"You know what you are? Hm?"
"A desperate little fucktoy."
****
Aaron Bright's life isn't as bright as his name says. He has no college friends, gets bullied for being bisexual and his parents have kicked him out for the same reason.
After an incide...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Triggerwarning! - Do NOT read if you get triggered by drug use, suicidal thoughts, impulsive actions, seeing others having a panic attack or alcoholism
"Fine. But he's going home tonight," I warn.
Micah grins. "Fuck yes!" And he's gone, back to the living room where Aaron is still warming up.
I sigh, watching him enthusiastically talking about something. A snicker sounds from besides me. I look at Aiden, who's grinning and shaking his head, his hands in the pockets of his suit.
I lock my arms around his waist, looking up at him. "What?"
He pecks my forehead. "Nothing. You look hot." I sigh again.
Alright, living with three horny men can be an advantage, but seriously, we've just put on our clothes.
"Hey, where's Sebastian?" I frown. Aiden looks around, as if just realizing our fourth man isn't here. "He was unpacking earlier, maybe he's still in his room."
I nod, untangling from him. His eyes narrow, but one cocked eyebrow from me stops that. I brush past him and leave the kitchen, overhearing Micah talking to the boy in a soft voice.
Huh. This is the first time I see him this relaxed, just talking and laughing. Maybe he should be social more, because he never does.
I go up the stairs, hearing nothing, not even a small sound. That's also unlike him, so I hurry up and knock on his room.
No answer.
I frown. Did he go out without me seeing him? He was fine in the red room an hour ago . . .
So I open the door, seeing the lights are still on. Then I hear sobs, and it's coming from behind the bed.
My eyes shut closed for a second. Oh God, this again.
"Sebastian?" I gently ask, walking around the bed to face him. He's sitting next to the bed, back against it and knees to his chest. I can't see his face, because he's covering it, but I know he's crying.
"Seb, it's okay," I whisper and pull him close. Though he shakes his head, he clings to me. "They're not working," he gasps. "I need more."
His fist flattens into a hand align with his other, filled with white pills. "They have to work," he whispers, his voice desperate. "They need to work."
But I shake my head and close his fist again, then close my own hand around it so he can't take any more. One look in his eyes and I know he's taken enough already.
"Ada," he sobs, closing his eyes. "Then give me a fucking bottle. I need to forget."
I cup the back of his head. Every time he breaks down like this-once every two, three months-it's because of his dad. It's always something about his dad.
