Chapter 1

I’m outside the Bar Code downtown, standing

on the curb with my hands shoved deep in the pockets of my

sweatpants and trying hard to look worlds more interesting than I

really am, when I feel a hand on my shoulder. I whirl around,

stepping back, but it’s only Ritchie. He’s drunk and there’s a wild

look in his eyes, a devilish gleam that excites me, though I don’t

let him know it.

Ritchie’s cool in a way I’ve always wanted to

be but can’t seem to attain, no matter how ripped my jeans are, or

how disheveled my hair, or how worn my T-shirt. He’s crazy, man,

craziest guy on our floor, and I know the only reason a lot of

other dudes in our dorm know who I am is because I’m his roomie.

He’s the kind of guy who will stage mattress fights at three in the

morning, and even if you have an exam the next day, you can’t help

but stand in the hallway cheering him on as you watch him holding

his battered twin-size mattress, a barbaric yawp escaping his lips

as he launches himself down the hall at someone just as wild and

crazy as he. I’ve stood there many times, laughing with the rest of

our floor mates, but I’m never quick enough to grab my mattress

first and run at him from the opposite end of the hall.

He has the loudest music, shouts hello to

everyone in the hall, sings in the shower at the top of his lungs

as if no else one is listening, and even calls out to his

professors in the cafeteria when he sees them. There’s an air of

casual negligence about him that I wish I could pull off half as

well. He’s so far out of my league, I’m still surprised when he

speaks to me any time we’re off campus together, but I’m his

roommate, the built-in sidekick, the tagalong makeshift friend, and

I’m the only guy on our floor who has a car. I suppose that makes

me tolerable to some degree.

But sometimes? My throat still dries up when

he catches me unawares. He has dark grey eyes that flash with mirth

and when he’s angry or mad, they darken like storm clouds. He wears

his hair long and unkempt, dyed black and down to his shoulders, an

almost scary look that my mother hates and makes him that much

hotter in my eyes. He can never seem to keep his hands out of that

mop of hair—he’s always pushing it up, out of the way, and it

sticks out at crazed angles that make him look like some sort of

mad genius. Whenever we’re together, my hands clench in unconscious

fists to keep from plunging into those inky depths.

Ritchie has the lower bunk in our room and

some nights, after he’s fallen asleep, I’ll click on my lamp that’s

clamped to my headboard and lean over the side of the upper bunk

just to watch the shadows play across his sharp cheekbones, his

closed eyelids, his thin lips. Every time he comes in from the

shower or changes his clothes, I watch him from the corner of my

eye, without him knowing. I’ve seen his narrow waist, his lanky

legs, his flat stomach almost concave below his ribs, the jut of

his hip bones, the thick length of his cock hanging below a small

brush of tight dark curls. He always drops the towel, or strips

completely, then goes about the task of gathering together clothing

to wear before he actually starts to get dressed. I’ve watched him

stand in front of his wardrobe, hands on his bare hips, his ass

cheeks flexing as he decides what to wear. I’ve watched him bend

over to pull out jeans from the bottom drawer of his dresser; I’ve

seen the darkness between his legs, the hint of hidden flesh, and

it was all I could do not to jump down from my bunk to press my

hands, my nose, my mouth into his secret crevices.

Part of me hopes he shows off like that just

for me, because Lord knows I’m looking and after all these months,

you’d think Ritchie would figure it out, himself. I get hard just

seeing him nude, dick limp even, when there’s not the slightest

hint of sex about him. If I ever saw him hard, or watched him touch

himself in the slightest way, or hell, had him touch me, I’d

probably come immediately. A few times, when he’s up before me and

I’m still in bed, feigning sleep. I’ve touched myself beneath my

blankets as I watched him, my fingers stroking down my own dick,

fondling my balls, moving slowly so he won’t know I’m awake. But

the moment he’s out the door, heading for class, I wrap the blanket

around my erection and jerk off into it, my mouth pressed to my

pillow so no one hears his name on my lips.