Hush Read Free Page A

at him, who is somehow brightly burning in Cam’s periphery even when they’re not in class. Every time Cam thinks he sees him he tightens in a way that’s unsettling but also feels… good.
    They go to the party, Cam dutifully tagging along when Nate begs for a wingman, though Cam points out that he has no idea what a wingman is really supposed to do.
    But it’s all crushed bodies and spilled beer, fetid alcohol and smoke smell so heavy it feels like a wet blanket on his skin as soon as they manage to wedge through the door. Partygoers spill onto the lawn. They wrestle on the balcony above the front door until Cam wants to tell everyone to settle down before they end up with broken necks.
    Thoughts like these must be exactly what Nate means when he tells Cam he needs to loosen up and act his age. No one here wants to be mothered, and, really, he has no desire to mother anyone. He’s only been back in Chicago for two weeks, and they’ve only just rounded out their first week of the semester and everything is too much. Nebraska is still in his bones, disconnecting him. A boy in an impossibly hard class is haunting him, drunk people shouting variations of the same Saturday night party script are surrounding him and he has a visceral desire to run, and run, and run away until the dust settles behind him.
    It only takes one more stats class for Wren to understand his role in this exchange; if ever there was a cat and mouse scenario, this is it. Everything radiating from this boy reads longing, hot desire unchecked. He is waiting to be led, wanting to be discov­ered. Wren feels new, newer than he has felt since… well, since Robert.
    Wren shakes his head. Robert’s name is at the top of the list of things he doesn’t think about; thinking about him violates one of Wren’s primary rules: Don’t give anyone the power to hurt you.
    This, the somehow-instant tether that formed between him and the boy and tugs and tugs at Wren every second they’re in that amphi­theater, means something. Whoever this boy is, he’s pull­ing at Wren hard. If it weren’t for the rawness of the boy’s long­ing, Wren might think he wants to lead. No matter; it’s not as if he’ll ever put himself in such a vulnerable position again. Wren leads, and they follow.
    * * *
    Every day, Wren comes late to class and leaves early. Some days, he unlocks a little, lets himself feel that hot, sweet course of desire and enjoys how it winds through him. On days when he feels espe­cially sexy and focused, or full of want, he’ll find the boy in the room and pull from him the need to seek Wren out, pull their gazes together. Leading this gorgeous creature is incredibly thrilling; it tests Wren’s willpower, but Wren drags it out because he’s learned that anticipation can be even better than fulfillment. Wren has discerned that the boy has light brown hair and is tall but obvi­ously fit. His eyes are a lovely almond shape—maybe brown, but Wren can’t really tell—and his skin is a wonderful café con leche. Wren can’t wait to get his hands on him.
    “How are you today?” Nora asks over dinner.
    He rolls his eyes. She’s always painfully obvious when she’s read­ing him, though careful to follow the rules he laid out. He supposes it’s the most he can expect, especially because, with her around, he’s learned to sense when he’s emoting most strongly. She can’t help but see that. Her first mentor had been a total wash­out, and they’ve been struggling to find a second; a good, trust-based rapport is vital for this sort of teaching, and is hard to come by based on want ads. And Carlina’s course offer­ings for the gifted aren’t focused enough for the individual training Nora needs since they’re intended as electives and not a part of a designated development program or degree track like some uni­versities offer.
    “I am fucking fantastic,” he declares, then winks.
    “Okay, Wren, I cannot take it anymore, you have got to