Yet a Stranger (The First Quarto #2) - Gregory Ashe Page 0,53
presumably Joe, nodded.
“I hit it once,” Dylan said. “Now let’s finish the game.”
“No way. No way. You’re a fucking cheater.”
“What’d you say?”
The atmosphere in the room shifted abruptly. Music still pounded from the speakers—Imagine Dragons shouting about something radioactive—but everyone had turned their attention to the men around the pool table. One girl stood up, cradling a drink, and left.
“You’re a fucking cheater,” Trevor repeated. “We’re done. And we’re taking our money back.”
“Seriously?” Dylan said. He glanced at his friends; neither of them made a move, and he shook his head. “Fine. Take your money. Fucking bad losers, that’s what you are.”
Trevor was counting out cash, and he waved it at Dylan. “Fuck you.”
“No, fuck you,” Auggie called from across the room. Then, before he could stop himself, he added, “Pussy.”
Trevor turned. “What the fuck did you just say, dickhole?”
“I said you’re a pussy. Fuck you.”
Dylan was watching. He was wearing that little smirk again.
“What a fucking joke,” Trevor said, shaking his head at his friends. “He’s got a million boys playing with their tits for him, so he thinks he’s tough shit.”
“Say that to my face,” Auggie said.
Trevor looked at him. “You’re a fucking joke, and you’re not good for anything except taking videos where you tweeze your cunt hairs.”
Auggie shot up from the couch and hurled his beer. The beer hit Trevor’s shoulder, spraying across him and his friends.
“What the fucking hell?” Trevor shouted as beer soaked into his Vineyard Vines shirt. “You’re fucking dead.”
Auggie straightened, clenched his fists, and waited. He was painfully conscious of Dylan’s eyes on him, but he kept his gaze fixed on Trevor.
Trevor came around the pool table. Amber drops were still falling from the hem of his shirt. The first punch was fast, but Auggie pulled back. He never saw the second one, and it clocked him on the side of the head.
The world seemed to rise up for a moment, and then Auggie was on the ground, blinking, trying to put the pieces of his brain back into place. Everyone was shouting. Sneakers moved in and out of his field of vision. He got himself up onto an elbow, vaguely aware that if this was a fight, he needed to be on his feet. Then Dylan’s face swam into view.
“He’s ok,” Dylan said over his shoulder; everything sounded underwater, even the pounding music. Then Dylan turned back to Auggie and said, “Are you ok?”
“Yeah,” Auggie managed to say.
Dylan’s eyes narrowed. “You sure?”
“Oh yeah.”
“So you can, like, stand up?”
“Uh huh,” Auggie said, and then he closed his eyes and lay down.
He wasn’t sure if he lost consciousness, but when the world made more sense, he was bouncing up and down, smelling something like sandalwood, and aware of dense muscle underneath him and a hand on his ass. He opened his eyes and saw that Dylan was carrying him upstairs. He patted Dylan’s shoulder.
“I’m ok. You can put me down.”
“Sure thing.”
Dylan kept carrying him.
“No, really.”
“Gotcha.”
“Ok,” Auggie said, and then he slumped down again, resting his face in Dylan’s neck.
“Little bro,” Dylan said a few minutes later, “you want to tell me which room is yours?”
“Just put me down the trash chute,” Auggie said. “Do they still incinerate the trash? That would be ideal.”
Dylan laughed and swatted his ass. “Room?”
Auggie groaned.
“Come on. You need to lie down.”
“Just put me on the couch. There’s a lounge over there.”
“Maybe you want a little privacy,” Dylan said. His hand had settled on Auggie’s ass again, not stroking or caressing, but heavy and solid.
“I’ll be fine,” Auggie said, most of his attention now shifting to a desperate battle not to throw wood at that exact moment.
“Ok,” Dylan said, “either you’re really subtly telling me to fuck off, or you’re completely oblivious to the fact that I want to hang out with you. Alone. Can you tell me which one? Because you’re not as light as I thought.”
The words might as well have been a second punch. “Uhh.”
“Room?” Dylan said.
“That one,” Auggie said. “End of the hall.”
When they got there, Dylan lowered Auggie to his feet, steadied him, and smiled. Auggie’s hands were shaking a little as he unlocked the door. He flicked on the light, immediately saw the spread of clothes and shoes, and scrambled to pick up the mess.
“Slow down,” Dylan said. He caught Auggie around the waist and lifted him again, this time settling him on the bed.
“I just need to—”
“Dude, they’re clothes.” Dylan kicked the door shut. “You should see my room.”