by J. A. Rock
Thursday.”
“Thanks,” he muttered, all but stomping out of
Rima’s office. He was glad there was no sign of Hera as
he crossed the kitchen and left through the back door. He
got in his car and drove to Jackson Pier. It was too cold
for sitting out by the lake, and he’d forgotten a jacket in
his hurry this morning. He sat there until he was numb,
until his nose ran and his lips were chapped and his
fingers refused to bend. His teeth chattered as he
returned to his car. He turned the heat on full blast and
drove back to his house.
His stomach plunged as he remembered he was
expected at Scott’s tonight. Some nights, he dreaded
seeing Scott. Others, he was excited, or at least restless
enough that the pain Scott provided was a welcome
distraction. Right now he dreaded the idea of being in
Scott’s house, in Scott’s bed. Of being insulted,
humiliated, hurt.
What was he going to do? He didn’t even have
enough money saved to cover his upcoming rent—with
his upcoming paycheck, he’d have just enough for this
month. He couldn’t afford utilities, that was for sure.
There were no jobs in this town—he’d been lucky to find
Joe’s. And what about his grad school application fees?
He was fucked.
Absolutely fucked.
Maybe it was a sign. A sign that he shouldn’t go to
grad school, that it was time to move to a city and start
pursuing an acting career.
With what money?
He gripped the steering wheel with still-numb
fingers and choked back a sob.
He’d call Scott and tell him he wasn’t coming over
tonight. Scott could just deal with that.
He dialed Scott’s number, intending to be firm and
assertive. Scott answered, and Aiden’s voice broke on
“Hello.”
He ended up pouring out the whole story to Scott,
who listened quietly, then said, “I’m sorry.”
He sounded so sincerely sympathetic that Aiden
was taken aback. “Thanks,” he whispered.
“Stay with me awhile,” Scott suggested. “You could
sublet your apartment while you look for a job.”
“No. I mean, no, Sir. I can’t do that to you.”
“What would you be doing to me? You’re training
is going well, and if you move in, we’ll be able to take it
to the next level.”
“I—”
“I was going to ask you anyway if things continued
to go well. Instead I’ll ask you now: Will you move in
with me?”
There was no reason to make a hasty decision. He
could go home, look at job classifieds, start calling
around. He didn’t really want to give up his apartment,
and the idea of living with Scott full-time terrified him.
But a sudden surge of recklessness took over—why the
fuck not? What good was he to anyone else anyway? To
Joe’s, to Hera, to the world? He could live with Scott, be
Scott’s fuck toy until Scott got sick of him, and then he’d
figure something else out.
“All right,” Aiden said.
“Yeah?” Scott sounded a little surprised, and—was
Aiden imagining it?—relieved.
They agreed to move Aiden’s stuff the next
weekend. “A week to change your mind,” Scott said.
“I’m not going to change my mind, Sir,” Aiden said.
* * * *
Aiden didn’t know why it had been such a struggle
before to reach subspace when he was with Scott. Now
he flew high every time Scott whipped or fucked him. He
let Scott beat him until he was bruised and sobbing,
loving the sickness of it, begging for more.
“Relax,” Scott told Aiden one night, putting down
the flogger and stroking Aiden’s damp hair. Aiden was
tied to the bed and pulled against the restraints, panting.
“No, Sir, please don’t stop, please—”
“Relax,” Scott said again, more sharply, swatting
Aiden’s ass with the flat of his hand.
Aiden stilled, then burst into tears.
“Shit,” Scott muttered. “Where are you, boy?”
Aiden sniffed. “Fuck me then, at least, please, Sir?”
“You’ve had enough for tonight.” Scott moved to
undo the restraints.
“No!” Aiden shouted. “I haven’t.”
“Settle down. I’m warning you.”
“I won’t settle down, you asshole, you
motherfucker! Why won’t you fuck me? What the hell’s
your problem?” Aiden yelled. He struggled until the
restraints bit into his wrists and ankles.
“Enough!” Scott said, picking up the flogger again.
“You’re gonna remember your manners, Shithead, before
we’re done here.”
He lashed the leather tails with such force across
Aiden’s backside that Aiden couldn’t even cry out with
pain—the sound stuck in his throat, and he choked as he
tried to breathe around it. Scott lashed him again. “You
do not speak that way to me. Not ever.”
Aiden resumed his struggle, driven now by fear
and pain rather than anger. The lashes were hard enough
to break skin and fell relentlessly and haphazardly. Scott
didn’t stop until Aiden was whimpering broken
apologies, lying limp on the sheets.
Scott undid the restraints. Aiden made no move to
get up. He felt a gentle trickle of blood down the back of
one thigh.
“Little shit,” Scott panted, throwing down the
flogger. “I don’t even want to fuck you, you scrawny
whore.”
Aiden let out a sob as Scott left the room. Was this
true submission? Feeling hurt, angry, confused, and
humiliated? Alone? Aiden knew the role-plays he’d done
with tops in the past hadn’t demanded real submission.
They’d been fun, undemanding, and interchangeable.
What he had with Scott was real. And yet, wasn’t a D/s
relationship supposed to be mutually supportive?
Wasn’t the sub supposed to get some pleasure out of the
relationship?
You do, Aiden reminded himself. You were in
subspace tonight when he was whipping you. You get
hard when he fucks you.
But Aiden was turned on by the acts themselves,
not by his relationship with Scott. He didn’t trust Scott.
Sometimes he didn’t even really like him.
But you’re stuck with him now, Aiden reminded
himself.
He reached back to wipe the blood from his thigh.
There wasn’t much, but brushing the wound sent pain
ripping through him. He liked the feeling and did it
again.
Chapter Eight
Aiden was once again jacketless on the pier. He
loved this little ritual—numbing himself to everyone and
everything. Hera had tried calling him three times today,
but he refused to pick up. She’d been upset when he first
told her he was moving in with Scott, but had since tried
her best to be happy for him. Now he almost wished he
could enlist her help in getting himself out of his
/>
arrangement. But he didn’t want to admit he’d been
wrong.
There was snow in the air today, just a few flakes. It
wasn’t even quite mid-October. Aiden watched the cloud
of his breath merge with the gray sky. He ached
everywhere. His muscles, from the gym. His ass, from
Scott. His head, from hunger. He was used to ignoring
hunger, but today for some reason he couldn’t stop
thinking about food. The idea of eating made him feel
nauseated, but his body overpowered his mind,
demanding sustenance.
What you want doesn’t matter, he reminded
himself.
If Scott ordered him to eat tonight, he would.
Otherwise he could make it without food.
He heard footsteps crunching in the frosted grass
behind him, but didn’t turn. The sound stopped, and
Aiden had the feeling he was being watched.
“Where’s your coat?” an unfamiliar voice asked.
Aiden almost laughed. Who the fuck cared about a
coat? He was Shithead—he couldn’t feel cold without
permission. He turned and saw Keaton Hughes.
Keaton was wearing a fitted black wool coat that
flattered his slim but strong figure. His glasses today had
stylish black frames that matched the coat and made him
look even smarter and more studious than he had at
Obey. His hands were in his pockets, and a feeling of
complete, utter warmth filled Aiden when he looked at
the man, so that for a moment he couldn’t even feel the
chill in the air.
Keaton was taller than Aiden had realized, and
positively statuesque. Aiden was so busy staring at him
that he forgot Keaton had asked him a question. Aiden
shrugged as best he could with arms stiff from cold and
turned away.
“I can’t even imagine how cold you must be.”
Keaton took a couple of steps closer.
“I’m all right,” Aiden replied.
“Any particular reason you’re out here freezing
yourself to death?”
“I like it.”
“You won’t like it so well when you have frostbite.”
Aiden didn’t answer.
“I have an extra jacket in my car. Will you let me
give it to you?”
Aiden glanced at him again. “I’ll be all right.”
He found he couldn’t look away this time. Up close,
Keaton’s expression was warm and calm. There was
some amusement in his gray-blue eyes, but it was
overshadowed by genuine concern.
“Honestly I won’t be able to sleep tonight worrying
about you losing fingers and toes.”
“It’s not your problem,” Aiden said.
“I guess you’re right.” Keaton sat on the long,
narrow bench that stretched the length of the pier—not
right next to Aiden, but close enough that Aiden could
feel a slight heat from his body.
“Keaton Hughes,” he said.
Aiden sighed and closed his eyes. “Aiden Cole.”
“Sorry,” Keaton said. “I’m intrusive. It’s a flaw of
mine. I’m sure you can take care of yourself.”
Aiden tried to focus on the water, but all he could
think about was Keaton Hughes, sitting a few feet from
him. While he wasn’t interested in further conversation
about his lack of outerwear, it was comforting to have
Keaton here. He was almost disappointed when Keaton
got up and walked away.
Like you know anything about him, Cole. Or want to. He
could be a total asshole, for all you know.
Aiden hugged himself as an icy gust blew back his
hair.
Keaton was worried. This boy didn’t look at all like
the Aiden Cole who’d caught his eye at Obey. This
Aiden was far too thin—bony arms clutching his middle,
as though he could prevent some of the late fall chill
from entering through the thin fabric of his long-sleeved
T-shirt. This Aiden was wary, withdrawn. He was also in
pain. It showed in his eyes and in every stiff, shuddering
movement of his body.
Keaton reached his car, unlocked it, and grabbed a
jacket from the backseat. He liked the jacket—it was a bit
small on him, but it was warm and sturdy. Still, he didn’t
mind giving it up for a good cause. He tried not to rush
back to the pier. No need to spook the kid with his
enthusiasm.
Aiden glanced up only briefly when Keaton
returned. “Here,” Keaton said, holding out the jacket.
“For my peace of mind.”
Aiden shook his head. “I don’t want it.”
“Please.” Keaton said it sincerely, and Aiden
looked at him as though unable to comprehend why this
mattered so much to Keaton.
Then Aiden shrugged again and took the jacket.
He couldn’t get it on—his fingers were numb, and
he shivered so hard he could barely raise his arms.
Keaton reached out to help him, and Aiden shied
violently from his hands. Keaton stopped moving.
“Shit,” Aiden muttered. He shook the jacket off and
thrust it at Keaton. “You keep it. I have to get going
anyway.” He stood and hurried away, leaving Keaton no
time to decide whether to call after him.
* * * *
Aiden landed a part in a local production of Twelfth
Night. He’d come to look down on community theater
while he was in college, especially the shows put on in
this dump of a town. But he missed acting and was
thrilled for the chance to play Malvolio. In productions at
school, he had inevitably been cast as the romantic lead.
Now finally he got to play a character part: the priggish,
joy-despising steward who turns out to be far more
complex than he initially seems.
Having rehearsals to look forward to each night
brightened his mood considerably. He ate more
regularly and had an easier time sleeping through the
nights. He practiced his lines while Scott was at work,
and, as opening night grew nearer, tried to persuade
Scott to come.
“I hate plays,” Scott said.
“Don’t you at least want to support me?” Aiden
asked, trying for the charming grin that had served him
well in the past. He often faltered when he smiled now,
afraid Scott would think he was being fake or
manipulative.
Scott snorted. “Like you need any more support
from me.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Scott shrugged. “Maybe instead of wasting your
time with this play, you should be out looking for a job.”
“I’ve tried. You know I’ve been trying.”
“Have you? How hard can it be to get a job as a
cashier somewhere?”
Aiden bit his lip. “Well, I don’t just want to be a
cashier somewhere. I want to think about my future.”
“Well, I wish you wouldn’t think about it on my
dime.”
Aiden’s face burned. He struggled to keep his voice
steady. “Joe’s was good because the hours were flexible.
Serving’s a great day job for an actor. If I could get<
br />
another job as a server, I could make sure my evenings
were free to pursue more theater opportunities.”
“So you can be a waiter for the rest of your life, but
not a cashier?”
“It’s not for the rest of my life. It’s just until I can
start making a living as an actor. Or—I don’t know, if I
get into grad school… ”
“This all sounds like fantasy to me. I mean, how is
acting a viable career? Unless you’re a movie star?”
“People make money at it. Not a lot, but—”
“How does that contribute to society, though?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, how does being an actor benefit anyone?”
Aiden’s mouth fell open. “People need theater. It’s
part of… of culture; it’s part of what makes us human. It
teaches us about ourselves—”
“Look, don’t have an aneurysm over it. Theater’s
just not my thing. So enjoy your show, break a leg or
whatever, then buckle down and find a real job when it’s
over.”
Aiden stood, fists clenched at his sides. Scott was
being completely unfair and condescending. “There’s a
party closing night for the cast and crew. I was gonna ask
you to go with me. But forget it.”
“When’s closing night?”
“What do you care?”
Scott caught his wrist as he turned to leave. “When
is it?”
“Next Saturday.”
“Next Saturday I need you here.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I have something planned. Part of your training.”
“Well, I can’t miss the cast party.”
“You’ll have to.”
“No.”
Scott quirked an eyebrow. “What did you just say
to me?”
“I said no.”
Scott jerked his arm. “Do you need a reminder of
who’s in charge around here?”
“I know who’s in charge, Sir,” Aiden spat. “But I
also know I have my own life outside of being your sub.
And the cast party is part of it.” Aiden’s heart thudded,
but he forced himself to keep his gaze locked with
Scott’s. He didn’t dare fight Scott’s grip on his wrist; Scott
would win. He simply waited.
Scott stared at him for a long moment, eyes black
with fury. Then he thrust Aiden’s arm away from him.
“Go then.” He left the room.
Aiden stared after him. Was it really that simple?
He’d surely pay for this later, but he’d gotten what he
wanted—Scott’s permission to attend the cast party.
