Page 5

chapter five

It’s been over an hour and my heart still feels like it’s breaking.

Miles is gay. No. Not just gay. He’s one of them. An “ex-gay.” I’ve always held out hope that he might be a late-blooming bisexual, but knowing he’s just like me makes my blood boil, because this clearly came about because of his stupid fucking father. The man was a goddamn menace, and the world is a better place now that he’s gone. The day they buried the jerk I pissed on his grave, now I kind of want to sneak out of Miles’ office, walk to his father’s grave behind the chapel, and piss on it again.

Father Daddy has been unnaturally quiet since we left for church earlier. He’s lost in his head, and it kills me that this is happening so early in the day. I won’t have a chance to properly console him until he takes his sleeping pill. When the world fades away, I can wrap myself around him like a blanket, letting him rest in my warmth. It’s not even ten in the morning yet, so that means he’s going to have to sit and stew in his feelings for hours.

I’m lying to him about my goal for this conversion project, but my intention is clear to me. I love Miles Brooks. Maybe not in the way he thinks I love him, but it’s love, nonetheless. It still flutters around my heart like fireflies, practically making me glow in his presence. If I can just get him to see that everything I’m doing is to get him to a better, happier life, away from the confines of evangelism, maybe there’s hope that we could wind up together in the end. A fool’s dream, I’m sure, but I dream it with all my heart anyway.

Miles places the camera on its stand and smiles at me. “Just follow my lead, buddy.”

I nod. “Yeah. Okay.”

He sits beside me and squeezes my hand. “I hope you don’t look at me differently, now that you know.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know. That I’m . . .” He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “That I used to be gay.” I swallow thickly, but I can’t swallow down the ache spreading through me when I see his sad face. “I just don’t want to lose whatever respect you have for me now that you know. I don’t think I could stand that.”

I know I shouldn’t, but I reach out and squeeze his hand. “I won’t lose respect for you if you don’t lose respect for me.”

A shy smile crosses his face and he runs his fingers through his salt-and-pepper hair. “Alright. No respect lost by either party.” He points at the camera. “Are you ready, buddy?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be.” And, just as I always do when Miles puts on his Pastor Brooks persona, I watch the man I love come alive. He speaks with conviction and surety. Surety that his new ex-gay conversion techniques are foolproof. Surety that I’m almost on the straight and narrow. Surety that he’s going to spark hope in the hearts of all Americans, bringing about a religious awakening. He’s leading gays to the light. A twinge of shame hits me, and a familiar sense of betrayal wraps around me like restraints, holding me in place. Emotionally, at least.

I’m betraying everything I believe in. Whoever stumbles across the YouTube channel is going to think I’m one of . . . them . An ex-gay. They’re going to think I support conversion therapy. My jaw trembles, and Miles bursts into action, pausing the camera and kneeling in front of me, touching my forehead with his, mumbling how proud of me he is. How proud I should be of myself. That we’re going to save so many souls. That’s what he keeps saying over and over, but I don’t care about souls, I care about equality. I care about the queer community. So, I tell myself a little lie—that the ends will justify the means—and I let go of my resistance, letting it fall, along with my Pride.

Miles gives me a kiss on the forehead, then stands and starts the camera. After explaining his stick-figure therapy method, he asks me to say a few words. They come out like broken glass, slicing at my insides along the way. At the end of my testimony, I tearfully add, “I’m going to be delivered, and so—” My grip tightens around the sofa cushion. “And so can you.”

Miles must know how much I’m hurting, because he quickly ends the recording with his signature, “Straight is great” sign-off line, and turns the camera off. Miles turns to me with a smile stretched wide across his face.

“That was perfect, buddy. You did so well.” Before I can react, his arms are around me, crushing me with a hug. “I’m so proud of you, Darren.” When he pulls away, he cups both my cheeks with his hands. “You’re my shining star.”

He leaves the room to grab some paperwork from the treasurer’s office. Since Sister Andrews can’t seem to ever keep her head on straight, her office is like a nuclear bomb impact site, papers strewn every which way, covering her desk and carpet. Because of this, I know I’ll have about ten minutes to myself. Snooping through his stuff always eases my weary soul, and I’m feeling pretty weary right now, so that’s what I do. There’s nothing new in his desk, but he brought his briefcase with him, so I’ll start with that. I don’t know if other people still carry briefcases, but they give Miles a certain je ne sais quoi. A general air of authority. I won’t lie, just seeing him with it makes me half hard, and he carries it often, so it’s like being stuck in a state of eternal arousal. I don’t hate it.

He may think he’s picked an uncrackable code for the briefcase’s lock system, but—as is the case with his security system at home—as soon as I twist the little wheels and lock in my date of birth, the lock disengages.

Eat your fucking heart out, Mallory Brooks.

Placing it on his desk, I rifle through his paperwork. There’s a small leatherbound journal with his daily agenda logged inside. I find a few candy bar wrappers as well. Honestly, it’s a wonder the damn thing isn’t infested with fire ants. Thank God it isn’t, because I’m deathly allergic, allegedly. My mom is the one who told me I was allergic, but the few times I’ve been bitten, my skin had simply risen, growing an aggressive shade or red, not unlike the shade of Miles’ cockhead last night, right before he came. Maybe Mom just used it as an excuse to make me stay inside, because she didn’t want to have to sit with me outside. My mom is a goddamn mess, so it’s anyone’s guess.

There’s a bottle of pills in the bag, and when I study the label, it feels like my heart might burst out of my chest, and not in a fun way. The agency I work for has a vast underground labyrinth that I’m pretty sure goes all the way down to Earth’s inner core. Okay, maybe not that deep, but it is pretty far down. There are four levels that I know of. One is a medical bay, which is the lowest level I’ve visited, as my clearance doesn’t grant me access to Agent Broussard’s lab or the agency’s archives. I have partial access to the armory where the weapons are kept, but I’ve never gone inside. I don’t want to kill anyone, I just like to snoop and dig up dirt on potential targets.

I landed the job after my friend Tatum pulled a few strings when I came home. Apparently, his husband once worked for Meadows, too, as did the husband of Tatum’s unbearable best friend, Scotty Levinson. Ugh. Scotty is the worst. I know everyone else thinks he’s God’s gift to the gay community now, but he’s a problematic princess, and an absolute asshole. I hate him so hard.

When I told Tatum I needed a job, he came through within minutes. For weeks, I learned the ins and outs of being a spy from Agent Meadows, much to the annoyance of his precious Pet. Honest to fucking God, the man is almost as unbearable as Scotty. Well, the gimp, I guess? IDK, I’m not really into heavy kink. No shame for their game, obviously, but I just don’t really like the idea of being gagged and forced to wear a black body suit that covers me from head to toe.

If he isn’t wrapping his arms and legs around Meadows’ leg and hissing at me each time I look at his Master, he’s collecting stray pieces of paper from the trashcan in Meadows’ office, balling them up, and throwing them at me when I look away. Through it all, Meadows stares at the man-slash-gimp like he’d just hung the sun and stars in his honor.

I study the bottle’s label. I know the agency dabbles in mind-altering drug creation to keep their targets docile when needed, but I don’t understand why anyone would give them to Miles. I open my phone to call Meadows, but the sound of Father Daddy’s footsteps echo down the hall, and I rush to close the briefcase and put it back where I found it. There isn’t enough time for me to rush to the sofa again, so I just stay behind the desk and force a smile when Miles walks in. He pauses at the open door, the corner of his lip tugging upward, into a smile. We stay locked this way for a moment—him staring at me like a proud father, me trying to steady my racing heart after almost being caught.

“You look good,” Miles says, and my jaw drops.

“What?” My heart races even faster.

He points at the desk. “You look good in my chair. It suits you.” He walks over and takes a seat on the desk, his legs spread wide enough that the entire length of his penis is visible through his tight slacks. I have to force myself to look him in the eyes, so I don’t get caught staring. “This could be you one day. A church of your own, spreading the Word. I’d be so proud of you, buddy.”

My heart sinks. “Oh.”

Miles arches an eyebrow. “Oh? Oh , what?”

“Nothing. I just . . . I’m sorry, I think I got lost in my head for a second.” Swallowing my shame, I stand up and grab the briefcase from where I placed it on the floor. “Are you ready to go home?”

He gives me a curious expression that I can’t quite read before slowly nodding. “Yeah. Let’s get going.”

Once Miles drops me off at home, I rush to my bedroom and close the door. Taking a seat on the edge of my bed, I pull out my phone and call Meadows. When he answers, there’s the sound of a gagged man wailing in the background.

“For God’s sake,” he barks at who I can only assume is Pet, the man Meadows has kept hostage for months. They’ve got a strange relationship, those two. Meadows keeps him gagged and bound, but the little twink’s gotten used to it, and now instead of fear, he displays sass. “I told you, I’ll turn on Real Housewives when I’m done filing my expense report. You’ve gotta give me a goddamn minute.” The muffled man mumbles something against his gag, and as if fluent in gagged slurs, Meadows adds, “Yes, I know you think Lisa Rinna is a goddess who deserves endless praise. You don’t have to keep fuckin’ saying it over and over.” He huffs out a grunt. “Matthews? What’s up?”

“Sounds like you’re having an eventful morning.”

He groans. “Pet won’t shut the fuck up long enough for me to file my damn expenses.” He pauses when Pet slurs something else. “Yeah, fuck your mom, too, asshole.”

“You need to fuck him and get it over with already.”

“I’m not gay,” he says with a sigh. “I just like punishing people who deserve it.”

“He sends you nudes throughout the day. Nudes you stare at for minutes on end each time.”

“He’s a nudist at home. It’s part of his punishment. Obviously, he’ll be naked in any photos he takes of himself.”

“Yeah, but he’s not just at home when he sends them. He does it at work too. The other day, when you had me watch him for half an hour so you could finish your paperwork in peace, he just whipped his cock out in the lobby, onlookers be damned, and spent the next ten minutes snapping dick pics.”

“He knows I like to make sure he hasn’t harmed his body inadvertently while we’re apart, so he keeps me in the loop. He’s a good boy, unlike you.”

“I had to watch him come! So did Janet, the janitor. While she seemed to be into it, I can assure you, I absolutely was not.”

He growls, making my whole body jolt. “Are you saying my boy’s cumshot wasn’t beautiful? Because I’m straight, and even I appreciate them. Maybe he just misses me when we’re apart. You can’t fault him for it.”

“He literally does it while he’s standing next to you. For God’s sake, he—” I shake my head. “No. Absolutely not. I’m not playing this idiotic game of sexually fluid snakes and ladders with you again, Meadows. You’re here, you’re some shade of queer, and everyone is fucking used to it.”

Meadows growls into the phone. “I’m straight. Why doesn’t anyone ever fucking believe me? I’m married.”

“Anyway,” I say, ignoring him, because he’s clearly lying—either to me or to himself. “We finished the first video for his YouTube channel. I found something while—”

“So, you’ve changed your mind? You want Daddy Meadows to turn your boyfriend into a superstar? Don’t worry, kid. I can set the Russian bots loose. We’ll make him viral in no time.”

“No, that’s not what I meant.” I close my eyes and sigh. “And I’m not calling you Daddy. That’s not something we’re going to do.”

“Suit yourself.”

I take a deep breath, because I know I can’t get too rude with Meadows. The man is a trained killer, for fuck’s sake, and I’m just a twinkish little thing with minimal muscle mass. He’d snap me like a twig—or maybe more apropos, he’d snap me like a twink. Still, I need to ask him.

“Spit it out, kid,” he says, his voice calm. Measured. “Whatever you’re worried about telling me, just tell me.”

“Have you been giving Miles the serum?”

There’s a long pause that grows uncomfortable, then Meadows clears his throat and says, “I have.”

His honesty takes me aback, and I just sit here, blinking at the walls, dazed. “Why?”

“Because I can.”

“That’s not a reason, Meadows,” I say, trying to stop my voice from hissing. “That’s just dumb.”

He’s quiet for a while like he’s lost in thought, then he exhales heavily. “Fine. I like you, Matthews. I see a lot of myself in you—not it in a gay way, obviously. And not that there’s anything wrong with it, if it was. The thing is, you’ve been a real asset to me, digging up intel about our targets. I wanted to treat you.”

“By drugging my pastor?”

“Well, yeah. I mean, that’s part of it. I see the way you look at him, kid. I know how protective you are of him. I also see the way he stares at you.”

“What do you mean?

“He stares at you like you’re prime-fucking-beef. Like he wants to bend you over and spit-roast you during Sunday service.”

“Yes, well, considering spit-roasting would involve another man in front of me while he’s behind me, I don’t think that’s what he wants at all, but thanks for the mental picture, Meadows.”

“If that’s what you need to land your daddy, I’ve got you, little guy.”

I almost choke on my tongue. “What?”

Meadows is breathing hard on the other end of the phone, and he quietly whispers, “I can do this,” to himself. Clearing his throat, he finally says, “If you need me to be the mouth end of the spit roast, I will. I’ve got you, bro. A mouth is a mouth.”

I open my mouth to object, but there’s a loud, pained, wailing sound on the other end of the line. I’m assuming it’s Pet, because the cries are muffled, and it sounds like he’s hyperventilating. The phone thuds, and Meadows’ footsteps rush away, though not very far.

“Ah, hell, Pet. I’m sorry, little man,” he says, his voice calm and soothing. “Baby, I’m sorry. Of course, if I was going to give my cock to a man, it would be you.” Pet makes some more muffled sounds, and somehow, Meadows understands every word. “Yeah, I know you do. And I care for you too.”

Done with this conversation, I end the call and lie back in bed, trying to make sense of it all. Meadows has been feeding Miles a daily dose of our agency’s truth serum. Tatum’s told me about it before. Apparently, his hulking husband used to drug him daily. I remember him saying it made him feel warm. Like every trace of resistance had fallen each time the concoction took effect. I bring up Tatum’s contact on my phone, because if anyone can help me figure out what to do next, it’s him.

My mind is racing. Why hasn’t the serum pulled the truth out of him before? We’ve spent so many nights together with him under the influence. If he really has been taking the serum for as long as Meadows claims, shouldn’t he have told me he was gay much sooner? I guess it doesn’t matter, because it all comes out in the wash. That’s what Mom always says in her soft, babylike voice. What matters now is what happens next. I will not allow Miles to continue this ex-gay self-imposed emotional exile. How can I? How the hell could anyone expect me to? As long as there’s breath in my body, I’ll fight for Miles. For the boy he’s hidden away. For the man I know he can become. The sweetest man on God’s green earth.

I’ve spent weeks falling deeper and deeper in love with Miles Brooks. Weeks being held in his arms as he sang me long-forgotten hymns from my youth. Whatever our end may be, I’m going to ride there at his side, stealing his nights like keepsakes.

I grab a framed photo of us from my nightstand and stare down at my Miles. In the picture, he and I are at a church revival. We’re both sitting at a picnic table, laughing at a joke he shared. I flip the frame over and pull back the clasps to remove the cardboard backing. The picture is over a decade old, but the black sharpie message on the back is standing strong, unfading.

You’re going to change the world, Dare-bear.

If only I could start by changing his mind.