Page 133 of Vicious Butterfly
He doesn’t argue, and I wouldn’t let him. He can try to push me away, distance himself from me for as long as possible, until he needs a fix, but saying he doesn’t belong with me is a lie that even he can’t tell.
Tate means every word he says about keeping me.
Keeping me isn’t the problem.
It’s how he keeps me.
It constantly fucks with my head and my emotions. But if I could go back in time andnotbeg him to fuck me that first time, I wouldn’t. I’d do it again. And again. Being with Tate hurts, but being without Tate would be like breathing in a room devoid of oxygen.
22
TATE
Late February
Fundraising works out for the Shadowridge Scorpions. Because of course it does. They’re under Ace’s lucky star. Ace and the team worked out a money-raising scheme with one of the other frat houses. Some kind of social media content, something or other. I wasn’t really paying attention. So long as they show me the money, and I don’t have to kiss any more donors’ asses, I don’t care what they do. Point is, that’s finally off my plate.
I blow my whistle. “Get off my ice,” I bark at the team. They haven’t done anything wrong, for once, but I can’t look at them anymore. Hockey reminds me of Ryan. My eyes flick to the time. Six fifty-five am. Perfect. It’s been exactly two minutes since my last thought about Ryan. My don’t-think-about-Ryan plan is a tragic failure.
McKinnon doesn’t know when to leave well enough alone and skates over to me. “Hey, big brother, Tate.” He elbows me like we’re family, which we’re unfortunately going to be once Luke asks him to marry him. Other than make him do windsprints until he pukes, there isn’t much I can do to Ace. He’s under Luke’s protection.
“What?” I snap.
“Why so glum, chum? You look sad.” He removes his helmet. His perfect dirty-blond hair falls around his face. It’s streaked with just enough sweat to make him sexy rather than greasy. Everything works out for Ace. Ace gets to be with my brother, no issues, because he lives in a modern-day fairy tale.
Ryan and I live in those evil fucking Hans Christian Andersen fairytales. They shouldn’t be called fairy tales. If it doesn’t have a happy ending, it’s not a fairy tale.
“I don’t get sad, McKinnon.”
“You do.”
“How long must I put up with your presence until you take the hint?”
He leans against his stick, blade-side up, a goofy grin on his face. Someone annoyed with his presence probably doesn’t compute for him. “It’s okay if you miss him. I miss Luke all the time.”
My heart races. I hate that McKinnon’s able to read me as well as he reads plays. “Do you feel better now that you’ve imparted your wisdom on me?”
Ace huffs. “Fine. I’ll leave you alone, but Luke’s worried about you. He won’t say it,” he adds quickly. “But I can tell. Later, Coach.”
McKinnon skates off. Skating reminds me of Ryan. The ice I’m standing on reminds me of Ryan. My chest has a Ryan-sized ache that won’t let me forget it.
There’s a buzz in my pocket. I pull out my phone.Dollface.He faithfully sends me messages. I don’t always like what they say, but I love getting them. His name relieves the pain behind my ribcage momentarily. A sip of oxygen after too long underwater.
Dollface
How do you feel about post-game parties?
I actually kinda need to know.
Really trying to prevent what happened on Thanksgiving here.
There’s a game at Shadowridge with North Point tomorrow. Ace’s fraternity always throws a rip-roaring after-party.
Me
Your ass is mine tomorrow, dollface.
There’s no response for a minute or two, but this time it’s likely due to shock. I answered him. But then the dots appear.
