Page 13 of The Substitute (New York Gods #4)

THIRTEEN

TOBI

Afew weeks later, my books and notes are spread out over my bed when Ambrose shuffles in. Things have been easier, and I’ve been getting to know them both, but I feel guilty about it so I’ve kept it to only cuddling which is easy since they both seem to be cuddle whores.

A quick glance tells me Ambrose is freshly showered from practice, and he’s exhausted. His coach must have run them hard. Skated them hard? Whatever.

Ambrose drops his bag next to his desk and leans heavily on the wall, watching me.

“What?” I ask, probably more aggressive than I need to be.

“Can you just—” he cuts himself off and rubs a hand down his face.

“Just what?” What the hell am I doing that’s bothering him? My shit is on my side of the room, and it doesn’t smell, unlike his hockey shit.

“I just want to sleep.”

“So sleep?” I ask, holding back a laugh.

Things had been better with us since the night we cuddled, but still not great. I can tell he’s still jealous of how much I talk to Savage, but he doesn’t say it. I almost wish he would be more vulnerable. It would make me stop feeling so fucking stupid all the time.

“It sucks to sleep alone,” he huffs.

“Tell me about it,” I mutter.

He starts over and looks at the mess on my bed, then shoves it to one side.

“What the hell are you doing?”

In the next instant, his shirt is gone, and he’s laying down half on top of me, which forces me to lie down too.

“Ambrose! What are you doing?” I’m trying not to laugh or groan because I love how his weight feels on me. He’s like the best-smelling weighted blanket, but even better with his skin touching mine. My entire body relaxes, but my arms hang in the air like I’m afraid to touch him.

I kind of am, if I’m being honest. He’s gorgeous, smells amazing, and is so warm. My cock is taking notice, and that’s the last thing I want to discuss with him. It’s getting harder and harder to ignore but not like I’d know how to make a move even if I wanted to.

“See how much better this is?” He nuzzles into my chest.

“I was trying to study.”

He picks his head up to look into my eyes. “Do you want me to get up?”

Fucking evil.

“I didn’t think so,” he says when I don’t answer.

Ambrose wraps his arm around my waist and shoves it under me, then pushes his knee between mine. He’s really getting comfortable like I wasn’t studying. The bastard.

“Cuddles are better for sleeping.”

“So why don’t you find someone to cuddle with?”

“I did. You. Shh. I’m sleeping.”

I drop my head back to the wall with a thud. “Ouch, fuck.” I huff out a breath and lift my book to keep reading, but now I can’t reach my notebook. “I need my notebook.”

“Ugh. You’re so needy,” Ambrose whines, but he lifts his head and reaches for one of the notebooks.

“Not that one, the one next to it.” I smile in spite of myself. It’s been so easy to spend time with him, I almost forgot he plays hockey.

He points to the one I need, and I tell him yes, so he hands it to me before settling back down. It’s a matter of seconds before his breathing has evened out, and his body relaxes into sleep. I want to hate this. I want to shove him off me and make him leave me alone.

But I don’t.

A part of me is desperate for this. For the human contact.

After spending time with both of them, I’m acutely aware of just how touch-starved I am.

I crave the contact in a way I never have before, but it also scares the shit out of me.

What if I get used to it, rely on it, and both of them decide I’m too much or not enough, or they fall for each other so they don’t need me?

What if they think I’m using them? Surely they’ll hate that I’m doing this with both of them, right?

But they both know. They talk—or more like brag—to each other, and I’ve told them what I did with the other.

So is it wrong? I hate that I’m even worried.

But I can’t help but wait for the other shoe to drop.

I get back to studying, secretly loving every second of the cuddling and how safe Ambrose must feel with me in order to fall asleep like this. The warmth of his body seeps into my bones, and his weight calms my nervous system. I could fall asleep like this.

By the time I’m almost done with the chapter, I see it.

The bright flash that illuminates the room for a split second.

My body tenses on instinct, waiting, preparing for what comes next.

My pulse hammers through my body, and I don’t know how it doesn’t wake Ambrose when I can feel it everywhere.

It doesn’t matter how often it happens, I hate it.

The crack of thunder like an invisible whip makes me flinch.

I know it’s stupid. I know it’s just a damn sound. But that doesn’t stop me from reacting to it.

Every.

Single.

Time.

“You okay?” Ambrose mumbles, half asleep.

“Fine.”

I blink to clear my head and look toward my book, but my eyes are on the window, waiting for the next strike. Shame burns my face when it happens, when I jump at nothing.

“Tobi?” Ambrose lifts his head to look at me, but he’s groggy, and his eyes are barely slits.

Having him on me is making me itchy now. I need him to go away. He can’t see me like this, witness another of my shame-filled moments.

I can’t get enough air with him on me. It’s too much. I need him to get off me.

“I’m fine,” I bite out, afraid he’ll see the cracks.

Shoving at him with shaking hands, I sit up and force myself to crawl out from under him and off the bed.

I want to accept the offer for comfort. I want to let him give me a hug and tell me I’m okay.

But I can’t take any more fucking pity. Yet with every clap of thunder, my body coils tighter.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” Ambrose puts a hand on my arm, stopping me from leaving the room. The window rattles when the next crack of thunder hits, and I curl in on myself, dropping to the floor and wrapping my arms around my head while I tremble.

Ambrose wraps his arms around me, cradling me to his chest and pushing my face into his neck while rubbing my back. “Shh, you’re okay.”

The warmth of his skin under my cheek does more to calm my racing heart than anything else could. He smells clean, like body wash and whatever deodorant he uses, but no cologne. Maybe he doesn’t wear that after practice?

“Thank you,” I mumble against his skin.

“You’re welcome.”

“This doesn’t mean you just get to cuddle attack me whenever you want, though! I do have to study sometimes.”

He snorts a laugh and slides one hand into my too long hair, scraping his nails gently over my scalp. Goosebumps rocket across my body, forcing a moan from me.

Fucking hell. My face heats with embarrassment for a new and exciting reason. I don’t need him to think I’m getting hard right now.

“Can we sit on the bed? The floor is hard as shit.”

“You’re really demanding, you know that?” I sass him in an attempt to break the tension ratcheting up in my body.

He chuckles, and it’s a deep sound that makes me think of sex. “Yeah, I can be.” His hand tightens in my hair for just a second—just long enough to let me know it wasn’t an accident. Damn. That’s hot.

No. Stop it.

You will not get hard over your roommate. Let alone one who plays hockey. I have a good thing going with him. I can’t let myself ruin it like I did with Rhys.

Ambrose shoves an arm under my legs, keeps one at my back, and stands. It doesn’t take us long to get situated, this time with Ambrose sitting against the wall and me in his lap like a fucking child.

“Show off,” I mutter into his skin.

Thunder booms again, and this time, I’m unprepared. I can’t stop the whimper or the tightening of my body around him. He tells me again that I’m okay, soothing me with a hand on my back. It’s disturbing how much I like it, how much I want to sink into him and let him comfort me.

Christ, this is embarrassing.

“Why don’t you like storms?” His voice is quiet, and I don’t hear any judgement, just interest.

“I don’t know.” I shrug. “They’ve always bothered me.”

“What do you normally do during them?” Ambrose plays with the edge of my shirt, his fingers brushing my bare skin.

“Panic,” I say by accident.

His fingers on my lower back shouldn’t be this distracting. I tense when thunder booms again, but Ambrose flattens his palm against me, diverting my attention.

One hand moves to the outside of my thigh, squeezing the muscle, while the other drags barely there fingertips up and down my spine. The difference in pressure keeps my head busy bouncing back and forth.

I want to touch him too, but I don’t know if I should or if I can. Would he be able to tell that I don’t have much experience? Just the threat of being called out keeps me from moving.

The hand on my thigh moves higher, and I squirm.

Christ, I want him to touch me. I wriggle again but freeze when I realize he’s hard.

Does that mean he wants this, too? Slowly, I slide my hand up his chest and around the back of his neck, testing the waters.

Savage liked it when I did it…maybe Ambrose will too?

Ambrose sucks in a deep breath, and I run my nose up his throat, loving the power it gives me to know I’m turning him on. He drops his head back to the wall, giving me more room. I press my lips to his skin, and his phone rings. We both freeze, and he’s immediately tense.

He grits his teeth and removes his hand from my shirt.

“I have to answer that.” He doesn’t sound happy about it.

I scramble off his lap, and he gets his phone. With an angry jab of his finger, he answers it.

“Yes?”

He paces the room, shoulders tight and jaw clenched. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him like this. When Savage is here, he gets frustrated, but this is a different level of angry. Who the hell is he talking to?

“No. I’m not.” Venom drips from his tone. “You don’t control me anymore. You have no say in what I do.”

There’s yelling on the other side of the phone, but I can’t understand what is being said.

“I’m not afraid of you.”

What the fuck?

I eye my bed, looking for my phone. Do I need to call the police? Is someone threatening him? Should I text Savage and ask him? Maybe it’s a family issue?

As the minutes tick by, I’m pretty sure he’s talking to his father, and it enrages me.

No parent should talk to their child like this, I don’t care how old they are.

I have the urge to call my dad and thank him for not being an asshole.

My mom too, now that I think about it. I might feel like I live in my brother’s shadow, but at least it’s not this.

“Fuck off, Father.”

Ambrose tosses the phone onto my bed and stands with his hands in his hair for a long minute. I don’t know how to comfort him. Do I go to him and give him a hug? Do I wait for him to calm down first? How did he know what I needed when I was freaking out?

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“You have nothing to be sorry for.”

With a heavy sigh, he sits on the bed next to me and hangs his head.

I reach out to put a hand on his back like he did for me, and he leans into it. Maybe a hug is what he needs?

“Do you want to talk about it?”

He barks out a humorless laugh. “No.”

“Do you want a hug?” That sounded awkward as hell. Ugh.

His eyes meet mine, and he looks so sad, so beaten down, that I pull him into me and wrap my arms around him.

I’m pressed against the bed in the next moment with his face in my neck and both his arms around me in a tight hold, but I don’t mind.

Remembering how he calmed me, I run one hand through his hair and one over what I can reach of his back.

“Every thought I’ve ever had was beat out of me before I even knew what free will was. If that doesn’t make someone want to kill themselves, nothing will.” His words are quiet, and they break my heart.

“Your parents?” I tentatively ask. I don’t know how much I can really ask without making it worse.

“My father and catholic school.”

“Was it that bad?”

“It is when the school is designed to beat the gay out of us.”

“They did it on purpose?” I can’t imagine what that was like. I always knew I was safe at home, no matter what I did or who I loved.

“‘Course they did. My father couldn’t ‘make me a man,’ so they tried to have the priests do it. But that wasn’t the worst part. I’d take a beating any day over the other hells I endured there.”

“What was the worst part?” I whisper the words, terrified of the answer.

He shakes his head, rubbing my throat with his five o’clock shadow. “It doesn’t matter.”

I’m quiet for a long time, contemplating what he’s said and the implications of it all. “Is that how you knew? When you saw me on the bridge?” I’ve always wondered how he knew I wasn’t okay, this complete stranger, when the people in my life didn’t.

“When you’ve been there, you know what it looks like.” He brings his face up to mine, and we’re nose to nose.

“What made you want to stay alive?” I don’t pull back. He feels good, and I really need the comfort, and I think he does too.

“To fucking spite them.”

I don’t know why but that makes me smile.

Carefully he brushes his lips over mine. My smile widens and I part my lips ever so slightly to taste him.

We don’t do more than a slow kiss, but it makes me want so much more.