Total pages in book: 53
Estimated words: 50681 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 253(@200wpm)___ 203(@250wpm)___ 169(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 50681 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 253(@200wpm)___ 203(@250wpm)___ 169(@300wpm)
“What makes you think I haven’t? Just ’cause I didn’t know the terminology doesn’t mean I’m not an expert.”
“I think that’s exactly what it means,” he quipped. “And even if you were an expert at giving…which I doubt, I highly recommend being on the receiving end. If your partner knows what he’s doing, it can be better than a blowjob.”
“Nothing’s better than a blowjob.” I snorted derisively.
“Anal is better. In my opinion, anyway.”
“Hmm. We should probably switch topics,” I remarked with a frown.
Mitch snickered. “Sorry. I should have warned you sex is my favorite subject. If you aren’t careful, you’ll end up hearing more than you ever wanted to know about the joys of gay sex.”
“I don’t mind. Sex is sex.”
“Ahh. Right. And love is love,” he said, throwing my earlier words back at me.
“Sure. As long as it’s respectful, consensual, and everyone leaves feeling good, what difference does it make if you’re gay, straight, or somewhere in between? Sexuality is fluid.”
“Are you bi?” he asked slowly as though mulling over the possibility.
“Maybe. I’m just me,” I said in a cavalier tone. I greeted an old acquaintance passing by with a fist bump before turning back to my befuddled looking companion. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. You just might be perfect for…”
“For what?”
“Um…nothing. Would you classify yourself as curious?” he asked intently.
“Classify? That sounds kinda scientific. Let’s just say I’ve gone through shit in my life that’s made me realize it’s best to be open to possibility. I might live to be a hundred, or I might die tomorrow. Choose love, choose happiness, and choose your own truth.”
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out and glanced at the message from Derek. Are you ready? To leave? Now? Hell no. I hadn’t been this interested in a conversation at a party in eons. I wasn’t going anywhere. I shoved it into my back pocket without replying.
“You really feel that way?” Mitch asked.
“Of course.”
“Oh, my God. I think this is fate. You’d be perfect for my senior project.” Mitch’s eyes lit up excitedly. He stepped back and gave me a thorough once-over, then paused abruptly. “Unless…do you have a girlfriend?”
“No. Why?”
“It wouldn’t work if you were attached,” he said, resting his elbow on one hand as he scratched his chin thoughtfully.
“Oh. Do you have a boyfriend?”
“No, but that doesn’t matter.”
“Why not?”
“I’d rather not say. I have to think about this. I haven’t had much to drink tonight, but I don’t want to make a rash party faux pas and ask you something I might regret in the morning.”
“Oh, like ‘What do you think about rim jobs?’ ”
“Ha. Ha. You brought up sex. Not me,” he insisted with a laugh before brushing a stray piece of hair behind his ear.
I observed the elegant bend of his wrist in a weird daze for a moment and snapped out of it when my phone buzzed in my pocket again. I pulled it out and read the second message from Derek asking if I was ready to go.
I glanced up and spotted my best friend sitting on the deck, nursing a bottle of water. Derek Vaughn looked like a typical California kid. He was a six-foot-two water polo player with dark blond hair, blue eyes, and a toned swimmer’s physique. In a way, it was funny we’d become good friends. We were total opposites. He was an uptight, neat freak and an overachiever. I was…not. And other than being the same height, we were nothing alike in the looks department either. I had brown hair, brown eyes, and a thicker, more muscular build. I outweighed him by at least forty pounds.
I bet he was outside killing time and trying to steer clear of Amanda. I felt a twinge of sympathy, but it wasn’t strong enough to pull me away from Mitch. Derek was a big boy. He could get himself home. I caught his eye and shook my head irritably, then put my cell away just as one of Amanda’s friends sidled up next to me and slipped her hand under my shirt.
“Hey, Evan,” she said in a breathy voice before turning to Mitch. “Chelsea says someone heard the lovebirds fighting and wondered if you’d talked to Rory yet.”
“Fuck,” Mitch sighed, pushing his hand through his perfectly coiffed hair. “I better deal with this. I’ll see you, Ev—”
“I’ll come with you.” Mitch and the girl, whose name I should have probably known but didn’t, both shot dumbfounded looks my way. “What? You said you needed help.”
Mitch held my gaze before gesturing for me to follow him into the house. The decibel level rose the second we crossed the threshold. We made our way through the mass of sweaty partiers in the living room and then down a long, narrow hallway covered in concert posters. He stopped in front of the last door on the right and leaned in as though listening for any telltale noises before knocking.