don’t want to forget anything about you.”

“Fuck you.” It was a reflex, damn it, and I hated that he winced. But he didn’t yell at me this time. No, he seemed very…subdued. He walked like he was tired as he led me further into his apartment, which was disgustingly nice and also strangely empty.

He had furniture, but everyone I knew filled all the corners of their homes with things that represented who they were. Hugo’s seemed like a shell. Like he’d forgotten the man he used to be before he came here.

I wanted to know more, but I wasn’t about to ask.

“Can I get you a drink?”

“No.” I made my way to his sofa, set my crutches to the side, then parted my legs. “I want my cock sucked.”

His brows flew up, and he stared. His cheeks were slightly pink, and for a moment, I thought he might argue. Then he walked over and knelt down in front of me.

I swallowed heavily and reached my hand out, faltering at the last minute. Hugo wasn’t about to let that happen. He seized me by the wrist, used his thumb to spread my fingers wide, then set my palm against his jaw.

It was rough with unshaven stubble and so fucking warm.

“What do you need?”

“Your mouth. My dick.”

“Alright.” He laughed softly, a huff through his nose, and then he dug his fingers into the waistband of my sweats and tugged them down. It was hard to wriggle my ass with the use of one hand because I would be damned if I stopped touching him, but I managed it.

My cock was still flagging. It was maybe a little harder, but not much. I felt oddly numb below the waist.

He stared down, then stroked a finger across my length. It was rough with my foreskin still soft, and it felt good, but…not the way I wanted.

My whole body burned with something that felt a bit like shame. This had happened to me in the past, but not with Hugo. And normally, it was the other person’s fault. They said or did something that pissed me off beyond recovery, but not Hugo. This? It was all me.

“I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with me.”

“Maybe you need to talk.” He looked up, leaning his cheek into my hand.

“Fuck talking. I want to come. ”

He held my gaze so firmly it hurt. “ Do you?”

My anger started to rise, but my dick stayed useless and limp, a sort of ruddy brown and nestled in my dark pubes. The fucking traitor. It was making me look weak. Like I had feelings. Which I did. I was a person. But I didn’t want Hugo to think about those sorts of things.

I wanted him to associate me with a fat dick in his ass, with come dribbling down my chin, with unquestioned obedience. With a man who just needed to get all his anger and frustration fucked out of him.

“I have Viagra.”

“Oh, up yours, dickhead,” I snapped.

He sighed and pulled away from me. Shame coursed through my body, molten hot and terrible.

“I use it sometimes. I’m not that old, but after…

well.” He licked his lips and once again held something back I desperately wanted to know.

“I need it from time to time. If you want to come that bad, it’ll help. It’s a low dose.”

I didn’t trust it with all the other shit I had to take. I shook my head, and he looked almost relieved. God, I hadn’t even asked if he was in the mood. I just…demanded.

“I should go.”

He looked up at me, almost panicked, and swallowed. “You could stay. I could put on a movie—I know how to make the captions work. We could just sit quietly if you don’t want to talk. ”

“I should go,” I repeated, but this time, there was nothing behind my words except a hollow ache for him to make me sit right there and not move.

After a short forever of feeling my breath heaving in and out of my chest, he got up. I thought maybe he was going to escort me out, but instead, he moved my crutches over, then gestured for me to scoot. It was awkward as fuck to do that with my pants down and my dick out, but I managed it.

He snagged a blanket from the back of the cushions and draped it over me. It was heavy—not weighted but weighty. The comfort was immediate and intense.

“Tea?” he asked.

“I don’t do leaf water.”

He laughed and sank down beside me. “Me either. My former brother-in-law always tries to convince me to give it a shot. He’s English,” he said.

Former brother-in-law. Figured the man would be divorced. “Why’d you split? Your ex get sick of you?”

He turned his head and blinked slowly at me. There was fresh pain in his eyes, so shit, the divorce must have been recent. “Something like that.”

“Sorry. I’m…I didn’t mean…”

“It’s fine.” He reached forward and grabbed the remote before pulling the blanket half off my legs and tucking himself in. He was warm beside me, like a mini space heater. “Do you prefer the captions in French or English?”

My fingers hovered in front of my chest, and then I reached up and plucked my hearing aids out of my ears. “Whatever floats your boat.”

He nodded, then flipped around his streaming services until he started a French show I vaguely recognized. Ford had gotten into it because of the hot twink—his words, not mine. Twinks were not my jam.

It was about a TV network or something like that, but the captions were busted on it.

He was trying to bond with me over the language or some shit, so I pretended to care.

I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I could barely understand spoken Quebecois on a good hearing day.

French coming out of TV speakers, it was a total loss.

My gaze fixated on the words on the screen. Hugo had turned the audio off and the captions to French. They were easy to follow, and my brain relaxed into my mother tongue as silence settled around us.

“I wanted to be an actor when I was ten,” Hugo said, turning his mouth up toward my ear. I glanced down at him, and he looked at me, and then he nestled closer. “I went on several auditions but never got a part. My father said it served me right for trying to do something so useless.”

I knew that pain a bit too well. “Fathers are shit.”

He laughed and turned his face into my side. I couldn’t hear him well after that, but I swore he was sniffing. When he looked back up, his eyes were dry but red. “They’re really shit. Mine died about six years ago. I didn’t go to the funeral.”

“Why not? ”

“He hated my hus—my former husband.”