Page 90 of Fifty First Times (Sharing You 0.40)
That Friday night, I’d thought I was all alone until Monday. I’d had a shitty week and had spent one too many nights thinking about Malcolm in every inappropriate way possible. So I’d locked the door, turned out the lights, and had sat down at my computer. Yeah, you can guess where that went. Lonely guy. Friday night. Endless amounts of every X-rated thing at my fingertips. I’d gone onto a site that I had been on a few times before. The first few visits I’d looked at the photos and videos of all the things I’d only fantasized about, but that night, I’d needed more—some sort of connection that reminded me I wasn’t the only one like this. I’d ended up in a chat with a guy—Derrick362. Things had started off light but had gotten flirty and heated after a while. Derrick had signed off to go work before we went any further than talk. But afterward, I’d been so keyed up, I’d gotten in bed and taken matters into my own hands—or hand, as the case may be.
Of course, that’s when Malcolm had unlocked the door and strolled in looking for his license. The covers hadn’t been over me, so even though it’d been dark, there was no mistaking what I was doing. I’d almost fallen out of the bed, trying to roll over and get myself covered.
Malcolm had played it off like no big deal. Sorry, dude. Didn’t mean to interrupt. A guys’s gotta do what he’s gotta do.
Meanwhile, I’d wished God would just strike me down and save me the mortification. Boom. Dead. That would’ve been better than that moment. Malcolm had left quickly, so I knew he was more uncomfortable than he was letting on, but I hadn’t been able to look him in the eye for a week after. Though that hadn’t stopped me from going to the site again. I’d chatted with Derrick off and on after that, even had confided what had happened that night. He wasn’t out either and was my age, so even though he lived in Minnesota and we never planned to meet, it’d been nice to have someone over the last few months to be myself with . . . and occasionally talk about dirty stuff with. But after that night, I’d learned to keep any self-help sessions in the confines of the shower where no one could interrupt.
“Why are you bringing that up now?” I rubbed the spot in between my eyes, trying to fight off a post-liquor headache. “If it’s anything to you, I’d rather not ever talk about that night again.”
Malcolm’s mouth lifted at the corner, mischief in his smirk. “I’ve never seen you move so fast.”
“Shut up,” I said, feeling my skin heat from the old embarrassment.
His grin faltered. “I never told you the whole truth about that night.”
“What? Let me guess, you took video with your phone and now it’s spread on YouTube?”
“No, but that would’ve been hilarious.”
I sniffed.
“No, the truth is, that night I surprised you,” he said, looking up, all humor gone from his expression. “But you didn’t surprise me. I had a good idea of what I’d walk in on.”
I frowned. “What?”
He rubbed his palms along his jeans, more uncharacteristic nerves. “A few nights before that, I was studying for my poli sci class and I needed to find a news article. My laptop was acting up, so I used yours. I didn’t mean to, but I saw the stuff in your history. I clicked on the sites.”
My skin chilled. “You what?”
“I knew about you way before I followed you to New Orleans,” he said, palms still tracking up and down his thighs in a slow, unconscious tic.
“I don’t understand. You knew since before summer?” The months were flipping through my head like a calendar in a wind gust. All this time . . . he knew? He chose to share a dorm with me again when he knew?
Malcolm blew out a breath and tilted his hips up a bit so he could dig in his pocket. He pulled his phone out, pressed a few things on the screen, then handed it over to me. “Here, you should know.”
I looked down at the phone, the familiar site name at the top of the screen. And in the log-in box, a few simple letters that punched me in the chest and stole all my air—the screen name Derrick362.
No.
No, no, no. The pieces locked together one by one, but I didn’t want to see the finished picture.
“Bates—”
“No,” I said, cutting him off, the word echoing through the rafters. I couldn’t stand to hear him speak right now. Malcolm was Derrick. Derrick. My nails dug into my palm. All this time Malcolm had been what—playing a game with me? Prying into my personal life without permission? Hearing my private fantasies? Talking about . . . Jesus Christ. I really was going to vomit this time.
I tossed the phone into his lap and launched to my feet. I needed to get out of there. Right. Now. “Fuck you, Mal. I hope you’ve had a real good time screwing with me. You always were the better than me at the practical jokes.”
I strode past him, and he jumped to his feet, the phone clattering to the ground. “No. Shit, Bates, wait. That’s not—”
I headed for the ladder that would get me to the first floor and away from this nightmare. I couldn’t even let myself think of all the things I’d talked about with “Derrick.” The flirting. The sex talk. Malcolm must’ve had a good laugh watching me play straight during the day and then confessing all my true desires online.
I put my foot on the first rung, but Malcolm grabbed my biceps, pulling me back onto the loft. I shrugged out of his grip. “Leave me the hell alone.”
“Stop, will you listen to me for a second?” he said, his cheeks flushed. “It wasn’t a goddamned practical joke. After all this time we’ve been friends, you think I’d really mess with you like that for kicks?”
“Then for what?” I challenged, getting in his face, spoiling for a fight. He might bench press more than me but I was just as capable of throwing a punch.
“It’s been six months. Six months of chatting, and you acting none the wiser. You knew and kept it going, kept signing in and talking with me about . . . God, about private shit, Mal. For what? To mess with my head? To punish me for not telling you?”
