Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 90217 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 451(@200wpm)___ 361(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90217 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 451(@200wpm)___ 361(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
“When they’re as historically inaccurate as Gladiator, yes,” I said. I sat back as the battle scene played on, just beyond the carnage of our Chinese feast.
I’d been so relieved when we started watching something. After we’d gorged ourselves I’d made an attempt to head back to my room to read, but Brody had popped on the TV, saving me from more awkward conversation.
It wasn’t that Brody was bad at conversation. He was great at it, actually.
But I found myself tongue-tied and completely clammed up every time I had to talk to any hot guy, let alone one I’d accidentally found jerking off an hour ago. I wasn’t used to it. It was hard enough talking to anybody. I was so much more at home alone with a book than talking to people.
And Brody may as well have been my kryptonite. I couldn’t get the image of him from earlier tonight out of my head. Lying back, covered in cum, his fist around his cock. It sent me into another stratosphere of awkwardness. I hadn’t even seen that much—just a glimpse, before I turned around and attempted to give him privacy. But now every time I looked at his big brown eyes, my brain left the building entirely.
So even though he’d turned on one of the most inaccurate abominations in cinema history, I was glad to have something to focus on.
“It’s awful,” I said, staring at the screen.
“C’mon, you kind of like it,” Brody said, his voice deep and velvety and totally distracting.
“What? No way. I like accurate movies, like Full Metal Jacket, or Downfall.”
He shook his head, a smirk still on his face. “Admit it. You love pointing out every little thing about why this movie is so wrong.”
I fought to keep a smile from my face. “So maybe I enjoy it a little.”
He gave me a little shove on the shoulder. “You like showing off how smart you are, huh?”
I rolled my eyes. “It’s not like that.”
“Hey, I think it’s great,” he said. “God knows I wish I were smart like you are. And Russell Crowe is hot as fuck, so the movie’s worth watching just for that fact.”
“That is true,” I said.
He stretched his arms out before getting comfortable on the couch. It was strange to be talking about hot guys with Brody. It was strange to be talking about anything at all with him, honestly. I still couldn’t fathom that he was openly gay, even though it shouldn’t have fazed me at all. Of course anybody could be gay.
But in high school, jocks like him bullied me day in and day out. I’d never been beaten up, but I’d been openly ridiculed and laughed at more times than I could count. The popular kids in my school were the athletes. They hadn’t liked anybody shy, and certainly hadn’t liked anyone who seemed different. And I had been both. They called me just about every shitty term for a gay kid under the sun, long before I ever actually came out.
Back then, it had felt like they could smell it on me.
Like I’d never be able to fit in, even when I was trying so hard every day to bury my big secret deep inside.
Being here with Brody—and him being so nice—felt like another world.
For the last few years in college, I’d specifically avoided anyone remotely close to the definition of a jock because of my past. But on the night I met Brody a couple of weeks ago, I’d looked up countless articles about him on the online student paper. I’d found at least a dozen, all about his LGBT advocacy. He was completely unafraid to be outspoken about his values.
Hell, I’d only started coming out to my family slowly over the past few years. If anything, I envied Brody.
And right now I sure as hell didn’t mind the free Chinese food.
Brody sighed. “Thank you for watching this with me,” he said. “I really needed this after today.”
I scratched the back of my neck. “Was it a bad day?”
“Went from bad to worse,” he said. “We lost the game tonight, and it was completely my fault. And before that, I got my first exam score back in American History, and it was trash.”
“You’re taking American History 102?” I glanced over at him.
“I bet you could teach that class,” he said with a nod.
“Who is your professor?”
“Jim Martinson,” Brody said. “You know him?”
“Oh,” I said. “You’re in my dad’s class.”
“Prof Martinson is your dad?” he asked, sitting up straighter. “Whoa. Man, that makes so much sense.”
“Why?”
“You’re both smart as hell, you’re history buffs, and you both make me feel like I’m as dumb as a box of nails,” he said.
“You don’t seem very dumb to me,” I said. “What are you struggling with in the class?”
Brody told me about the topics that were on the first exam. They were still in the early stages, learning about the Revolutionary War and the War of 1812.