“You too,” Austin said, and since he couldn’t get away from Rob fast enough, he fled.
Alone with Adam again. All Rob had to do was wait for him to reveal himself. What he wanted. What price Rob would have to pay.
And there he was, emerging from behind a rack of DVDs and heading straight for the counter.
“I liked you better with long hair,” he said.
“Clip-in extensions. And that’s funny, because I liked you when you were just a garden variety racist dickbag without the blackmail material.” Rob glared at him, suddenly refusing to act submissive to this man. He’d give Adam what he wanted, pay whatever it cost to keep this secret, but that didn’t mean Rob had to make it enjoyable for the creep. Maybe if he wasn’t crying and protesting, Adam wouldn’t be able to get it up. “Actually, scratch that. I never liked you. So c’mon, out with it. What do you want?”
Victory. For one second, Adam was thrown off guard, but it passed quickly. “Clip-in extensions, was it? You got them with you?”
He was too pissed off to lie. “Yep. And the makeup and the tits. Is that what you want, then?” Fucker. “For me to get all dressed up for you?” So this was what it felt like to have nothing left to lose. He wondered if that was where Dylan got some of his trademark fuck-the-world bravado from. “So if I’m the tranny pervert here, what does that make you, exactly?”
Adam’s lip curled. “You should be flattered I want you at all. Most guys like me would just kick the ass of little ladyboys like you.”
If that was supposed to be scary, it didn’t work. Faced with the alternatives—being outed, being raped—getting the shit kicked out of him didn’t seem that bad. Hey, maybe he could even get a couple of punches in, himself.
But no way was Adam going to give Rob the option of fighting back, whatever he did. He was a petty tyrant. A coward. Too bad Rob was an even bigger one, because otherwise it would have been easy to strip Adam of his dubious power.
“So, anyway, here’s how it’s going to go. You’re going to lock the front door of the store. Then you’re going to go into that gross little cum booth and put on the hair and the makeup and the tits and the whole nine yards while I watch.” Rob listened carefully, trying not to let any of his fear or disgust show on his face. Becoming Bobby had always been a private ritual, a sweet, empowering transformation, and now it was . . . twisted. Well, at least maybe this would fix him. If he had negative associations with dressing up, then maybe he wouldn’t crave it so bad anymore. “And you’re going to wear these.”
Adam took a plastic bag out of the pocket of his hoodie and dumped out its contents on the counter. Red lace. Rob should have known. He swallowed a gag. “Fine.” With shaking hands, he took the cheap lace underwear. Bent under the front counter to pick up his bag with makeup and hair and the rest of it. The panic button was right there, right within reach. All he had to do was—
“Door,” Adam instructed, startling Rob upright again.
Window of opportunity closed.
“Yeah, yeah.” Fucker. As rebellious as he was feeling inside, though, with the panic button out of reach again Rob’s choices were down to doing as he was told, or accepting whatever combination of getting beaten up and outed that Adam decided to inflict on him. So he dutifully locked the door under Adam’s watchful gaze, then headed straight for the peepshow booth. Doing what you want. Everything you want. Your little pet freak putting on a fashion show. “There’s no mirror,” he said, stalling, afraid to cross that last threshold.
“Don’t need one, because you’re gonna be looking at me the whole time.”
Correction: sick fucker.
Well, if Adam wanted to get off on watching Rob suffer, on humiliating him, then he wasn’t going to get it. Rob wasn’t going to play the crying victim, not for this sicko. What was it Dylan had said? Prisoner of war. Defeated, pinned by perverse voyeuristic gazes, but still with his dignity. He’d turn his brain off. Let his body run on autopilot. Minimize pain.
So you’re still a coward, but now you’re a clever one. Whatever lets you sleep at night.
Yeah, actually. That. Rob would have rather done anything but get into that small, dark space, beyond the reach of the store’s cameras, but it was what Adam wanted, and at the moment what Adam wanted, Adam got. All Rob had to do was not make any trouble, and it would all be over soon. Like a man going to his execution, he stepped into the booth and turned to face Adam, who now blocked the entrance and had pulled the curtain shut behind him.
Let’s get this over with.
Adam loomed over him, watching in grim silence as Rob stripped down. He kept his movements economical. Didn’t let himself linger or hesitate. Looked Adam right in the eyes as he tucked himself and pulled on the panties Adam had chosen. Didn’t even curl in on himself when Adam’s hungry gaze roamed down Rob’s body, down to the tacky underwear he’d oh-so-carefully selected, covering the flatness where Rob’s cock and balls should be.
No shame. No shame. No shame.
He’s the one who should be ashamed. For making me do this. For his terrible fucking taste in underwear.
Because dammit, Rob sure as hell had nothing to be ashamed of. Well, he was ashamed of the cowardice, maybe—okay, definitely—but Bobby? Being Bobby was okay, even after being stripped of glamour and mystique until all that was left were chicken fillet bra inserts and surgical tape.
The transformation into Bobby felt fucking good. Dylan couldn’t take that from him—not that he’d ever shown signs of being the sort of person who’d want to, if he knew—and if Dylan couldn’t, then neither could Adam. No matter what Adam did. Made Rob do. No matter how much it hurt. No matter how much of a coward it made Rob to play along.
So sure, maybe this act tainted Rob, but Bobby was untouchable.
In fact, this wasn’t even her. Just Rob, standing here, skinny and covered in goose bumps, wearing nothing but hideous women’s panties. Because Bobby wouldn’t be fucking caught dead in something so incredibly tacky.
And after all his unspoken threats and aggressive need, Adam wasn’t even touching Rob. Wasn’t kissing him. Wasn’t shoving him face-first into the wall. Nothing. He was just . . . standing there. Trapping him, but simultaneously somehow trapped himself.
The worst of the fear settled to a muted numbness, and Rob dressed as quickly as he’d undressed, covering up the hideous “sexy” underwear and feeling instantly better for it. The extensions came next, not so difficult to do without a mirror, he didn’t think. The makeup. He’d never put on mascara while glaring at someone before, but it felt kinda good. His hands weren’t even shaking, even though his heart was pounding like he’d run a marathon.
“So pretty,” Adam said at last, the first time he’d spoken since closing them both up in the booth. It was like he’d been in a trance. Still was, by the way his fingers caught Rob’s hair and brushed it back behind his shoulder, like they were lovers. “You—”
“Rob? You in here?”
Dylan. Rob had never been so relieved and terrified in his whole life.
“What the fuck?” Adam snarled, that gentle hand in Rob’s hair instantly turning into a tight, punishing fist. “How did he get in here? I watched you lock the door!”
“Why the hell do you think it’s called Rear Entrance Video, you dumb shit?” Rob’s voice came out deep and furious and masculine. The spell between them broke. “Now let me . . . go!” He hauled back, pushed Adam hard with both hands and every ounce of body weight he had. Rob’s clip-in tore with a horrible ripping pain along his scalp, and then Adam fell through the curtain.
“Holy shit!” Dylan shouted as Rob came tumbling out after him.
Adam, on his ass on the floor, got one look at Dylan: six feet tall, two hundred pounds plus and broad-shouldered, looking like a punk in his ERASE RACISM sweatshirt, and bolted. The front door jingled open and slammed closed again.
“What the . . .” Dylan watched Adam go, then turned back to Rob, who was standing in front of the peep show
booth, hands still balled into fists, heart pounding and trembling—oh, so there was the adrenaline. “What the hell is going on here? Who is that guy?” And then, a little hesitantly, “Are you okay, Bobby?”
“Oh for fuck’s sake, Dylan!” Rob shouted without thinking. Well, trying to keep Rob and Bobby separate had caused this whole mess in the first place. “It’s me, Rob, you goddamn idiot. You know, your—” Can’t really call myself his anything, now, anything but . . . “—ex.”
“I—”
“Just fucking look at me, damn you! Look at me! Are you fucking blind?” Tears started to streak down Rob’s cheeks, and before he could stop himself, he was tearing his extensions out, clip by clip, yanking them hard enough his real hair tore. He didn’t care. Who fucking cared about hair, real or fake, girl or boy. The mangled black locks fell to the floor. “Yes! I’m Bobby! Your fucked-up boyfriend is—”
Dylan grabbed him by the shoulders, pinning his arms down to keep him from hurting himself any more. “I know. Do you fucking hear me? I know!”
What?
“I always knew, you fucking . . . you.” Dylan sighed, letting Rob go so he could rub his temples. “I was just waiting for you to tell me. For you to trust me enough. But you never fucking did, did you? And what was I supposed to do? I didn’t want to embarrass you.”
“You . . .”
“And I kept trying to hint that I knew, and I kept trying to give you chances to be honest with me, but you never fucking took them. Did you think I was gonna hurt you? Did you think I wouldn’t keep your secret? Did you think I was gonna judge you or try to change you or something?”
Rob’s chest burned. He was feeling light-headed. “I don’t know. I don’t know what I was expecting. I just—I wanted to tell you, but I couldn’t.”
“You wanted to, but you couldn’t?” Dylan snarled, raising his voice and making Rob flinch back despite himself. The terror, new and hideous, came rushing back. “You couldn’t? So what, you just strung me along, and I’m supposed to be fine with that?”
“Strung you along?” Rob shouted back.
“Yeah, strung me along. Remember when we first met and I said I was gay? Gay. As in, I only like men. As in, if you knew this was where things were headed for you, then you should have fucking told me. Or hell, you didn’t have to tell me, but you could have at least not gotten into a relationship with me.”
“Where things were headed? And where are they headed, exactly?” Tell me, oh wise one, because I have no fucking clue what’s up with me. What’s wrong with me.
Dylan’s face fell, his expression closing off. When he spoke again, it was in a monotone. “I don’t know. You tell me.”
“Shit.” Rob wiped at one wet eye with the heel of his palm. He couldn’t speak. Couldn’t have answered the question Dylan was asking him even if he could speak.
“I’m sorry, Rob—Bobby—whatever you want to be called. I’m sorry for barging in here when I knew you didn’t want to see me, and I’m sorry for yelling. But you need to sort your shit out. You can’t just avoid me forever.” He ran both hands through his hair, making it stand on end. “Or, well, you can avoid me I guess, but you can’t avoid making a fucking decision about who you are and what you want.”
“I don’t know. I just don’t know.” Rob’s legs were suddenly so weak he couldn’t stand. He lowered himself to his knees on the floor and ducked his head, too ashamed to look Dylan in the eye.
Dylan blew out a harsh sigh. “Well, do me and everyone else in this world a favor, okay? Until you do know, don’t use other people who fucking love you as lab rats for your gender experiments.”
People who love you, Rob thought, dazed, as Dylan walked out on him.
He wished he’d begged Dylan to stay with him until his shift was over, if not to talk it out then at least to keep him safe, but he’d been in shock and hurt and confused and he’d let Dylan walk right out the door.
And now that he was gone, there was no holding back the fear. The trembling. The nausea. He’d been granted a reprieve from whatever Adam had intended to do to him, and that brought the reality of the situation into sharp focus. He could have been raped. Filmed or photographed. Beaten up. Killed. Who knew what else.
Shivering so hard his teeth were chattering, he made it to the front of the store, where he promptly puked in the garbage can under the counter.
Lock the doors.
He stumbled in that direction. The front door, unlocked after Adam had used it to make his escape. The back door to the alley. He took a deep breath and returned to the safety of the counter. The chair seemed too dubious, dangerous somehow, so he sat on the floor. Not quite under the counter, but damn close to it.
Okay, safe for now. Nobody could get in. He couldn’t get out, but nobody could get in. Good enough for now. Tourniquet tied.
God, was he going to stay in here all night until whoever was working days tomorrow showed up for their shift? No, because he was going to call Christian and tell him what had happened. Beg him not to ask questions, not to make Rob explain the whys or the hows.
Operating a smartphone when your hands were actually vibrating was a lot more difficult than he ever could have imagined, but he got it working. Christian answered on the third ring.
“Mmm, hello?” Fuck, he’d been asleep. Well, of course he had. The guy had more schoolwork than anyone Rob had seen, other than Bernice.
“Christian. Hey. Um, sorry for waking you up. It’s Rob, by the way.”
A tinge of concern crept into Christian’s voice. “Is everything okay at the store?”
Rob took a deep breath. “No, Christian. No, it’s not. And I need you to—” His voice broke. He sobbed. “I need you to not ask why, okay? But I need you to come down.”
“Did we get robbed? Are you okay? Okay, don’t hang up. I’m coming right now. Hang tight, buddy.” Rob didn’t hang up. Just put his phone down on the counter and tried to take a couple of deep breaths. Man, where was a paper bag when you needed one? Nowhere, that was where. Not like Dylan, who’d arrived at the most serendipitous time imaginable.
Wow. Dylan had saved him. He’d been humiliated and messed up and they’d fought, but Dylan had saved him. Jesus. Wow.
More deep breaths. He pictured himself in yoga class with Bernice. Ujjayi breath, the instructor reminded him in his head.
He didn’t know how long he sat there on the floor, but out of nowhere there was a knock at the front door. He startled, got his breathing all messed up, heart working overtime again. Picked up his phone. Christian had never hung up on him. The call time read forty minutes. If he didn’t have unlimited minutes, Rob was definitely going to have to pay him back. “Is that you?” he asked.
“It’s us. Me and Max and Auntie Beverly. Come unlock the door, okay?”
That sick feeling returned. As if this wasn’t humiliating enough, now he had a whole rescue party coming to his aid. He went to the door anyway. Unlocked it.
Auntie Beverly was the first one in, and she grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him into a hug immediately. He barely fucking knew her, and by all rights touch should be the last thing he wanted right now, but he couldn’t help but sink into her embrace. She was frail, but warm and solid at the same time, a mother with no children, a living contradiction, and he wouldn’t trade her for the world. No wonder Christian loved her so much. She didn’t speak. Didn’t ask a single question.
Max did, though. “Rob? What are you wearing? Is that . . . is that mascara on your face?”
Shit, he’d been so fucking traumatized that he hadn’t thought to get changed or take his makeup off. He was a total fuck-up.
“Never you mind,” Auntie Beverly snapped at him, then pushed Rob out to arm’s length and gave him a scrutinizing look. “Are you hurt, Rob?”
“No, ma’am,” Rob said. “And no, the store didn’t get robbed. Everything’s fine here. I’m fine. I just need to go home now, okay? I need someone to take me home.”
“Of course,�
� Auntie Beverly said, nodding. “Of course you can go. Max, you and Rob take a cab back home and you get him showered and to bed. Christian, you can stay here with me and help close up.”
“Got it,” Christian said, taking his aunt’s lead on the not-asking-questions thing.
“Rob, I’ll find someone to cover your shifts for the next little bit. You just tell Christian when you’re ready to work again, okay? And if it’s never, that’s okay too. Now go. Rest.”
A coat fell around Rob’s shoulders. Max. Max was helping dress him. Max had his backpack over one shoulder. And now Max had an arm around him. “C’mon, Nugget, you heard the boss lady. Let’s go home and get you cleaned up.”
Yes. Clean. That sounded like the best thing.
They didn’t speak on the cab ride home. Max didn’t let go of him. Touched Rob’s shoulder, his elbow, his hand, let Rob lean against him as the cab made its seamless, dreamy way through Vancouver’s streets. When they got home, Max helped him inside, turned on the water in the shower for him—near scalding, just the way he liked it—and left him. Once he’d undressed, Rob threw the red panties right in the trash and buried them under half a roll of wasted toilet paper.
He didn’t know how long he stood in the shower’s spray after that, standing and not cleaning himself, just letting the water run down him as it would. Long enough that the water ran cold, but in this house that could have been an hour or three minutes. Eventually, he got out. Didn’t look at himself in the mirror, even just to check if the mascara running down his cheeks had been washed away. He could face himself tomorrow. Tonight he just wanted to sleep.
Except sleep didn’t come. His mind circled restlessly, pacing through his newly horrifying memories. Adam. Dylan. Back and forth, back and forth, analyzing every detail. The things Dylan had said.
Don’t use other people who fucking love you as lab rats for your gender experiments.
Wallflower (Rear Entrance Video, #2) Page 14
