Wet Dreams
I don’t want to leave this room. Not ever. Maybe I can just move in here; I’m sure eventually Carrick would feel sorry for me and bring me a pillow or something. It’ll just be me and the guitars. I could even write some music while I’m holed up in here doing my hermit routine.
But that’s all a pathetic fantasy, of course.
I could, however, stay in here for the rest of the night, and right now, that’s exactly what I want to do. But Carrick doesn’t give me that choice. He does, at least, allow me a few minutes to wallow in self pity and work up a nice headache banging my head against the wall.
“Come on,” he finally says, his voice somewhere between pleading and placating. He grips my arm ever so lightly, more suggesting the concept of moving toward the door than actually dragging me that way.
Still, I shake my head like a child. “Nope. Not going back out there.”
“Well, I have to at least report in,” he points out. “I was the witness, after all.”
His tone is dry and unreadable. I wonder how we must have looked from his perspective. He’s never judged me for this awful crush, but getting a glimpse into my fucked up mind is different than seeing me actually kiss my brother. Isn’t it? Despite being, well, me, I don’t think I could watch Carrick kiss one of his brothers and not have the urge to be violently ill.
Then again, none of his brothers are Taylor. So it is different.
“Go on,” I say, not meeting Carrick’s eyes. “Go tell everyone about how Taylor shoved his tongue down my throat.”
I don’t wait for a reply before I shrug his arm off and rush out of the room. Tunnel vision kicks in and I don’t notice a single other person as I stomp down the hallway and throw open the door to the stairs. I can feel the old wooden boards trembling under my feet as I make my way back to the second floor, glad to see that it’s still empty of other partygoers. There’s absolutely no way I could handle being around anyone right now.
Anyone except my good buddy Jose Cuervo, that is.
The tequila bottle is still sitting on the kitchen counter where Carrick left it, the lid long gone. The shot glasses are there, too, beckoning me. I pour a shot into each one, downing them one right after the other. It doesn’t put out the fire inside me; instead, it only serves to ignite my anger further. I abandon the shot glasses entirely, irrationally angry at the little glasses for slowing down the progress of my inebriation, and take large gulps straight from the bottle.
There’s a reason I tell people I don’t drink. When I do drink, I have no grasp on the concept of limits. Every drink just makes me want another, and I never tell myself no. And with each drink, my already notoriously short fuse grows even shorter. It’s just safer for everyone if I stay sober, but right now, I don’t really give a fuck.
I want to march back downstairs and punch Taylor in his gorgeous face – both for kissing me and for stopping. I want to punch Carrick for letting it all happen, just standing uselessly against the wall while Taylor ripped my heart out and stomped on it. And I want to beat the shit out of myself for always being so weak when it comes to Taylor, for not having the nerve to pull him back to me and unleash fifteen years of pent up sexual frustration.
“Getting drunk by yourself again?” Carrick asks. I didn’t even hear him walk in, but out of the corner of my eye I see him leaning nonchalantly against the door frame.
“Fuck you,” I mumble, pulling the tequila bottle to my lips.
Carrick rolls his eyes and I really have to hold myself back. My hands tremble around the neck of the bottle and for a second I consider hurling it at the wall next to Carrick’s head. It would certainly wipe that look off his face. His eyes follow my hand and I know he’s already anticipated the move. Before I can do anything else, he’s crossing the room with a few quick strides and pulling the bottle from my hand.
“I think you’ve had enough,” he says softly.
I shake my head, but I don’t bother trying to grab the bottle back. “If I can still remember kissing Taylor, I have definitely not had enough.”
Carrick sighs.
“Why the fuck didn’t you stop him, anyway? Or me?” I screech, the anger inside me boiling up again when I see how calm Carrick looks. How can he be relaxed right now when my world is crumbling around me? “How could you just let him do that – not only that, but just stand there and watch it, too? What the fuck, Carrick!”
“Would you have preferred me to cause a big scene about it?” Carrick asks, his tone surprisingly even. “I thought it would be easier on you if I played it off like the ridiculous dare it was.”
“It’s never easy on me! That’s the whole point,” I reply, frustrated with him for being so reasonable. I don’t deserve it – don’t deserve him.
He sighs again, running his hand up and down my forearm. “I know, and I’m sorry. This will blow over, though. You’ll be okay.”
I nod softly, glancing down at his hand on my arm. My anger is subsiding now, giving way to nausea. All of that tequila has taken its toll and when I look past my arm I swear I can see the tile floor wobbling and swaying. I have a feeling I’m the one moving, not the floor. I glance back up at Carrick. “I think I should lay down.”
He chuckles softly. “I think you’re right. Come on, let’s get you into bed. I’ll come back and check on you when the party winds down, okay? Shouldn’t be much longer.”
I nod, and instantly regret it, as it only sets off another wave of nausea. Carrick wraps his hand loosely around my arm, his other hand coming to rest on the small of my back. Softly, reassuringly, he nudges me toward the door and around the corner to his bedroom. The bed is blessedly close to the door and I fall into it before he can even begin to nudge me in that direction. I’m only vaguely aware of Carrick pulling my shoes off as I fall to my side, my head somehow landing perfectly in the middle of his pillow.
“You can take off your pants on your own, right?” He asks, chuckling a little. “Or leave them on. Whichever.”
I nod my head, though I’m not entirely sure what I’m saying yes to – if that slight head movement was even a yes at all. Whatever it was, it seems to have satisfied Carrick. He gives me one last nod and a weak smile, then walks out of the room. I realize after he’s gone that he said something about my pants – he wants me to take them off? Oh, right. So I can sleep. That’s why I’m in bed, after all. Eyes closed, moving on instinct only, I somehow manage to push my jeans down my legs, kicking them toward the foot of the bed.
As soon as my pants are down, I lunge for the covers, pulling them up over my legs. I’m not cold, and I know there’s no one there to see me in my boxer briefs, but I can’t help the twinge of embarrassment that sweeps over me. Maybe it’s because I’ve been half hard ever since Taylor’s lips met mine. Yeah, I hope Carrick doesn’t notice that when he gets back. A voice – a really, really stupid voice – in my head says I should take care of it before he does.
But no. That’s a horrible idea. Still, I can’t deny that just thinking about how annoyingly turned on I am is only turning me on more. I try to think about anything but Taylor’s lips and hands and hair, but my brain floods with those fresh memories. I shove my hips down into the mattress and groan, willing my dick to just stop.
I’m halfway between awake and asleep, my mind full of images of Taylor’s beautiful mouth wrapped around my dick, when I feel the mattress dip under someone’s weight. I don’t dare open my eyes; instead, I will my breathing to still and hope that I can convince him I’m already sleep.
“I know you’re awake.”
Well, fuck.
Carrick nudges my shoulder. “Come on, man. You’re hogging the whole bed. Not cool.”
I roll over onto my side, still clutching the covers tightly to my body, hoping like hell that Carrick doesn’t see what’s happening in my underwear right now. Opening my eyes slowly, I see that he’s stripped down to a thin pair of boxers and a wife beater.
He yanks the covers out of my hands and curls up under them, his leg barely brushing against mine. It’s a small bed, so even if I backed all the way against the wall, I’d still feel him next to me. But he seems perfectly at ease, his head falling back against the pillow and his eyes fluttering shut. I turn my back to him, still clinging to a small patch of the blanket like a safety net.
“Goodnight, Zac.”
As much as I’m not at all at ease with Carrick here, all the alcohol in my bloodstream lulls me back into that half-asleep state soon enough. In dreamland once again, my sordid fantasies take over. I see myself pushing Taylor against the wall. Sinking my teeth into his long neck. Turning him around and shoving his face against the plaster as I grind against him.
The dreams are vivid. Too vivid. I can actually feel my fingernails sinking into the flesh of someone’s hip, my painfully hard dick straining against the fabric of my underwear, rubbing against –
Carrick. I’m grinding on Carrick.
My eyes fly open to find that somehow, in my sleep, we’ve both rolled around so that my front is pressed up against his back. I slam my eyes shut again and force myself to be completely still. Maybe he’s asleep. Maybe he hasn’t noticed. But as soon as I stop, I feel it.
He presses back against me, rubbing his ass against my dick. It’s a tiny, almost imperceptible movement, and it’s easy to convince myself that he doesn’t even know he’s done it. Until it happens again. And again. The third time, I can’t even stop a soft moan from falling out of my mouth. It seems to echo in the room around us, and Carrick freezes.
I turn around quickly, hoping he’ll think I was still asleep. I know it’s a ridiculous, futile thing to wish for. How can I even tell him what happened? Sorry, didn’t mean to dry hump you. I was having a wet dream about Taylor. Yeah, he probably already knows that, but to actually vocalize it would be possibly even more shameful than the knowledge that he witnessed that kiss.
That kiss. As soon as I think about it again, I can feel my dick pulsing, practically begging for me to wrap my hand around it. But there’s no way I can do that now, with Carrick pressed up against my back. Wait – how long has he been there?
Before I can fully process that change, I feel his hand creeping around my hip, coming to rest on my dick. My hips seem to thrust all on their own, forcing me into his hand. I feel absolutely pathetic, so completely at the mercy of my desires that I can’t even stop myself from reacting to Carrick’s touch. His hand snakes its way into my underwear, wrapping tightly around my length and stroking. This time, I don’t even try to fight the moan.
Carrick doesn’t make a sound, though. But his actions are speaking loud enough. He’s grinding against my ass now, matching the slow but deliberate pace he’s using on my dick. It doesn’t matter that he’s going so slow, though. I was already so close that I think he could probably just hold my dick and I’d be coming all over his hand in a matter of minutes. As it is, I don’t think I’m going to last that long.
I don’t dare moan or call his name or anything. I just grind back against him, pleasantly surprised at the way it makes his breath hitch. My own breath is practically non-existent; I’m too terrified of this moment ending to even let myself exhale. Only when I feel myself falling over the edge, red and yellow fireworks forming behind my eyes, do I let that breath out. It comes out, instead, as a pathetic whimper, matched by a low moan from Carrick.
He pulls his hand back and I’m sure it’s a sticky mess, but he’s grinding even harder against my ass, his cock pressing right between my cheeks, so I guess he doesn’t mind. He moans again and I don’t need to look over my shoulder to identify the slurping noise that accompanies his moan. So much for that sticky mess, I suppose. Carrick thrusts against me again, and I can feel his dick pulsing through the thin fabric of his boxers. He grasps my hip, holding our bodies tightly together, but not moving.
Then he’s gone.
Not just gone from my back, but gone from the bed. I lay there in stunned silence, not even opening my eyes as I hear his footsteps down the hall. A door – sounds like the bathroom, I think – slams shut. Finally, I let myself breath again.
Moments pass by, feeling more like centuries, before Carrick finally returns to bed. He lays close to me, but not touching. I can still feel his body heat on me, though, and the comforting warmth of it lulls me to sleep once again. My mind is blissfully free of Taylor for once as I drift away to sleep.