Free Games Boys Play by Zoe X. Rider Page A

sweet, fresh air filled his mouth. He gulped it in and then gulped some more until Dylan clamped his glove over Brian’s mouth, the acrid taste of cigarette spreading across the tip of his tongue before he could get it out of the way.
    “If you make one sound, I will dig a pair of socks out of the bottom of your dirty laundry, piss in them, stuff them in your mouth, and tape your mouth shut again. Do you understand me?”
    Brian nodded.
    “Good.” He pulled his hand away, leaving the taste of his glove behind.
    As Dylan—the intruder—walked back to the couch, Brian tasted his lips with the tip of his tongue. Sweat and the faint memory of cigarettes. He wiped his cheeks against his shoulders, drying some of the sweat. Dylan dropped onto the couch lengthwise, sliding down so his head rested on the arm. Brian could just see the top of his hoodie sticking out from the end.
    As much as he was sweating just sitting in the chair, it had to be worse inside a ski mask and a hood.
    Twenty minutes. Twenty minutes—maybe less—and it would come to an end.
    Shit.
    Part of him was already starting to miss this. The other part needed to take a leak and swallow a jug of cold water. Take a shower. Lie naked on his bed, limbs stretched out any way they wanted to be, air from the ceiling fan skating over his skin. Jack off, thinking back on all this, reliving it—thankful he hadn’t seen Dylan during any of it, just the faceless intruder. He could pretend Dylan hadn’t seen him during any of it.
    That part of him was looking forward to falling asleep, exhausted and sated, maybe jerked from sleep at some point by dreams of a masked intruder breaking into his house.
    But the other part of him…the other part wasn’t looking forward to this being over already, in another twenty minutes or so. He wasn’t sure if it was a sadistic bent or a masochistic one—or a little of each. It was the same panic he felt when the ice cube in the bottom of the sock started to get small. Time flying by too quickly.
    The blurry glow on the stove clock changed shape slightly, once every sixty seconds, marking time, one minute after another.
    His muscles jerked when a ringtone sounded off, echoing in the quiet room.
    It seemed to take forever for Dylan to lift his hips, slide the phone free, look at the screen, and bring it to his face.
    Brian was riveted.
    “You’d better be calling to say you’re on your way up the stairs right now.” After a short pause: “Jesus…fuck.” Dylan was on his feet. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. I’m a little tied up here, you know?” He thrust an arm in Brian’s direction, as if whoever was on the phone could see. He was standing by the table at this point. “You guys are un-fucking-believable. Right. Right. I’ll fucking be there in five. What a fucking joke,” he said as he tapped the call off and shoved the phone into his pocket.
    He dragged the backpack across the table, checked its contents, zipped it, and hiked it over his shoulder. And started toward the door.
    “Hey?” Brian said.
    Dylan opened the door, walked through, and pulled it shut behind him.
    “Dyl?”
    Any second now…
    He stared at the door.
    Waiting.
    The AC clicked on.
    The fridge’s ice maker chunked fresh cubes into the bin.
    The door didn’t open.
    He squirmed against the tape.
    There was no key that was going to drop down. No escape mechanism. Shit . He leaned forward as far as he could, thinking he could maybe rub the tape at his wrists against the back of the chair seat, maybe tear it a little. He kept his eyes on the door as he tried it, sawing up and down across the chair’s too-fucking-smooth edge.
    “Shit.”
    He sat back, alleviating the pressure against his chest but resuming the pressure against his forearms.
    “Shit.” Now he wanted out. All parts of him. “Fuck.” His nerves thrummed in his fingers. Were they falling asleep? Shit . His scalp crawled. Slow breaths. Of course he’s coming back. It’s