For Research Purposes | ✔

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

     Sage wakes and he's forgotten where he is, has forgotten his name, has forgotten everything but what it feels like to be in Sam's mouth, to have him on his knees, to be trembling and begging for more. Which is to say, Sage wakes up horny and hard.

     This thing between him and Sam is tenuous. He doesn't want to risk ruining it by them getting caught, feels like that's the unspoken rule — that nobody knows about them. And that's fine. He's okay with that. Well — he's not, but he can be. There's only one issue. When Sage came home yesterday, he most definitely did not have a fat hickey on his neck. And now he most definitely does.

     It is very obvious and very apparent against his fair skin, a harsh contrasting red the size of Sam's mouth. There's no mistaking it for anything other than what it is.

     So he is definitely panicking, furiously googling ways to get rid of a hickey while he avoids his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He kind of thinks it's worth it. If everything's about to go up in flames over a hickey, at least he got last night out of it. But then he kind of thinks fuck that. Because he wants more last nights.

     If his hair was long enough, he'd get Calla's curling iron and burn himself under the pretense of trying something new. He thinks of other injuries he can inflict upon himself that'll provide an alibi for the mark on his neck. Falling down the stairs? He's more likely to break his neck.

     He needs a cover story. Or... he just needs to cover the story.

     Sage is outside Calla's bedroom. His parents bedroom door is open but they're downstairs. He can hear them moving around the kitchen. His dad's probably making breakfast. He knocks and waits but when he gets no response, he knocks again and says, "Cal, can I come in?"

     There's a distant affirmative remark so he opens the door and walks inside. Calla's room is notably neat for her, but that's not to say that it's exactly clean. She's curled up in the armchair by her unmade bed, watching the TV mounted on the wall across from her. She doesn't pull her eyes away when Sage enters.

     "You know I watch this show and I really want to, like, punch myself in the face for sympathizing with Joe so much," she says as a greeting. Sage glances at her television screen as he moves closer. She's watching You. 

     "I need your help but I need it without any questions," he says stopping a few feet away from her.

     Calla pulls her gaze away from her show to look at him and chokes on her laughter, slapping a hand over her mouth to cover it. "No, no, no. No freaking way. Please tell me this was Sam. It had to have been, Sam, right? I'm freaking dead."

     She drops her voice when she says, "Wait this happened in the house? With mom and dad here? That's bold."

     "Calla," Sage groans. "Can you help me or not?"

     Calla stares at him and Sage is flushing, embarrassed that it's come to this and that he is making his sister very aware of the fact he's sexually active. She no doubt knew but it's different, weirder, when you present it with evidence.

     "Tell me this was Sam," she demands.

     And there's like no getting around that fact so he nods and says, "It was Sam."

     She punches the air. "Fuck yes finally." Then she tilts her head and goes, "I'm most definitely not helping you without question. I need details."

     "I really don't want to talk about it," he says quickly mainly because he doesn't want to say no we're not dating, yes we are hooking up.