Page 22 of Fallen Rook

But it wasn’t like me to make that kind of statement, either. I normally wasn’t presumptuous, let alone blunt. Enzo brought out a side of me I didn’t like. An impulsive bastard who just blurted shit without thinking first.

A small part of me had already made peace with the fact I was going to bury my dick in his ass to help my case move along. But I had to ignore that part and fight it to death, because the truth was, Enzo Ferrante was one complication I couldn’t afford.

“Are you a top?” He propped his shoulder against my locker. His whiskey-colored irises were strangely intoxicating.

“Yeah.” I dumped the towel in the bag, zipping it.

“Hmm. Then of course you’d say that. Guess I’ll have to try both options and see for myself.”

I didn’t like that idea, and not because I was jealous. As much as I thought he was a danger to society, he was also clearly a danger to himself. He was too naive and trusting not to be taken advantage of. He fidgeted with the sleeves of his unzipped hoodie, a flash of skin peering through the fabric.

“Wait, why are you wearing a hoodie?” I tapered my eyes.

“The more I sweat, the more calories I burn.” His sculpted cheekbones pinked.

“You usually wear muscle shirts. Showing off your skin is your entire religion.” My gaze slowly raked his body until it landed on his large tan hand that braced my locker. His wrist was tilted toward me. It was severely scarred.

I grabbed on to it on instinct. He tried to pull away, but I was faster. I held his hand captive, running my thumb along his inner wrist. Jagged, uneven skin shuddered beneath my touch. Pink marks, some fresh, some faded, stared back at me, partly concealed by ink. I’d never been this close to him before, never had the chance to see it, but it was there, and it looked bad.

For a moment in time, the world stopped, tipped on its axis, and poured all the dark shit I’d pushed to the back of my mind right on top of my head.

White spots dotted my vision.

He had to be fucking kidding me.

“What’s this?” I snarled.

Enzo sucked in a breath, trying to jerk away again. My fingers locked around his wrist like a vise.

“Nothing.” He stared back at me defiantly, refusing to cower. “It’s nothing.”

“Enzo, don’t lie to me. Is that why you’re wearing a hoodie? Because you’re cutting?”

“Whoa.” He pushed at my chest, letting out a humorless laugh. “Let’s calm down there, buddy. How about you stay in your lane, and I’ll stay in mine? Just because I want your dick inside me doesn’t mean you can start sniffing around my shit.”

“Enzo, I—”

He yanked his hand away, and I finally let him go, not because I wanted to, but because adding more stress to his already prominent issues would only do more harm.

Jerking his locker open, he pulled out his duffel bag. “Don’t embarrass us both by pretending you care, Tomcat.” He hoisted the strap over his shoulder. “Call me when you want to get your dick sucked.”

Chapter Eight

Enzo

He didn’t call me to get his dick sucked.

Not even to dick me down, which, let’s admit, I also wasn’t too proud to accept.

Rude.

Not that I blamed him. The look of horror flashing across his Ralph Lauren ad face before we parted ways was gonna haunt me into several reincarnations.

I lifted my shirtsleeve in front of the mirror, staring at my pink, flaky skin.

Disgusting. Monstrous. Gross.

And none of it had to do with cutting.