Of course he would think Marcel’s reasons for protecting him, fucking him, watching over him, was about needing someone. Marcel would have explained if he could have. Because he felt nothing when they were together except the heat of Jacob’s body, the tap of his pulse, the texture of his skin, and the clench of his body around Marcel’s cock.
Fucking Jacob was no different than Marcel drinking from a cup to slake his thirst.
Jacob tried to drop his head, but pressure across his windpipe had him holding Marcel’s gaze again. He dragged his scarred hand down Jacob’s chest to the base of his cock.
These physical experiences had anchored Jacob, rebuilt him, but they had not saved him. He needed a reason greater than himself. A reason greater than Marcel.
He stepped back, and Jacob shivered.
“I want you to teach him for me, Jacob.”
There was no confusion in Jacob’s expression. But then Jacob had never been stupid. No matter what Frankie had made him believe.
“I want you to show him what I like, what I want, what I expect.”
Jacob glanced at the open Bedroom door.
“You will do this.” Not a question.
“I promised I would only be with you.”
“You promised your loyalty to what I want. He is mine. Just as you are mine. And this would be for me, not him.” Marcel collected his clothes. “Do this for me, Jacob, and it will please me.”
Marcel walked to the door.
He paused.
Jacob’s breaths shuddered in and out, and his body shook with enough force to vibrate the air. Even the scent of sex couldn’t override the fear.
But it wasn’t fear of failure. It wasn’t fear of pain. It wasn’t even the fear of loss anymore.
Jacob feared finding what he’d always wanted, never had, never lost, and therefore wasn’t even aware of all the ways Ben could give him those things. Or at least make Jacob aware of how much he wanted them.
And a man could not mourn losing what he’d never known.
“Get dressed. Go back to your motel. I will call you when I want to see you again.”
Another butchered sob escaped Jacob.
“Trust in me, Jacob.” He either would, or he would not.
Marcel left.
5
A pack of giggling, cackling, pajama-clad teenage girls had taken over the entire living room. For or some reason, they’d decided the highlight of a birthday party would be a Twilight movie marathon.
Sam eased down the steps and into the kitchen. His mom stood at the counter, scooping ice cream into a selection of bowls.
“Will you help me take this to Becka and Patty’s friends?”
Sam cringed.
His mother shot him a crooked smile. “It will only take a minute.”
“It’s not the time I’m worried about. It’s the losing limbs.” Sam opened the fridge and took out bottled water. There were two pieces of cake sealed in a Tupperware container. One had his name on the top, the other…
“Why is Roshan’s name on my lunch?”
Sam’s mom carried the carton of ice cream back to the freezer. “Because he’s your friend, and I thought it would be rude to send you a piece of cake and not him.” She put the ice cream into the freezer. Frigid air puffed over Sam’s skin when she shut the door.
“I don’t know if he eats cake.” Roshan’s lunch consisted of items Sam wasn’t sure constituted as food. He didn’t know if it was because of his religion or culture. Of course, maybe he liked stringy green things with crunchy brown things all mixed in a weird gold sauce that tickled Sam’s nose.
“Well, if he doesn’t, then you can give it to Joe.”
Sam shut the fridge.
“You’re still not talking?” His mom wrinkled her brow.
Sam motioned at the bowls of ice cream. “You do realize if there’re animal parts in that, they’ll probably burn us at the stake.”
His mom narrowed her eyes.
“I’m just saying. I mean, I’d hate to wind up as a pile of ashes before meatloaf Monday.”
“It’s made from coconut milk.” His mom handed him a tray adorned with half a dozen bowls.
A squealing cheer emanated from the living room, followed by a bunch of overly dramatic sighs. Okay, maybe burning to death would be better than having to die by cheesy vampire stories.
“C’mon, we better get them the ice cream before they decide to come looking for it.” His mom led the way into the den of horrors occupied by pigtails, braids, obnoxiously pink PJs, and the glowing screens of at least a dozen cell phones as several of the girls updated their Snap-Chat…or whatever it was girls put pictures of each other on.
The redhead sitting next to Becka stood up as Sam’s mom passed out the ice cream. “Wow, thanks, Mrs. Waters.”
Patty paused the movie and took the bowl handed to her. A girl with dark skin and equally dark braids smiled at Sam as he handed her a bowl. Becka laughed, and several of the girls exchanged whispers.
His mom tipped her head toward the kitchen and left.
Sam handed out the last bowl to a girl he did know, Judy Moores. She played on the basketball team. “Aren’t you going to watch the movie with us?”
Sam glanced at the TV. Frozen on the screen was the face of a girl and boy less than an inch from getting ready to kiss.
Sam shook his head. “No, thanks. I’m not really all that interested in TV.”
“According to Becka, you’re not all that interested in girls either.” She was blond and about Becka’s age, but Sam had never seen her before or maybe just never noticed.
A ripple of teetering laughter rolled through the group.
“Is it true you’re gonna take Roshan to the dance?” Patty, his own flesh and blood. Why did that not surprise him?
Every girl stared at Sam. Some with cruel smiles, others with genuine curiosity.
“Are you going to wear the dress, or is your boyfriend?” Becka hid her laugh behind her cell phone. Why was it when teenage girls got together, they practically became eight-year-olds?
If Sam lied, it would only make things worse. Maybe not in the same way telling the truth would, but it would hurt a lot of people. Mostly himself, because he’d be the biggest victim of his own deceit.
But the girls in front of Sam were the exact reasons why he’d feared ever telling anyone. Why he still feared it.
The girls put their heads together, whispered, and laughed, whispered some more.
“No.” Sam took a breath. “No, I don’t like girls. No, I’m not going to the dance. And no, I haven’t asked Roshan because we aren’t going out.”
The grandfather clock beside the couch ticked, and the TV made the same annoying buzzing sound it always did when the Blu-Ray paused.
Sam met each girl’s wide-eyed stare, then walked into the kitchen to return the tray to the cabinet.
His mom stood by the sink, washing dishes. She glanced at him. “What did they say?”
“Becka told them I didn’t like girls and Patty wanted to know if I was going to take Roshan to the dance.”
“Ignore them. They’re being childish.”
Sam put the tray on the counter. Just like with Joe, if Sam did this, there would be no turning back.
And while he had survived losing Joe, he wasn’t sure how he would survive losing his family.
There wouldn’t be enough boxes in the world to make it better, let alone fix it.
“She’s right.” Sam fought the tightness wrapping around his chest.
His mom put aside the dish she’d been washing.
Sam opened and closed his hands. “I like boys, the same way most boys like girls.”
Sam’s mom glanced back at the living room. The movie played, and the sounds of teenage romance resumed.
When she gave her attention back to Sam, her brow was wrinkled. “Have you told your dad?”
Sam counted the flecks in the tile around his feet. He shook his head.
“You
should probably do that.”
Sam blinked back the tears burning his eyes.
“He’s always been much better at picking out the latest fashions for school dances. You would want to clash with whatever Roshan is wearing.” The water kicked back on.
Sam stood there, replaying what his mother said over and over in his head. He lifted his gaze. She rinsed a glass and set it in the rack of the dishwasher.
“I’m not going to the dance.” He had no idea why he said it.
“Oh? How come?”
“I don’t have anyone to go with.”
“I thought you were going with Roshan?”
Sam swallowed back a sob. “I haven’t—” He cleared his throat. “—I haven’t asked him and wasn’t going to.”
“He only likes girls?”
“No. He likes boys.” Sam walked over to the sink. His mother handed him a soapy glass. He rinsed it and put it in the rack.
“He doesn’t like you, then. I mean that way. I know you two are friends.” She handed him another glass.
“I…I don’t know.”
“You should ask him. He’d probably appreciate the opportunity.”
Sam rinsed a few more dishes and put them away. “Mom?”
“Yeah?” She turned off the water and dried her hands.
“You’re not mad?”
Somehow he found the strength to look at her. Her smile was soft. “Why would I be mad?”
“Joe was mad.”
Her expression pinched. She crossed her arms. “Is that why you two aren’t talking?”
Sam nodded. “I did something stupid. I told him I liked him.”
“Like some boys like boys or some girls like other girls?”
Sam couldn’t explain the little bit of happiness fluttering in his chest from hearing his mother say it like that. “Yeah.” His voice cracked.
“And he got mad at you.”
Understatement of the year. “Yeah.”
Sam’s mother broke apart behind the tears until they rolled down his cheeks.
Sam’s mom started to lift her arms, then stopped. “Is it okay if I give you a hug?”
Sam’s laugh fractured. He nodded again and strong arms wrapped around his skinny frame.
“Did you think I wouldn’t love you anymore if you told me?” She kissed the side of Sam’s head.
He lost his hold on his sob but was able to bury it against her shoulder. “Yeah.”
“I won’t. And neither will your father. No matter who you like or don’t like. Just as long as you’re happy.”
The tears refused to stop, and Sam’s mom didn’t let go.
Ben made his way through the narrow aisle of the mom-and-pop grocery. The prices were higher than the big discount store another ten minutes away, but for some reason, he didn’t want to travel far from the motel.
And Ben knew why.
Jacob.
The image of him trapped in Marcel’s hold, skin flushed, sweat running rivulets down his cheeks, the sounds of his breathing, his desperate cries, his unbridled need. Then the feel of Jacob’s lips on Ben’s. Soft, yet so different than a woman’s. Jacob kissed as if the mere act was the only source of air. And while Marcel had used Jacob’s body, it was Ben he watched. Desire had burned the brightest, but there were other things—sadness, fear, regret? Ben had no idea.
He could have just imagined it.
No, he had imagined it.
Everything Ben saw, felt, had been a trick of the mind. Some sort of manipulation Marcel worked as if it were magic. Maybe it was. And if so, even more proof the man wasn’t a man.
A darkness from hell.
Or hell itself.
Been snatched up a box of cereal. Bright colors marked the package along with a smiling cartoon face. A picture he’d seen hundreds of times in any store, but at the moment, Ben’s mind refused to process the simple shapes.
Anger rushed in a flash of white, and Ben shoved the box back on the shelf. Other brands on the right and left toppled over and smacked the floor. He stormed toward the door, kicking two of them down the aisle.
“Hey…” The woman at the register glared. Ben threw the basket he carried on the counter in front of her. It slid across, and she leaped back, colliding with the rack of cigarettes against the wall. The plastic shuddered, and a corner popped free. The sound of cascading packages followed Ben out the door.
Fucking Marcel.
Ben curled his fist, and the still healing brand on his hand throbbed. He ground his thumb against the wound until it screamed.
Helplessness, guilt, it shattered, grinding in Ben’s joints with every step he took across the parking lot. A compact car waited to turn left. Ben jogged past it, cutting across its path. A horn blared, and tires screeched against the road. The truck wound up catty-corner to the car. Both drivers got out. Their curses chased Ben into another lane of traffic.
Even with only the gray light from the overcast sky, the bright red paint of the Buick glowed. Ben jerked to the right, and the hood of the Buick lunged to the left. A dull stab shot up Ben’s knee. His foot was yanked off the ground, and for a moment, there was only the pull of gravity before the asphalt careened into his shoulder.
An engine revved, and another chorus of rubber dragging against the road played out before everything stopped. Ben didn’t know he had his eyes closed until someone spoke.
“Fuck, you okay?” The kid couldn’t have been more than sixteen, red hair, green eyes. Stains covered his shirt. Another person got out of their car, a woman in a dress. Then a third, this one the owner of the big black truck with a tire propped up on the sidewalk and ugly black skids tracing its path back to the other lane. The man took out his cell phone.
Ben scurried to his feet. A lightning bolt up his leg almost took him to the ground again.
“Hey, man. Hey, easy.” The kid came around the car. Ugly round scars marred his freckled arms. “Take it easy, someone will call an ambulance.” He caught Ben by his elbow, and he jerked away.
“Don’t, just…” Ben bit down on his tongue hard enough to taste copper. He put his foot down again, this time taking care to ease into the weight of his body. The sharp stab of pain flared, but his ankle didn’t collapse, and his knee didn’t fold. He stumbled away, weaving through the half dozen cars, all of them inches from a fender bender.
A woman yelled for him to stop, but Ben couldn’t.
Would they call the cops? Would the cops care? Or maybe he could flash Marcel’s brand and make everything go away.
Fuck, he hoped it wouldn’t come to that.
Sirens sounded in the distance, and Ben ducked into the green space beside a laundry mat. Briars clawed at his arms and hands. Sticks snapped under his feet. His angry knee and ankle beat in rapid succession with his heart. The ground dipped without warning, and Ben tumbled forward. He hooked an arm around a sapling. His feet slid out from under him, but his hold on the tree kept him from tumbling forward, and he landed on his ass.
Dew soaked his jeans.
The urge to just fall back and lie there staring at the canopy of leaves had him pushing himself back up. If only he could go home, leave, escape the perpetual anger. A strange emotion born out of this impossible nightmare. Stronger than the fear.
And fuck knows he was terrified.
Because after witnessing what Yvette had done to Shelly, Ben knew everything Marcel claimed would be true. Only worse. It could only be worse if a man with no conscience, no morals, no empathy, voiced any warning.
Ben had no idea he walked in the direction of the motel until the trees broke apart, and he stood at the bumper of an old Impala. A cluster of kids kicked a ball back and forth between the gap in the row of cars. Their laughter echoed off the building.
Ben shoved his hands in his pockets and headed to his room. He fumbled for his key while the kids chased each other.
Movement in Ben’s periphery had him whirling around. His aching knee tried to fold.
Jacob caught Ben
with a hand under his arm. “You okay?” He held a small duffle bag and wore jeans and a T-shirt. The simplicity enhanced every graceful slope of his shoulders, his neck, the line of his jaw. And under that fabric, the smoothness of his chest, dark nipples, the neatly trimmed line running to the juncture between his legs where that beautiful cock had stood so proud last night.
Ben clenched his eyes shut for a moment. “I’m fine.”
“Did you fall?” Jacob indicated the smears of blood on Ben’s palms.
“I tripped. It’s nothing.” Ben pulled out of his grip. The ghost of skin-to-skin contact twinged hard enough to mask the constant throb in his knee. He crammed the key into the door. Jacob watched the kids before returning his gaze to the ground in front of him.
At the same time they said,
“Did you—”
“I—”
Ben cleared his throat. “Sorry, go ahead.”
Jacob ran a hand through his hair. Worry cut creases across his forehead. “Can we go inside, this will be easier in there, I think.”
Ben started to ask what Jacob wanted to talk about.
Ben opened the door.
Cold churning from the AC pushed back the humid air threatening to follow them inside. Ben shut the door and flipped the deadbolt.
Jacob’s gaze locked onto his hand.
“Uh, sorry…I…” Ben started to flip it back.
“No, no, it’s okay. Probably safer.”
For who? Jacob? Or Ben.
He decided he didn’t want to know.
Ben hobbled over to the vanity. The fluorescent light accented the road rash on his palms with dark highlights.
Jacob’s reflection switched from foot to foot. He moved the duffle bag from one hand to another.
“Are you going somewhere?” Probably Marcel’s. Obviously Marcel’s. Where else would Jacob go? Ben turned on the water to wash his hands. He picked up the soap and bit back a hiss against the burn created by rolling it in his hands.
He finished and dried off with a towel from the stack on the counter.
Jacob watched him.
Ben folded the terry cloth and laid it to the side. “You better hurry before you’re late.” Then Marcel would punish him. Would he force Jacob to choke on his cock? Make him beg to come? Ben tightened his grip on the edge of the counter.
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