Page 10

chapter ten

My hands have been shaking all morning. I was supposed to pick Darren up for another conversion therapy session at eight, but I can’t even get out of bed, much less drive him across town and watch as he masturbates to a stick-figure drawing. I don’t know why we’re still doing them, to be honest. It’s been three days since our impromptu date, and I’ve seen him ejaculate once each day. He still wears his tablecloth, I still draw my stick figures, but our eyes never leave each other. I think we both know what a fine line we’re walking. I’m toeing it until I run out of line to toe, but it feels like Darren’s trying to tug me over, and with each day, I’m losing more and more of my resolve.

I grab my laptop, needing an outlet for my feelings. As soon as my Word document is pulled up, I wince, because I forgot where I left off.

I can’t write this book. I know I need to, and I know it’s what God wants, but I don’t want it. I don’t want this horrible story to be attached to my name. I don’t want someone to read it and think it’s true. My readers are mostly women in their forties and fifties, and they love these boys. I’ve gotten so many messages asking when Max and Dillon would get their stories. I knew it was a mistake including the men in book one, because my readers are evangelicals. I was just so starved for that little spark that lives inside me. I needed to let it burn, just for a second. Just to remember. Now, the readers have been practically foaming at the mouth suggesting book ideas. The first one I got felt like a punch to the gut. Max and Dillon weren’t supposed to be main characters. They were just a representation of the world we live in. Breaking them up this way—losing this one thing I wanted to keep for myself—feels like a betrayal to myself and to them.

I eye my bottle of pills on the nightstand. Maybe I could take half and get a few more hours of sleep. Lord knows I need it. It’s not like Darren’s going to pop down from the attic in the middle of the day, but wouldn’t that be nice?

Opening the bottle, I pull out a pill and snap it in half. Swallowing one half dry, and dropping the other down into the bottle, then I type out a text to Dare, telling him I’m going to try to take a nap because I’m not feeling well, and that I’ll stop by this afternoon to pick him up.

The pills usually don’t take very long to kick in, so as I wait, I reread the last chapter of my book, trying to brainstorm ways around splitting the gay couple up. Since the series is marketed as romance, I know there has to be a love story, and as hard as I try, I can’t think of any plot points to use as a workaround.

When the pill kicks in, I lift my hand to close my laptop, but something stops me. A little voice in my head, quiet as a church mouse, soft and melodic like a hymn.

What if I give them the ending I can never have? The one I want in my secret heart.

The sides of my face feel warm, then the world goes black around me. In what feels like seconds, I blink, and I’m not alone anymore. Mal is sitting on her normally vacant side of the bed, my laptop in her lap, a tear trickling down her cheek. I can’t remember the last time I saw her cry. When I look at the screen, my blood runs cold. She’s reading my work in progress. It makes me extremely uncomfortable, because I don’t like sharing my work before it’s been polished. She turns to look at me, sniffling, and then she leans down and kisses my forehead.

“Oh, Miles,” she whispers.

“What?”

Instead of answering, she closes the laptop and places it on the bedside table. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what? Mal, what’s going on?”

“Max and Dillon.” She wraps her arms around me, cuddling up close, touching our foreheads together as we lie facing one another. Her hand caresses the side of my face, and for a moment I worry she might try to kiss me. Instead, she adds, “I want you to be happy. I want us both to have what they have in this book.” She kisses my forehead before standing and walking to my closet. When she returns, she’s carrying an outfit I haven’t worn in years. A tight Polo shirt that shows off my arms. A pair of jeans that meld perfectly with my butt—that’s what Mal says, at least. I rarely wear them because I don’t have a reason. What’s the point in looking good if you’ve got no one to look good for?

“You want me to wear those?”

She places the outfit at the foot of my bed and nods. “Get cute, then go spend the afternoon with him.”

I blush, because all this talk of Darren makes me a little uncomfortable. He’s my best friend. He’s on the path back to the straight and narrow. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself. That’s what was true a few days ago, as far as I knew. But that was before. Before he snuck in through a trapdoor in my attic like a maniac. Before the bottom fell out of the life I’ve been building. Before Darren Matthews showed me there’s still life in these old bones yet.

“I have overcome,” I whisper.

“The only thing you’ve overcome is common sense.” She stares down at my shoes and looks like she might be sick at any second. “And your sense of style. Jesus, these are hideous.”

They’re blue and white boating shoes. They might not be the cutest item in my closet, but they’re comfortable, and Darren says he likes the way I look in them. He always likes the look of me. I’m quickly realizing I like the look of him, too, but that doesn’t make any of this easier. If anything, it just makes me feel guiltier, because if I wasn’t in the picture, Dare wouldn’t be backsliding. Without me, he could find a real pastor who could successfully guide him back into heterosexuality. But there’s not another pastor waiting in the wings, ready to swoop in and correct the wrongs I’ve made along the way, so all he has is me.

An hour later, I’m showered, shaved, and ready to face the day. It’s a few minutes past one, and when I check my phone, I see Darren sent me a message earlier telling me he’d see me this afternoon. When I close the text chain, I’m greeted with our picture as my background. I didn’t change it yesterday, and I’m pretty sure I won’t be changing it today either.

With Mal gone, I take a moment to crack open my laptop to see where she stopped reading, my eyes bulging when I look at the bottom corner of the screen. I was roughly a third of the way through the book when I got stuck on their breakup scene, but now my word count is double, and I’ve added an additional hundred pages to the manuscript. I have no idea how I managed to type so much in my sleepy state, but somehow, I have. I’ll have to try and read some of it later to see how terrible it is. For now, Darren takes priority.

The second I walk out my front door, I hear his folks yelling from the other side of the street. Well, I can hear his daddy yelling. Darren’s mom doesn’t do a whole lot of screaming. She’s quiet as a mouse, most days. I don’t know if he’s hollering at her, or if he’s made the careless decision to yell at Dare, but God help him if he has. I’m not going to let him yell at my boy again. I don’t care if it earns me a black eye, he’s never screaming at Darren again. He’s never demeaning him just to make himself feel like more of a man. Not on my watch.

When I reach their front door, I pound it with the side of my fist, and I hear picture frames rattling on the other side of the wall each time my fist touches down.

The door opens, and Darren has a look of exhaustion covering his face. “Oh, thank God. I need you to get me out of this house.”

I glance over his shoulder, staring down the hall into the kitchen. To my surprise, I spot Sister Matthews lifting a plate above her head and slamming it onto the floor, shattering it into hundreds of little pieces.

“And I’ll tell you another thing,” she says in a meek, almost whispered voice that doesn’t match her current behavior at all. “I’m not going to have all this yelling. For goodness’ sake, Johnny, you’ve turned our home into a warzone.”

Brother Matthews walks into view, holding a Bible in his hand, lifting it high to the sky. “You’re damn right, I have. This is a battle to the spiritual death, and I won’t risk my eternity on some frilly little fairy. Either he shapes up, or I’m shipping him out. He’s a God-damned deviant. I ought to take him down to that little prostitute’s den in West Clark. God knows one of those sex workers would be willing to heal him.”

My mind whirls. Flashes of her . Flashes of her touching places I begged her not to. Taking liberties she had no right to take. Now Brother Matthews is contemplating putting Darren through the same ordeal, and it makes my blood boil hotter than it ever has. I’ll kill him if he even tries.

I dig my nails into my palm and push past Darren. When I reach the kitchen, Sister Matthews’ eyes widen, and Brother Matthews must notice, because he slowly turns to face me.

“Pastor?”

“Love thy neighbor,” I growl. “That means loving your son too.”

“God’s Word says everything I need to know about his kind. It’s very clear what his judgment for their sin is.”

“Darren hasn’t sinned.”

“Hasn’t sinned? I know you don’t preach about their kind, probably because you are one yourself, but that don’t mean God abides faggotry.”

My hand balls into a fist like it’s doing it on its own, and once I swing, my actions don’t register until he’s lying on the floor, his eye swelling, redness spreading across the side of his face where my knuckles connected. “Don’t ever say that word again. Do you hear me? I don’t care what the Bible says, you’re not using God to abuse your son. Not anymore.” I kneel next to him and wrap my hand around his throat, enjoying the sight of his bulging eyes a little too much. Leaning down, I whisper so only he can hear. “If I find out you’ve hurt his feelings again, I will drag you out of this house, and I won’t stop until you’ve stopped breathing.” I lean even closer, growling, “He’s mine. My flock. You don’t get to hurt him again.”

When I pull away there are tears in his newly swollen eye, and I can tell it’s taking every ounce of his strength to stop himself from crying. He’s seconds from breaking, and—God help me—I think I want to watch him break. I grab him by the hair and tug until he’s crying out in pain, facing his son.

“Apologize,” I demand, tugging until I feel hair break free from his scalp. “You apologize to your son right now, or so help me God—”

“I’m s-sorry,” he cries, his voice breaking. “I’m sorry, okay? Let go!”

Releasing the hold I’ve got on his hair, I take him by the chin and turn his face until we’re eye to eye. “God may love you, Johnny Matthews, but I don’t. If you ever hurt my boy again, you can send my love to God in person.” I wait for him to nod before standing and heading toward the hall. Darren’s standing in the archway leading out of the kitchen, and there’s a noticeable bulge pressing against his slacks. It sends a rush of adrenaline spiking through me, going right to my cock. It’s a confusing rush of emotions, but rather than allow the feelings to take me under, I marinate in them. Anger, joy, affection, and something else. Something deeper. Something strong as steel.

“Let’s go,” I say, placing a hand on his lower back and walking him away from the kitchen. I slide my hand around and rest it on his hip, holding him against me, refusing to let go. When we make it to my truck, I open the door for him. Usually, Darren stumbles and tumbles into my pickup truck, because it’s so tall and he’s short as heck. Not this time, he won’t. I pick Darren up and place him in the seat, buckling his seatbelt, then straightening it over his shoulder so it isn’t too close to his neck. Once I’m sure he’s comfortable, I try to move, but my legs are locked. I know I need to get in the driver’s side and drive us to church, but I can’t move. Darren is blushing twelve shades of red, and he’s not meeting my gaze. That doesn’t work for me.

“Hey.” When he refuses to look up, I place a finger under his chin and tug, dragging him to meet my gaze. “Are you angry?”

He blinks a few times like he’s waking from a dream. “Huh?”

“Are you mad at me for hitting your dad? Because that’s a valid emotion, and you’re allowed to feel it. I’m sorry if you’re upset, but I’m not sorry for hitting him.”

He quickly shakes his head. “No. That’s not it.”

“Then what is it? You look shell shocked.”

Wincing, he stares down at his lap. There’s still a noticeable bulge in his pants, and I can’t tear my eyes away from it. By the look of it, Darren’s not packing much. I kind of want to see it, though. I’ve never thought of Darren in a sexual manner, but it’s like his bulge is beckoning me. Begging me to look at it. So that’s what I do. I stare at the tent in his pants, darting my gaze up at him now and then, our eyes catching each time. It’s a repetitive cycle, and neither of us say a word as it happens.

After I’ve had my fill, I look up at him and smile. His forehead is looking really inviting, so I lean closer and give it a kiss, letting my lips linger. The needy sounds escaping him are doing things to me. Maddening things. My mind is filled with obscene images that I don’t want to think of again, but also never want to fade. Darren on his knees in front of me, following my every command like a good boy. His lips on my stomach, leaving trails of kisses as he moves lower. The look on his face when he sees my cock for the first time. How he’ll look with his mouth around my shaft.

“Why?” I whisper.

He’s been nibbling his lip, but he lets it plop out, and it’s all wet and glossy, just begging to be . . . Christ .

“Seeing you hit him did things to me.” He licks his lips, getting them even glossier.

I cup his cheek. “Good boy,” I whisper. His jaw is shaking, and I’m pretty sure it’s from nerves, so I press my hand to his heart to calm him. “You’re always such a good boy for me.”

“Miles,” he whimpers.

“You’re okay, baby.” The endearment is out before I can stop myself. When Darren whines, it’s enough to send my heart slamming in my chest.

“Straight is great?” he asks, his voice soft and frail like he’s worried what my answer will be.

“Something like that.” I stroke his cheek.

On the way to church, I crank up the volume, too scared to let silence fall between us for fear of what I might say to fill it. I know when we get to church, he’ll be expecting me to guide him through his phony-baloney therapy session. I place my hand on top of his, not missing the way his body goes tense. It only lasts a second, but I know my boy’s reactions by heart, so I catch it easily. Then the tension leaves him quicker than an exhale, and I can feel his eyes burning holes into the side of my face.

We continue this way for the rest of the trip, my hand on top of his, my thumb repeatedly brushing his knuckles. When we make it to church, I hop out of the truck and rush around front. Once I’ve got his door open, I unbuckle his seatbelt and lift him out. He looks up at me with wide eyes, looking wonderstruck.

“Miles?” he asks. I can tell there’s more he wants to ask, but he just lets my name sit there, filling up the air around us like morning fog.

I quirk a smile. “Yeah?”

“Are we going to do my therapy today?” he asks. I swallow thickly, because his eyes drift down to his straining erection. I have to bite my lip when I see it. “Miles?”

I blink, feeling dazed as I finally tear my eyes away from his bulge. “Huh?”

“I asked if we’re going to do my therapy. I could really use a session.” He lowers his hand to his bulge and curls his fingers around the shaft.

Jesus Christ.

“Yeah,” I squeak. “Yeah, we can do a session.”

His hand slides down, then up, and then he lets go.

Once we’re in my office, I have him sit in his usual chair. He’s already unbuttoning his jeans as I tie the tablecloth around his neck. I haven’t drawn a stick figure for him to masturbate to yet, so I grab a scrap of paper and scribble a woman down, not really giving a dang if he pictures her as he pleasures himself or not.

Actually, strike that, because I think I do care. I’ll care if he strokes himself imagining a woman. I’ll care if he isn’t picturing me. I look into the mirror behind my desk and see Darren stroking himself beneath the tablecloth. His eyes are locked on my butt, and I arch my back to give him a better view. As soon as the doodle is done, I hold it up for him to look at, and once he’s seen it, I toss the picture behind my back, letting it fall to the floor.

“What’s her name?” he asks.

I shrug. “I don’t know. Just call her Sandy or something.” Who cares what the hell the fictional figurine’s name is? Darren’s erect penis is on the other side of that cloth, and it needs release.

He must be pouring pre-cum, because Darren usually masturbates dry, and there’s an obscene sound of slick friction filling the room. His technique is sloppy. It’s like he’s got no real rhythm, and he’s just trying to bust a nut rather than enjoy his masturbation session. That doesn’t work for me. He deserves his pleasure. Looking down, I realize I’m just as hard as him.

“You’re doing it wrong,” I say, mouth dry, my hands shaking.

He arches an eyebrow. “I’ve been jacking off for over a decade. I think I know the lay of the land by now.”

I shake my head. “Your rhythm is off.” It’s not, actually, but I can’t think straight when my cock is practically screaming to be touched. There’s another tablecloth on my desk and I grab it, wrapping it around my neck like a bib and tying it in place. Once it’s secure, shielding my front from him, I unbutton my jeans.

Darren’s eyes bulge. “What are you doing?”

My breathing is heavy, and it feels like my heart might leap out of my chest. “I’m showing you how fast you should be stroking yourself. You could end up hurting yourself if you’re not careful.”

“By masturbating too erratically?”

“Yeah,” I breathe. Curling my fingers around my cock, I give it a gentle stroke. His eyes lock on my bulge beneath the tablecloth, his mouth hanging wide open as I pump myself. “Like this, Dare. Do you see? Do you see how fast I’m going?” I close my eyes and bite my bottom lip. “Tell me you see it.” As I open my eyes, Darren nods, looking dazed, completely silent as I pleasure myself. I move closer to him and kiss his forehead, just needing to feel him. “I’m so proud of you.” My nose touches his, and a pop of static ignites, making me grunt like a caveman. “Do you see me, baby? Do you see how fast my arm is moving?”

He whimpers. He actually whimpers into my face. Our eyes are locked, our breathing synchronized like we’ve been rehearsing for this all our lives. “Miles.”

“Come on, little guy. Match my speed. You can do it, Dare. Look at you stroking yourself so good for me.”

From the way he’s sitting and how small his hand strokes are each time he pumps, I can tell he’s not working with much down there, and I have no idea why, but it makes my cock ache. Knowing he’s smaller than me—knowing I’m big and strong, able to protect him in every way—has me growling right into his face.

He pulls back, resting his head on the back of the chair, thrusting into his hand. God. He’s thrashing around like he’s having a seizure, and knowing it’s because of me—because of what I’m sharing with him—drags me closer to the edge.

I switch things up by replacing my right hand with my left, even though I always have trouble coming when I use my left hand. My right hand is coated in pre-cum, and I lift it, cupping his cheek, coating his skin. His eyes widen, and I can tell he wants to explore, but he must be scared of freaking me out. As much as it pains me to do, I close my eyes and tilt my head to the ceiling, giving him privacy under the veil of my being lost in pleasure. Sure enough, the moment my eyes are off him, he moves my hand over his mouth, whining as he repeatedly breathes me in. I don’t say anything as his tongue extends, collecting my pre-cum like a souvenir. The way his velvety tongue feels on my palm gives me the briefest hint of what it’s going to feel like when it’s licking at my cock.

Jesus Christ. It’s not even hypothetical anymore. I want Darren’s mouth on my cock. I want my best friend between my legs, sucking me like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do.

“Gonna be such a good boy for you. Gonna come so hard.”

All pretenses of stick figures and conversion therapy fall by the wayside as we stroke ourselves. They don’t matter. Nothing in this world matters aside from our shaking arms and swollen cocks. I’m getting close, and I need more. More connection. More of his unhinged obsession with me. More of my Dare.

“Darren?” I rasp. He blinks his eyes open, looking dazed.

“Yes, sir?”

“Are you ready?

He nods frantically. “So ready.”

Our foreheads touch. “Come for me.”

Darren’s eyes roll back in his head as release finds him, and the sight of him mid-orgasm is enough to send me over the edge, erupting against the tablecloth, moaning obscenely into his face.

As soon as my orgasm wanes, shame sinks me to my knees. There, on my office floor, looking up at my cum-drunk best friend, all those old feelings hit at once. Like I’m a freak. Like I’m a failure. It feels like God has abandoned me on this old, cold floor, damning my soul like it meant nothing to Him. Like I mean nothing to Him.

I look up at Dare, and he’s looking down at me with a cautious expression. “Thank you,” he says, and it feels like a gut-punch. I want to scream at him that he shouldn’t thank me for single handedly walking him through the gates of Hell. He hops off the chair and buttons his jeans before tossing the tablecloth behind him. He kneels in front of me and squeezes my arm. “Thank you for helping me find my way back to the straight and narrow.” He sighs like I’m taking away his only hope, but there’s still so much hope in his eyes. I think we both know what’s going through my head right now, and while I’m thankful he hasn’t called me out, I’m not thankful that he looks so torn-up about it. He pulls me in for a hug, whispering into my ear. “Thank you for protecting me, Miles. If you ever need me to return the favor, I’m here.”

It’s a promise I plan to take him up on. Tonight, maybe, once he sneaks into my room.