Page 15 of The Boss (Straight Men #2)

I needed to get Zac out of my system, fast .

Even after things went back to normal—after his apology, after lunch, after everything—I knew we couldn’t keep going like we had before. Sure, I kept sucking his cock. But I needed some distance, some perspective, something to remind myself of the rules of our deal, of the boundaries that come with having a crush on a straight man. Because every time he smirked at me, every time he leaned a little too close or let his hand linger on my shoulder, every time he looked at me like I was the only person in the room, I felt myself slipping further into something I had no business feeling. And I knew, with a kind of bleak certainty, that if I didn’t do something about it soon, I was going to fall so deep I wouldn’t be able to climb back out.

So I did something about it.

It was Saturday night, and I had options. Darren had been chasing me for months, but even though he was cute and made it clear he was very available, I wasn’t exactly eager to go down the road of fucking someone I worked with again. Instead, I did what any self-respecting horny and emotionally compromised gay man would do. I downloaded Grindr.

It didn’t take long.

The guy—Tim? Tom? Something with a T—was cute enough. Decent face, toned body, nice ass, knew exactly what to say to push the right buttons. We traded some flirty messages, which quickly turned into straight-up sexting, and within an hour, he was asking me to meet him at the park.

My fingers twitched, indecisive. It wasn’t like I’d never hooked up with a dude in a public place, but this late at night? In an unfamiliar city? Yet I was restless. Wound too tight. Desperate for something—someone—to distract me from the gnawing hunger I refused to name. So I said yes.

* * *

Roger Williams Park was quiet when I got there, the air damp with the lingering chill of late November. The trees stood skeletal against the inky sky, their bare branches shifting in the breeze like bony fingers. I pulled my beanie lower over my ears, hugged my jacket tighter around me as I followed the path, checking my phone. The Grindr sound alert pierced the dark stillness, too loud in the otherwise silent night.

‘Wait by the bushes off the trail. I’ll be there in a minute.’

Yeah, okay, maybe that should have been my first red flag. The kind of text that, in the moment, seemed fine. In hindsight? Dumb as hell. I was thinking with my dick, not my brain, so I stepped off the paved path, moving toward the shadowy tree line.

I was expecting one guy.

Two showed up.

Neither one was the guy from the photo. And I knew the second I saw them that I’d fucked up.

“Hey there, lover boy,” the bigger one said, stepping closer. The other one flanked me on the right, his body angled just enough to cut off an easy escape. They moved like they’d done this before. “You got any cash?”

My stomach turned. Shit. “I think you’ve got the wrong guy,” I said carefully, shifting my weight, keeping my stance loose. My pulse spiked, but I kept my voice steady. If I provoked them, this could turn into something really bad.

The smaller one—slim, tattooed, early twenties maybe—let out a low laugh. “Nah, man. We got the right guy.” He pulled something from his jacket, flipping it open. A knife. Not huge, but enough. The streetlamp overhead caught the blade, a thin gleam of silver slicing through the dark. “Wallet. Phone. Now.”

My fingers clenched around my phone in my pocket. I could give them my wallet. Fuck, I’d have to give them my wallet. But my phone? My fucking phone ? Not a chance. I tossed my wallet toward them, the leather landing with a soft thud in the dirt.

“Phone,” the tall one repeated.

“No.”

The knife glinted under the lamplight as the smaller guy stepped closer. “Oh, don’t be like that. You don’t want me to mess up that pretty face, do you?”

The moment stretched tight. The wind stirred through the branches, the distant hum of traffic barely reaching past the trees. My breath fogged in the cold air. They hadn’t worn masks, I realized then. They hadn’t cared that I saw their faces. Which meant they hadn’t planned on letting me go, even if I gave them what they wanted.

I did the only thing I could think of. I threw my phone—hard—right at the guy with the knife. He flinched, instinctively dodging it, and in that split second, I turned, punched the other guy square in the jaw, and ran. I ran like my fucking life depended on it. Because it probably did.

Footsteps pounded behind me. Voices shouting. My heart slammed against my ribs. But I was fast—faster than them. The path opened ahead, leading toward the main road, toward streetlights and people and safety. My lungs burned, my pulse thundered in my ears, but I didn’t slow down.

Then, out of nowhere, flashing red and blue lights cut through the trees. A cop car.

I nearly slammed into it.

The driver’s side door swung open, and a uniformed officer stepped out, hand hovering over his holster. “What the hell—”

“I was mugged,” I gasped. “Two guys. One had a knife.”

The officer’s face shifted instantly from suspicion to alertness. “Where?”

“Back there—” I turned, breath ragged. “Off the trail.”

He grabbed his radio. “Dispatch, I have a possible 10-64 in progress, requesting backup at Roger Williams Park…” His voice was clipped, efficient. No panic. Just procedure. As he waited for a response, he opened the car door. “Get in,” he told me.

I wavered for a moment. I didn’t like cops. Not in a fuck the police way, just… a general wariness, especially as a guy who’d spent most of his life getting into one trouble after another. Most of them by my own fault. Cops had never been on my side before—no reason to think they would be now. But I didn’t have a choice, so I slid into the back seat, and he slammed the door behind me, locking me into a dark world of silence.

* * *

The station was cold. Sterile. The kind of cold that wasn’t just about temperature—it was in the walls, the flickering fluorescent lights, the dull hum of a vending machine in the corner. The kind of place that made you feel guilty even when you weren’t. Pretty much like every other police station anywhere. You see one, you’ve seen them all.

The desk officer barely glanced up when the patrol cop brought me in, handing her my ID. She was middle-aged, chubby, with red-died hair and deep-set eyes that flicked over me without much interest, like I was just another file in an endless stack of paperwork.

“Victim of a mugging,” the cop explained. “Tossed his phone at the suspect and ran. We found it at the scene, along with his empty wallet. They took the cash and ditched the evidence. Probably got spooked.”

The desk officer nodded, scribbling something down. The scratch of her pen filled the silence. Then she looked at me. “Take a seat while we process the case. If you want, you can call someone to come pick you up.”

I blinked. “Thank you.”

As I went to the bench by the opposite wall and flopped onto it, my mind raced. The hard wood was ice-cold through my jeans, and the whole place smelled faintly of burnt coffee and something chemical—disinfectant maybe, or whatever they used to clean dried blood off floors.

I didn’t have anyone to call. All my friends were back in Maine or Pennsylvania. Darren? Not a chance.

I swallowed. My throat felt tight.

There was only one choice.

* * *

Zac showed up pissed . Fifteen minutes. That’s all it took.

The glass doors swung open, and he stormed into the station, a force of nature in black wool and barely contained fury. His fitted sweater stretched over wide, tense shoulders, his coat unbuttoned like he’d thrown it on in a hurry. His beard shadowed his clenched jaw, and his ice-blue eyes cut through the room like a blade.

“Where the fuck is he?”

The desk officer lady hardly had time to react before Zac was on her, slamming his hands on the counter.

“Christopher Landry?”

Without a word, like he’d heard some silent call, his head snapped toward me. His eyes locked on mine. The next moment, he was standing in front of me, gripping my face before his hands slid to my shoulders, holding tight.

“Jesus Christ, Chris.”

I swallowed, losing myself in the blueness of his eyes. “Hey.”

He stepped back, releasing me from his grip and exhaling. He shook his head and dragged a hand over his face. “What the hell happened?”

The cop who’d picked me up appeared from around the corner just in time to witness our interaction, his eyes darting from me to Zac. “Sir, your boyfriend was the victim of a robbery and possible aggravated assault. Per his testimony, he was walking alone in the park, and two offenders had ambushed him. He had already given his statement so he’s free to go. We have recovered his wallet and phone, but since they’re evidence, we need to hold onto them.”

Zac’s expression didn’t flicker at the cop’s assumption about us being a couple. He didn’t correct him, but his eyes hardened. Something dangerous moved behind them, like a fuse had been lit but not yet reached the explosive. Then, in the calmest, deadliest voice I’d ever heard from him, he said, “No, you don’t.”

“Sir—”

“That’s his property,” Zac cut in, voice like a razor. “And unless you’re charging him with something, you have no right to keep it.”

The officer looked like he wanted to argue.

Zac took a step forward, a mountain of muscle ready to level anything before it. This was a man who wasn’t used to being told no, and even the policeman backed away a bit. “I promise you, Officer…” He glanced at the badge. “ Jeffords . If you don’t hand over his belongings, I will have my lawyer on the phone so fast your fucking head will spin.”

The desk officer looked at the cop. The cop looked at Zac. There was a long, tense pause. Then, with visible reluctance, he reached into a plastic evidence bag and slid my phone and empty wallet across the counter toward Zac.

“Thank you,” Zac said coldly, picking them up. Then he turned to me, his anger softening just enough to let something else slip through—something tight, something raw. “Come on.” His voice was quieter now. Not gentle, but steady. “I’m taking you home.”

He guided me out of the station with a hand on the back of my neck. I walked in a sort of trance, his touch searing my skin, the night air hitting me like a slap of reality. Cold asphalt, distant sirens, the glow of a streetlamp casting long shadows over the pavement. The real world, still moving, like nothing had happened.

Zac opened his car door for me and I slid into the passenger seat like someone else was in control of my body. The leather was smooth and cool beneath me, a familiar scent wrapping around me—cologne, the lingering bite of coffee, the faintest hint of something woodsy, like cedar.

A memory surfaced—my very first ride in this car. The rip in my pants, my bare butt on the leather, Queen playing on the stereo, Zac and I testing each other to see what kind of a man the other was. A stark contrast to now.

This ride was silent. No music. No playful jabs. Only the hum of the engine, the muted hiss of tires against wet pavement, and the sound of Zac’s tense breathing.

When he took a turn toward a different part of the city, I forced myself to talk.

“My apartment is the other way.”

“You’re staying at my place tonight,” he replied without taking his eyes off the road.

I stared at him. “But—”

“ Chris .”

That was it. Just my name. But there was something in his voice that made my throat close up.

So I nodded and settled into the seat.

* * *

Zac’s penthouse condo in Waterplace Park was exactly what I should have expected—a spacious Art Deco symphony of elegance and luxury, with a private elevator entrance, floor-to-ceiling windows, and a massive wraparound terrace overlooking the river. It was all open-concept designs and modern aesthetics, but not in a sterile, minimalist kind of way some rich guys preferred. The place had warmth, a lived-in coziness that softened the expensive furniture and high ceilings.

Full-height bookshelves lined one wall, stacked with hardcovers, paperbacks, and coffee table books, their spines a riot of color. Vinyl records leaned in neat rows against a vintage turntable, and next to them, an entire shelf was packed with Blu-rays—more than I’d ever seen in one place outside a store. The walls were covered in framed artwork, some abstract, some detailed landscapes, others clearly souvenirs from places far beyond Providence. A bronze statue of a Hindu deity stood on a side table. A Venetian mask with intricate gold filigree hung near the windows. On a chest of drawers, a polished wooden stand held a pair of samurai swords gleaming under the soft light.

I didn’t pause to take it all in. I barely processed it. The moment we stepped inside, Zac shrugged off his coat and tossed it over the back of a sofa. I did the same with my jacket, taking off my shoes too, before I smeared his lush carpets with mud.

“You should eat something,” he said, heading toward the open kitchen.

I shook my head. “I’m not hungry.”

He turned, eyeing me. “You sure?”

I nodded, arms crossed tight over my chest. The adrenaline had worn off, leaving me cold and shaky. Food was the last thing on my mind.

Zac didn’t argue. Instead, he pulled a mug from the cabinet, filled it with water, and put it in the microwave. A minute later, he dropped a tea bag in, then set the mug on the counter in front of me.

“Drink,” he said.

I dithered but took the mug anyway. The heat seeped into my hands, grounding me. I inhaled the soothing scent of chamomile, steam curling up into my face.

Zac leaned against the counter, arms folded, the sleeves of his black sweater rolled up. To stop my mind from racing, I focused on his big, hairy forearms, the muscles knitting under tanned skin like vines of flesh. He was still quiet. I waited for him to start—to demand details, to lecture me, to tell me what a dumbass I was for walking through the park alone at night.

He didn’t.

He just watched me, eyes unreadable, then finally pushed off the counter. “Come on. I’ll show you where you’re sleeping.”

I followed him down the hall. He stopped at a door and pushed it open, revealing a guest room that was as stylish and inviting as the rest of the place. A queen-sized bed, layered with plush pillows, stood between two nightstands with sleek, low-lit lamps. A dark wood dresser held a single decorative vase, its polished surface catching the dim light, while a round velvet ottoman sat in the corner. Thick gray curtains veiled the windows, muting the city skyline beyond.

Zac gestured inside. “This okay?”

Okay? Hell, the room was almost bigger than my whole apartment, not to mention better-looking. I nodded.

He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed again. “Get some rest. We’ll talk in the morning.”

That was it. No further questions. No lecture.

I exhaled, some of the tension slipping out of me.

Zac turned to go, but before he stepped away, he glanced back. “If you need anything… call me. My bedroom’s just across the way.”

“Zac—” I swallowed, forcing myself to speak again. “Thank you.”

He left without saying anything, pulling the door shut behind him.

Alone, I stripped off my jeans, socks, and hoodie, tossing them onto the tufted ottoman. I kept my T-shirt and my trunks on, a shiver running through me despite the warmth of the room. The en suite bathroom felt almost too pristine as I stepped inside, flipping on the light. I turned the faucet and splashed cold water on my face, but the shock never quite registered. My skin felt numb, my mind fogged. Blinking at my reflection, I shut the light off and made my way back to the bed, pulling back the heavy covers and slipping underneath.

The mattress was firm, the sheets impossibly soft. The scent of clean linen and faint detergent clung to the pillows that felt like clouds beneath me. But I couldn’t sleep. I still felt like I was floating just outside my body, untethered, as my mind kept spinning, replaying the night in jagged, disjointed fragments—the sound of footsteps behind me, the glint of something metal in the dark, the moment my body braced for impact that never came.

I could’ve been killed .

The thought hit me like a punch to the chest, knocking the air from my lungs.

I rolled onto my side, pressing my face into the pillow, but it didn’t help. The panic didn’t fade. I squeezed my eyes shut. Forced myself to breathe. One… two… three…

At some point, exhaustion finally dragged me under.

I dreamed—of what, I couldn’t remember. Only the feeling lingered. Something pressing in, heavy and stifling. A presence I couldn’t escape. My pulse pounded, my limbs sluggish, like wading through a thick, endless tar.

The next moment, I woke up gasping.

Cold sweat clung to my skin, my T-shirt damp against my back. My chest heaved. The dream was already slipping away, but the fear remained, lodged deep in my bones. I couldn’t stay here.

Throwing back the covers, I stumbled out of bed and yanked off my shirt, my heart still hammering with each step across the hall. I didn’t think—I just pushed Zac’s door open, my voice raw as I called his name. “Zac?”

The sheets rustled, then Zac’s voice cut through the dark, groggy but alert. “Chris?”

I swallowed, gripping the doorframe. “I can’t…” My throat closed. “I—”

There was a pause, heavy with understanding, before he reached out and flipped on the lamp. The soft glow spilled over him, catching on the bare planes of his chest where the covers had slipped low. His brows knitted as he took me in, his concern visible even beneath the lingering haze of sleep.

“Come here,” he said.

I moved on an instinct.

Zac lifted the covers, a glimpse of naked skin flashing beneath, and I crawled into the bed next to him. He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t push. He just shifted closer, wrapping an arm around me, pulling me back against himself. His body was warm. Solid. His chest hair tickled my back, the heat of him seeping into me from behind. The weight of his arm over my ribs was steadying, grounding.

I let out a slow breath, melting into him.

Zac’s voice was quiet, right by my ear. “Go to sleep, baby.”

I did.