Don’t You Dare

I am a piece of shit.

If the dictionary were a picture book, it’d be my mug staring back at anyone who looked up the term. Hell, I’d be surprised if Urban Dictionary didn’t already update it to include me in the definition.

The feeling of self-loathing inside me isn’t quenched with any attempts I make to sleep, either. Futile attempts, I might add, because I’ve been staring at the ceiling for hours now, and there’s been no sign of being pulled under into blissful unconsciousness.

And all that lack of sleep…it gives me way too much time to do something I really shouldn’t do right now.

Think.

And more importantly, overthink.

I truly don’t know how we ended up where we did last night, only that it confused the shit out of me. Not because of Keene’s admission of his sexual identity being muddled from that kiss two years ago—but hell if that isn’t another piece to this weird, Tetris-style puzzle.

No, my confusion stems from how in the ever-loving fuck sending one, single dick pic turned into a masturbation video, filthy voice notes, and me listening to him through the wall while he fucked his fist.

My alarm beeps softly, signaling it’s five and time for my run, and I do my best to shake the thoughts away. Rolling off my mattress, I search for clothes in the darkness, careful to be quiet enough to not wake Keene. Not that it should be an issue, considering he sleeps like the dead ninety percent of the time.

But every once in a while as I drag clothes onto my body, my attention gets snagged on the wall between our rooms, and my mind latches on to last night all over again.

Shit.

I rush through lacing my shoes, grab my AirPods, and I’m out the door in hopes that some cool winter air will help me sort through this. The pound of rubber on asphalt is my own form of therapy most days, since there’s nothing a long run, when everyone else is still asleep, can’t fix.

But it doesn’t take more than five minutes of jogging down the paths of the dorms to realize it’s not working. Instead of clearing my head, my thoughts become more jumbled than they were before. I’m a mess, actually. So much that I almost run straight into the road without stopping once I hit the edge of campus.

At least traffic is almost non-existent at this time of day.

As I turn down the block toward the Arts building where my studio is, I debate locking myself up in there for the next few days, maybe get a head start on this semester’s project and simultaneously escape any awkward encounters with Keene that are sure to happen after what went down last night.

I mean, how can it not be awkward as shit between us now?

Honestly, why I even put myself in this kind of situation with him, knowing he was already confused about his sexuality, is clearly beyond my comprehension. I should’ve said no the second I realized where the dare was going, but only hindsight is twenty-twenty.

There must be something about him that makes my brain go all stupid, letting me agree with the bad ideas he cooks up in his head.

The reality of where those bad ideas took us plagued my mind all night, slamming into me in wave after wave of shame and guilt. I know I shouldn’t feel those things. I shouldn’t be ashamed of helping him get off, even if it was to thoughts of me. And I really did mean what I said to him; if me sending him a picture of my cock would help him get his shit figured out, I’d do it.

I just never intended for shit to get so out of hand.

But when I could hear him, right there on the other side of the wall, my body took over. Took notice. No matter how hard I tried to push it out of my mind, it wanted release.

It wanted…him.

My eyes slam closed momentarily, and I try to push the thoughts back again. But my stupid brain won’t let me.

All this shit between us has managed to do is stir up memories I’d completely forgotten about. Like the night when we kissed at the end of high school. A kiss that I haven’t thought about in almost two fucking years, which now seems to be dancing in my brain like it’s the star of the show.

It didn’t freak me out that he’s a guy and we kissed back then. Just like it wouldn’t have if we’d kissed again at the party the other night.

After all, I’m a firm believer in love being love, and I’ve never batted an eye seeing couples in the LGBTQ community out in public, loud and proud of finding a partner to love. Actually, I find it pretty awesome, especially when it’s a testament of just how far we’ve come as a society. To accept people for being true to who they are and who they love.

I’ve just never pictured myself as a member of that community.

In my measly almost-twenty-one years on Earth, I’ve only ever kissed girls. And fucked girls. And dated them, though that one’s a lot less common overall. But at least it was consistent with the way I’ve approached things like attraction and sex.

Up until that graduation party, I’d never even thought about trying anything different. Not because of some screwed up sense of what is “right” or “normal,” but because there’s never been that urge to try something other than what I’ve always known. Certainly not with my best friend.

Then again, just because I’ve never thought about it doesn’t mean I’m against it.

At the end of the day, a kiss is just a kiss, and I know it doesn’t automatically make me gay or bi. That’s not the way sexuality works. There’s a lot more to it than that. Yet, I can’t help but wonder if this more part is the way my mind can’t stop thinking about it. If that’s the reason why I have the want or desire to do it again.

Maybe even take things further, like we did last night.

The thought alone makes me halt in my tracks, and I skid to a stop outside one of the local coffee shops on the edge of campus.

What the hell is happening?

Turning back toward campus, I pass by the baseball and football stadiums as it starts to drizzle, the elements matching my shitty mood and even shittier state of mind.

I don’t know why I’m so fixated on this. After all, I’ve never been one to overthink something as trivial as sex. It’s always been fun and enjoyable to me, but I’ve never put a whole lot of stock into it the way Keene has. The way it forms deeper attachments to the person you’re banging, which ends up turning into some sort of romantic relationship.

Yeah, I understand the sentiment just fine, and maybe even why someone would want that kind of partnership with another person. It’s just never been appealing to me before, never been a part of the life I’ve pictured for myself. Which is one of the millions of reasons why what happened with him last night should never happen again. The last thing I need to happen is for him to want something I can’t give him.

Unfortunately for me, my mind and my dick are on two very opposing teams when it comes to this. Meaning, as much as the idea of messing around with Keene freaks me out because of all the issues it could cause, it also turns me on. A fucking lot.

“Goddamnit,” I growl under my breath, shaking my head to clear the thoughts away. I turn up the sound of You Me At Six in my headphones, hoping to get lost in the beat or lyrics enough to let my mind have a break from the circles it’s been spinning in for hours now.

It only works for a little while before the thoughts return, revolving around the filthy sounds Keene made last night. For me. Because of me.

Soon, pants and moans echo through my memory loud enough to drown out the music pounding in my ears.

And they’re not just his. They’re mine too.

The ones I bit back as I jacked myself until I came with his name on my lips.

My mind is a vault for the rest of the day after my run when it comes to Keene.

Okay, so that might be seriously stretching the truth, but I do manage a full twenty-four hours where I don’t let a single stray thought of what happened between us come crashing through the eighty-foot wall of willpower I’ve created in my mind.

It’s easy enough the first day, since Mondays are his busy days this semester. Even Tuesday, I manage to avoid him, save for one run-in at the bathroom door in the morning. Of course, the second I see him again without his shirt on, all those memories come rushing back in high definition, making my body crave another round.

Maybe this time, in person—thoughts I later reprimanded myself for having.

The war between the head on my shoulders and the one in my pants is starting to wear on me. The one with an actual brain wins out ninety-eight percent of the time, thank God, but that measly two percent is still dangerous.

Dangerous enough to have me replaying that stupid video he sent me again Tuesday night, just to see if my body reacts the same way it did the first time.

Spoiler alert: It does. Of course it fucking does. And it causes me to smoke half my pack of Marlboros from the roof of our dorm building afterward just to cool my shit.

Which is why, by Wednesday, I’ve come up with a brilliant plan. Or maybe it’s a really stupid one, but I’m letting my brain convince what’s left of my sanity that this is a good idea. A way to get my dick back on straight, so to speak.

I’ll admit; asking Bristol out on a date—one where I wine and dine her before taking her back to her place before screwing the daylights out of her—might be a cheap, shitty way for me to get my crap together again and stop thinking about Keene, but it’s the only thing I can think of that just might work.

Of course, getting Bristol to actually take me seriously about the whole date thing was another issue altogether. Especially from the thousand—not exaggerating on this—“hahas” in the text she sent me when I asked if I could take her to dinner.

Still, after about twenty minutes of back and forth, I got her to agree. It might be wrong, but I’m choosing to take that as a step in the right direction.

Though, by Friday night, I’m standing in front of my closet filled with regret for ever coming up with this cockamamie idea in the first place. To the point where I’m tempted to text her and cancel to hang out with Keene instead…until I remember we’re still sort of tip-toeing around each other like two teenage girls in a petty-ass fight.

And I also recall finding him smiling at his phone earlier today when I got home from my architecture studio, no doubt texting one of those guys from Toppr.

Just the memory of that smirk has me seeing red as I grab my only pair of jeans that aren’t black or shredded or both, and slide them on before snagging a button down off a hanger. A black one, because this is me we’re talking about, and I’m still gonna look halfway like myself on this sham of a date.

I’m almost finished with the buttons when my door is flung open, revealing Keene strolling, looking stupidly good in his signature snapback, a pair of sweats sitting low on his hips…and no fucking shirt.

Of course he isn’t wearing a shirt, because God hates me.

“Hey, I just wanted to see if you had a—” His words cut off when he notices my appearance. “The hell? Did you lose a bet I don’t know about?”

I scowl, fastening the last button before raking my fingers through my already styled hair for the hundredth time. “Bite me, asshat.”

His brow arches, a devious grin forming. “If that’s all you wanted, you could’ve just asked for it. No need to get all dressed up only for me to have to strip you back down.”

I feel the tips of my ears heat, and I continue messing with my hair some more in the mirror while trying to tell my dick not to get any funny ideas about what he just said.

The whole point of this shit was for me to want Bristol. Not Keene.

“I have a date,” I find myself muttering. When I can’t find another hair out of place on my head, I glance over my shoulder, meeting his gaze through the mirror.

“A date,” he repeats dryly. “You?”

I scowl again. “You act like I’ve never gone on one before.”

“You haven’t since we were in high school and you were expected to take a girl out before getting her into bed,” he points out.

“Tell me what you really think there, Kee,” I snap, turning around to face him. “Though I don’t remember asking for your opinion on my social life.”

“Forgive me for being a little shocked about you suddenly wanting one.”

My molars grind, irritation settling deep in my bones as I glare at my best friend. “Fuck off, Waters. You’re the one always saying I need to get out more. This is me doing that.”

His jaw ticks. “And just who are you getting out more with?”

“Does it matter?”

He shrugs. “Call me curious, seeing as I have a hard enough time getting it to happen, and I’m supposed to be your best friend. Though it doesn’t really feel like it the past few days with the way you’ve been avoiding me.” He crosses his arms. “So, please. I’d love to know who outranks me these days.”

The low blow hits its mark, guilt surging through me like a tidal wave.

“Bristol,” I say softly, not meeting his eyes. But I don’t need to see him to hear his scoff.

“Guess you’ve finally decided she’s worth more than just a lay, yeah?”

“It’s never been like that,” I say, but it comes out way too defensive to be anything close to the truth.

He snorts. “Who are you trying to convince here, Pen? Me or yourself?”

Not bothering to stick around for an answer we both know already, he turns and leaves for the living room.

Fuck if it doesn’t piss me right off that he’d call me out like that. Judging me for how I handle my relationships and hookups when I’ve never once said a bad thing to him about his own.

Fuck that, and fuck him too.

I’m still stewing about it when it’s time to leave twenty minutes later, and I don’t even bother looking in his direction to where he’s seated on the couch when I leave my room. Instead, I just pass in front of the TV where he’s watching an episode of New Girl and slip into my leather jacket and black Vans.

Keys in hand, I’m about to head out when he calls after me.

“Hey, Pen. Don’t you dare?”

Though I know I shouldn’t, especially with how things turned out last time he asked me that question, I turn around and arch a brow.

But I’m not prepared for the shit about to come out of his mouth.

A deadly smirk sits on his lips when he says, “I dare you to think of me when you fuck her tonight.”