13 | 𝐺𝑒𝑡 𝑂𝑢𝑡

"What am I doing?" I questioned, fiddling with my thumbs, my eyes flickering from my hands to Victor.

He was wearing gray sweats, the band loose and exposing his contoured chest, and of course, he wasn't wearing a shirt, just a single chain resting on his collarbone. His black hair was untidy and a joint remained lodged between his lips.

He wasn't looking at me when he spoke, he continuously searched his room with a pinched expression. "You'll find out sooner or later."

He popped the joint out of his mouth, a cloud of smoke infusing into the air contained in his bedroom. His eyes narrowed on his disorganized desk while his other hand scraped the papers away. "Where the fuck is it?" he retorted to no one.

He paced to the opposing side of his bed, glancing over his dresser, opening the drawer and rummaging through the clothes, pushing some aside. "Fuck me!" he groaned, forging the joint back between his pursed lips.

"Need help?" I asked meekly.

"No, I don't need fucking help!" he shot back, beginning to slow his body. He looked like he wanted to add something, but he didn't. He continuously searched and then sighed with relief when his eyes landed on a minuscule silver key.

He leisurely removed the joint, smirking smugly at the key in the palm of his hand before crouching down to the third drawer below his desk. He rammed the key into the hole and twisted it until it clicked. With his lips pursed around the joint, he stood up with a shoebox in his grasp.

Victor then kicked the drawer close gently with the tip of his shoe and walked back to his bed where I was seated. He placed the shoebox next to my thigh.

My eyes trailed the length of his exposed chest, feeling a warmth tingle my fingers and lips.

"Open it," he deadpanned. "And you tell anyone, I swear to God, I will hurt you," he threatened lowly.

I rolled my eyes. "Wow, that's totally the sweetest thing a guy has ever said to me," I mused sarcastically, shooting him a glare.

He chewed on his lip, holding the joint a few inches from his mouth. "Just..." He held in his breath. "Open it. I've never told anyone this--"

"Why are you telling me again?" I inquired, returning my eyes to his piercing brown ones. They squinted incredibly on me, then on the brown shoebox. "You don't have to."

"I need someone's help," he declared confidently, a falter in his voice causing the words to crack a bit. "My dad won't help me and I have no one else. Remember, I'm not asking for help," he reminded, "you owe me."

"I'm still gonna get my--"

"Advice for Corbett, got it," he summed up. "I did great last night and you still haven't thanked me," he argued, a lopsided grin on his lips while the words emptied so freely. My heart throbbed, painfully sitting in my chest, unmoving.

"What are you talking about?" I implored unhurriedly.

He arched a brow, rifling a laugh through his system. "You didn't seriously think I wanted to dance with you and do all that shit, right?" he questioned dumbly. "I made Sullivan jealous and it worked. He catered to your needs for the rest of the night," he explained.

I didn't have time to feel the hurt in my body when he suddenly beckoned a hand to the box. "Open it," he repeated.

I nodded curtly, shifting my criss-cross position on his comforters to stare before the closed lid. I slid open the top, my eyebrows furrowing at what I was looking at. It was papers stacked, pictures placed sporadically, and a few rocks and dead plants. "What is all this?" I inquired.

"I've never told anybody," he uttered, and a bit shameful-sounding if I listened hard enough. "Just figure it out."

I sifted through the papers, careful to not tear the damaged corners. My eyes asked for reassurance to take them out and he nodded slowly, but his eyes were staring at the box for most of the time, towering over the bed with an arm hugging his chest, the other casually bringing the joint back to his mouth.

I drew out the papers, one single letter catching my attention. The paper was edged and looked like it had been through the worst of storms, the cursive pen scribbled along the page was smeared and hard to read, but before I could focus on the 'To, Victor,' the letter was ripped from my possession.

"Everything, but this one," he muttered, pivoting away from me. The muscles on his back binding together and tense, the grooves structured like the mountains outside of Sullivan's house. He seemed frustrated when he turned around to me. "Get on with it already," he urged impatiently, his foot tapping rhythmically on the carpet.

I nodded and faced the box, dividing the papers more intently, landing on embroidered patches, more rocks, weeds and grass, a watch, a handkerchief, and one thing that once again caught my attention unlike the rest, it was a Polaroid picture of a mini Victor.

He looked at least ten and there was a small boy beside him, blondest of blond hair, bleached, maybe? The boy had similar brown eyes and the picture was worn and dirtied, but I could make out what they were doing.

They stood outside of an apartment, a cheap looking apartment in a city. They were standing outside on the sidewalk with the biggest smiles on their face and in the corner of the picture was a woman who was taking the selfie. She had the widest grin, though it was cut off, but she had rich black hair, and dark circles buried under her eyes.

"That's my mom," he admitted. "My real mom." He prodded a finger into the picture I held, announcing, "and that's my brother."

"D-did they--" My voice trailed. "Pass away?" I met his scowl as he shook his head, rolling his eyes in irritation.

"God, no. I don't belong here, Rhy. I'm from New York City, and that, right there..." He released a series of groans, driving a hand through his hair as he admitted lowly, "I'm adopted, okay?" he charged. "And I need help finding my brother, we got separated three months after this picture was taken--"

Holy fuck, why is he telling me this?

My heart was raising out of my body and words were as foreign as another language. "I'm sorry--"

"Shut up," he deadpanned, "your pity isn't gonna do me any good." He hurried to his desk, patting down the papers before slipping a flashcard out. "These are a series of websites that I've checked out--"

"What do you think I can do that you can't?" I retorted a bit irritated. "I don't know what to do, Victor." I threw my legs over his bed, placing down the Polaroid carefully, looking up to his taller figure. "How can I help you?"

"I don't know!" he yelled, raising his tone. "I don't know anything about this, but don't you see that I'm desperate!? I'm asking you for Christ sakes as a last resort!" He slammed his hand to the desk, startling me. He bent over it, his hyperventilating getting worse. "He's not on social media and I have no clue what fucking state he's in! For all I know, he could be in another Goddamn country---"

"Okay, okay," I prattled, trying to calm him down, but that didn't work and only worsened his state.

"No, you don't understand! I shouldn't have asked." He was trembling, his muscles quivering and his face boiling. He pressed down the joint in an ashtray and pointed to the door infuriatingly. "Leave, just get out--" he ordered. His scowl deepened, lips pursed into a thin line, disappearing along his complexion.

I wasn't going to lie, I was petrified, I was scared. His chest was rising and lowering, his sweatpants sagging a little lower. His arm was quivering, pointing to the door with his index finger stuck out. His eyes hadn't drifted off of me.

Scared... but oddly turned on.

"No," I stated, licking my cracked lips, trying to wet my dry mouth.

Here I was, I thought, that cliche girl who was trying to defend herself from a guy who could literally punch me to my mother's womb and back five years.

I was mirroring his breath unknowingly, deviating my eyes from him to the shoebox. "What's his name?"

He didn't flinch, but took a few steps closer to me, heat radiating off him and prickling me like tiny needles. His arm was hovered alongside my head. "Get out," he threatened, "or I will drag you out of this Goddamn house myself."

My eyes were softening and for some reason, a gut instinct in me told me I should walk out. Yet, my feet were not complying. Whether that was because of fear, arousal, or just me trying to remain confident, I didn't know.

He scared me like this. I've seen him when he fought students in our school, I imagined it would look something similar. It was impossible to believe the Victor standing before me was the same person, to the one I knew, but he was.

My eyes were staring into his irises through my lashes, he kept his sight on me and added again, "Azariah, don't make me hurt you. Get out."

Before I could reply, he latched his hand onto my wrist, gripping tightly and starting for the door. The soles of my feet slipped against his carpet and my heart quickened through the gaps in my ribcage. His grip wasn't painful, but definitely not pleasant. He dragged me to his door and no noise could leave my wordless mind or mouth.

He was gonna hurt me.

No he wasn't.

He really is going to hurt me.

He couldn't hurt me, right?

Oh, God, stop being turned on.

He threw open the door but stopped abruptly at the sight of his eight year old sister standing in the doorway, clutching her teddy bear.

His hand released his grip on me and I straightened.

"What are you doing?" she asked innocently.

He stilled his body, panting heavily. "I--" He stammered, shaking his head. "Give us a minute, Bria."

She nodded and jogged down to the basement, closing the door behind her as the steps descended.

I was already walking towards the door after she vanished. I was angry, I was frustrated, no words could describe what was racing through my head as he quickly snatched my wrist again. I was about to yell but before I could, he tugged me into his bare chest. His arms clutched around me in an embrace.

I turned hot at the touch, my cheeks flaring with a rash of redness as his skin made contact with mine. We were silent, a deafening quietude upon us. His fingertips ran along my spine, his touch going through my t-shirt and on my back.

Fuck, I could get used to this and that scared me.

"Hey," he whispered soothingly into my ear, his hot breath fanning my face. "His name's Valentino and he should be thirteen right now," he murmured.

My arms started to worm around his bare torso, drawing him closer. I could feel an ease that wasn't there before. I laid my head on his shoulder, tilting to look at his neck. He was focused on me whilst he voiced, "what happened today, will never happen again, okay? I just... I don't like talking about certain things, and I do need someone's help. Or someone to talk to."

"Hmm-kay," I whispered back, finding comfort in his strong arms that held me. I liked his build when he wasn't using his strength for bad, (cue Louis Tomlinson) obviously, but everything was soothing in the moment. Something about it made me stop thinking about Sullivan Corbett for a minute.

♡♡♡

I decided on not telling Kayla about anything that happened the last time I saw Victor. It was three days after, in the middle of the week and Victor and I hadn't talken since.

Kayla and I mended our little dispute from the firework show, but three days passed by in a blur and then on Wednesday, I found myself standing absensentdnindly in the bread aisle of Shop's Mart.

My mom's hand curled around the shopping cart while the other gripped onto a piece of paper. As I waited close beside, she was muttering to herself, reading over a certain type of bread loaf. "So... mother?" I started.

"Mother?" she echoed, staring at the bread label.

The cold breeze caused me to shiver in my-or-Victor's hoodie, but I ignored it and continued to ask anyway. "Don't you recall saying--"

"You hear some prices are lowering? I think it's because this cheap store is closing down," my mom remarked, tossing the bread into the cart and nearing the red handle, fishing inside the basket for her 'To Get List'. She scanned for the next item, continuing her speedy walking.

"Do you remember saying I could have someone over for Thanksgiving?" I called over her shoulder, my pace quickening.

"Yes, I do," she muttered, stopping abruptly to a halt and making me surrender walking. "I've always wanted to try these--"

"Mom!" I cried out quieter. "You are literally so distracted at grocery stores."

"What, Sweetie?" she questioned, pivoting around to face me rather than the arrangement of foods. She pursed her lips and nodded her head in an understanding manner. "I'm sorry, I'm listening now."

I sighed in relief, but as I opened my mouth to speak, she peered over my shoulder and said, "ooh, they have pumpernickel." She brushed my shoulder and hastily surveyed the breads, picking out the one she liked and tossing it into the cart. "You were saying?" She grimaced. "Come on, come on, I'm listening now. Bring on the question," she amped up.

I sighed, but not of relief, of worry. It trembled out of my breath rather than sifted casually. I didn't know when the idea had popped into my head, rather it was an impulsive question to ask my mom such, but it all fell into place and I couldn't ignore it.

"Do you think I can ask Victor to come over on Thanksgiving?"

"What?" she refuted, her eyebrows furrowing. "Since when do you two hang out? I thought I told you not to go to his house?"

When an elder woman strolled her cart to a stop in front of Jessica, my mom hurried to the opposing shelves, matting her elbows to the cart. "Did you continue to see him without my permission?"

"Yes?" I attempted, then swallowed and said, "technically, I didn't go against your permission because Kayla was with me during one of those times," I protested, but fiddled with my thumbs. She gave me the mom look that I should fear, the arched brow and pointed expression. "Fine!" I exasperated. "This whole time, I've been seeing Victor and I haven't told you."

She groaned, rolling her head and facing straight, beginning to push the cart. I threw myself around, starting a light jog to catch up. "So," I began questioningly. "What do you say to the desperate girl who doesn't want to be surrounded by family she hasn't seen in ages?"

My mom turned to me with a glaring look. "I'm thinking--" She stopped the cart with a screech. "You know what, he can come to Thanksgiving and he can bring his family if he'd like, because I want to meet them--"

I shook my head frantically, my hands held out before me. "No, Mom, I haven't even met his dad and also, you can just prioritize your nerves on Thanksgiving! Act like him and I aren't even there--"

"I'm meeting him. Kayla has told me a lot about his... sexual desires," she grumbled under her breath in a bitter fashion. "I've heard he's got detention numerous times, suspended for fights, and how player-ish he is. I mean it when I say--" She paused. "I'm meeting him."

When she continued to embark on the grocery store journey, I was more narrow-minded on what she'd said. Everything Kayla told her was true, and Kayla still liked him. I never understood that, I never could comprehend how someone could like someone and be okay with the behavior, but I was exhibiting this for myself. He did something to me that scared me, and I realized after he drove me home I should've been more angry at him than I was, but how could I blame him?

His family must be a sensitive subject and I was the first person he confessed that too, at least in a while. I validated it despite knowing I shouldn't, but without telling my mom, Kayla, or Jay this, I pushed it to the far back of my mind to repress the feeling of comfort towards him.

I know Victor was embarrassed too by what he did. On the long car ride home, he looked at me, once parked at a red stop light, and said, "I'm sorry, Rhy."

"Do people eat yams anymore?" she inquired, holding up a bag to eye level.

It interrupted my thoughts when she faced me, the curious look drawn in her eyes. I nodded. "Yeah, mom. People still eat yams."

She took that as the answer and tossed the bag into the cart while I focused on trying to get Victor to my house on Thanksgiving. I was desperate for somebody to come, and the bad boy at Fox Point, is always an option... right?

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