Page 49 of Rogue’s Promise

Eventually, I push myself to my feet. My knees ache, my pride is beyond recovery, and somewhere downstairs, Cody is probably deciding whether I’m worth hating more than he already does. Yet oddly, this evening has been mostly a success. A humiliating, soul-destroying success. I start toward the stairs, taking them on wooden feet until the evening air is washing over me once more.

Expecting to be met with the same loneliness that I arrived here with, I almost miss the flare of a cherry and the low whistle that draws my attention to the side of the building. Cody leans against the wall, his stark white hair visible even within the shadows. Without saying a word, he offers his joint out towards me. I don’t even have to consider the weight behind his offer, accepting and taking a long drag to take the edge off. Then another. Usually, I leave the weed as Cody’s vice, but tonight, I’ll take all the help I can get.

Leaning against the wall at his side, neither of us says a word, simply passing the joint back and forth and sighing in between. Cody doesn’t look at me, and I don’t insult him by trying to force eye contact or conversation. He can’t overlook the betrayal I keep forcing him to witness, nor should he, but he stayed. He could have disappeared down the path, could have let me stumble back to the frat house bitter, sore, and miserable. Yet he waited in the dark, offering me a moment’s escape from the mess I’ve made.

In my head, I make a thousand promises to fix it. To save him, to find a way back to loving him the way he deserves. Although anytime I open my mouth, it’s to take another drag and loosen the thoughts that plague me.

Above us, Meg’s window glows faintly, her laughter carrying through the glass alongside Thiago’s muffled voice. Cody notices it too. He goes still beside me, his shoulder barely brushing mine, close enough that I could reach for him if I were stupid enough to mistake this truce for forgiveness. Instead, I pass the joint back and let the silence hold all the words we’re too damaged to say. Meg has agreed to the plan. Cody hasn’t left me just yet. My father has gotten his own way once again.

For tonight, I’m content that’s all I’ll have, until Cody tilts his head aside to exhale smoke into my mouth. The gesture is lazy, careless, entirely him, and yet the intimacy catches me off guard. I inhale because I’m weak, because the smoke tastes like him, and because I can’t resist.

His eyes lift to mine, still holding anger and more hurt than I’ve ever wanted him to feel, but his mouth is close enough that restraint becomes another thing I fail at. Leaning in slowly, giving him every chance to turn away, I press the lightest kiss to his lips. He responds instantly, slanting his mouth over mine with the slightest tremble. It’s me who pulls back, shaking my head and frowning.

“Cody, I shouldn’t...I don’t expect⁠—”

“Shut the fuck up, Everest,” he growls impatiently, catching my jaw in his hand and tugging me back to him like he’s sick of me ruining the few good things we have left. His mouth crashes against mine, heat and passion burning through the cold and through everything unsaid sitting between us. The impact sends a shudder along my spine, my hands finding his waist as if I’ll collapse without somewhere to hold.

Shoving me back against the wall, Cody kisses me as if he’s battling against both himself and me, with teeth, hunger, and no interest in coming out unscathed. His fingers dig into my jaw, keeping me exactly where he wants me while his tongue sweeps against mine, demanding, punishing, forgiving nothing but taking everything. I melt against him, surrendering to his touch and his own brand of punishment. I want it all.

At some base level, this is who we are and who we always will be. Two lonely, desperate men unable to step out of the dark, but willing to be consumed by it if that’s the only way we can ever be together. No matter what happens, no matter how badly I fuck up, we can’t escape this heat between us. We can’t stop yearning for one another, and that’s the one aspect in which my father will never, ever win.

He can’t destroy us. We can’t even destroy ourselves, because even though Cody will never be able to forgive me, all I need is for him to keep kissing me like this and everything in my world makes sense.

Chapter Twenty Five

I don’t know what I’m thinking. In fact, I’m not. Not with the head on my shoulders, at least. The spontaneous kiss sparked something within me, lodging beneath my skin, even now a few days later. My ribs still ache, my palm still throbs, and Nicholas’ face still flashes in my head every time I flex my fingers, but the memory of Everest gripping onto me with desperation smothers most of him out.

Witnessing Everest on his knees at Meg’s door the other evening both stunned and confused me, my feet laden as they dragged me down the stairs. Yet, as I lit my smoke and inhaled as deeply as I could, I realized I didn’t feel anger. I felt pity.

How far has Everest fallen from the pedestal both his father and I placed him on? How desperate has he become? How determined is he to keep fighting, even though I’m certain he no longer knows what he’s fighting for? In part, it’s me. Deep in my heart, I know that, but it’s also for her. For the reputation he swears he doesn’t care about. For the life he’s built that has started to crash down around him, piece by painstaking piece.

And when one of us falls, the other shoulders the burden. It’s always been that way, and it’s the only explanation I have for this relentless need to seek him out over the past few days. Hanging back in the locker rooms, lingering in the utility room at his house, sneaking into his bedroom while he’s out. I even managed to accost him behind the cafeteria, dragging him into a small alcove where we could have been discovered at any minute.

The adrenaline rush reminded me of freshman year, when Hollowbrook felt like the closest thing to freedom we’d ever had. I miss that feeling. Apparently, I’m actively chasing it again, and just like freshman year, I’m pointedly ignoring that Meg O’Connor exists. It’s much easier when Everest’s lips are pressing against mine, his nails scraping along my spine. I’m sixteen all over again, chasing scraps of him through shadows and back stairwells, and I don’t care. For the first time in months, possibly years, my chest isn’t trying to collapse in on itself.

Watching him walk away now, I smirk at the rigid set of his shoulders. He’s wearing a new jersey that Meg’s friend, Thiago, had printed, and he’s not happy about it. Nor is he happy that said friend has been hanging around practice like a bad smell all week, and I’m too petty to even pretend I’m not enjoying his jealous streak. Call it karma, but the sensation of his lips against my neck, abdomen, and cock isn’t all I’m appreciating this week.

His blond hair dampens instantly, darkening against his nape just before the sheets of rain conceal him completely. The whole academy is talking about the first lacrosse home game of the season, but like me, I expect the weather has put most off from watching. Besides, there’s nowhere to lurk anonymously in an open field beneath a huge umbrella. I did suggest rescheduling, but Everest wouldn’t hear of it. For some reason, this game means something to him, and for his sake, I hope it’s worth the hypothermia.

Glancing up at the guttering just about covering me from the downpour and keeping my back plastered to the wall, I edge my way towards the front entrance of Hawthorne House. It’s not the first time I’ve been edged this week, and it absolutely won’t be the last. Once back in the dry comfort of my room, I strip out of my hoodie and drop down at my desk.

Tapping my fingers on the desk, I hunt for a way to waste some time until Everest returns and decide to pick up a pencil. Hounding my secret boyfriend for attention hasn’t left much time for creativity this week, but reaching for a sketchbook, the pencil glides easily with no real direction. I never plan out what I’m going to draw, I simply observe it happening as if I’m watching over my own shoulder. Words filter through my mind, Meg’s confession slipping through a gap in my defences.

I’m not the artist. I have no control over the emotions that surface.

Not to give her any credit, but I suppose I’d never thought of it that way until she said those exact words at the front of Liz’s studio. I’m not the artist either. I’m just a vessel for whatever has been beaten in and then coaxed back out. Ugh, stop. I’m determined to not think about her. At. All.

Switching mediums, I crack open three jars of paint before donning my headphones. The music is loud, drowning out my own thoughts as planned. My brush dips inside before skating over the page, gliding around the rough outline my pencil made. My hand throbs from the healed gash I inflicted on myself, but it’s manageable.

Deep blue bleeds into gray, storm clouds spreading across the paper in thick strokes. I drag white through the center with the blunt edge of a palette knife, carving streaks of rain into the scene. Then the black is added, the piece taking on a lifeform of its own. I relish being on autopilot, relying on my instincts while my brain takes a backseat.

Bobbing my head to the rock music bleeding through my ears, a small smile hitches at the corner of my mouth. Finally, the heaviness in my chest is starting to shift. Not fade, but shift enough to let a trickle of relief seep through. I’d forgotten what that even felt like, constantly chasing a drug-induced high or a hot fuck in a closet to feel anything close.

After a while of switching between paint and pencil, I glance at the time on my phone to calculate if the match is nearing half time yet, if the teams decide to see the entire game through, that is. From the rain lashing against the window, I wouldn’t be surprised if they called it early. Moving the pencil across the paper with more determination, my mind wanders.

Meg is probably standing beside him, ignoring the opposing team in favor of clashing their own sticks, their slippery bodies colliding like a slip and slide across the grass. I catch myself too late, shaking the thoughts loose with a wiggle of my white hair that’s tipping into my eyes. Dammit, Cody. Stop. Thinking. About. Her. It’s easier that way, but my head and my hands aren’t in sync.

Blinking down at the page, I notice a figure seeping through the stormy clouds filling the page. A broad-shouldered shape directly in the center, head bowed with a number one ghosting through the layers as if the jersey has been soaked into him rather than worn. Around him, the rest of the field begins to emerge through lines warped by water, goalposts half-swallowed by shadow. Then, because I’m apparently incapable of following my own advice, another figure appears across from him. Smaller, darker hair, a stance that refuses to bend beneath the storm I’ve created. Tutting to myself, I shake my head.