He spent the remainder of the afternoon unpacking boxes. Bathroom first, then the kitchen. He stocked his cupboards with a couple boxes of cereal and some canned veggies and chicken noodle soup he’d brought from his old place. It wasn’t much, though, and his stomach was growling.
He grabbed his wallet and keys and headed out to the market. Since it was only three blocks away, he decided to walk. He picked up some essentials, then took his time strolling back, enjoying the late summer sun. Berkeley was usually overcast and chilly, except on rare days like this. Might as well savor it while he could. After next week, he wouldn’t have a spare minute to call his own.
He skipped up his building’s front steps two at a time, humming an off-key tune that halted abruptly when he caught sight of a tall, ginger-haired figure through the glass door. A very familiar tall, ginger-haired figure heading right toward him.
Wes tried to scoot aside, but it was no use—the door was already swinging open. Connor looked up from his phone, eyes going wide when he realized who he’d practically plowed into.
“There’s a face I never expected to see again,” Connor stammered, pushing his glasses up his nose. Was Wes imagining it, or was his hand shaking? He wore a weird expression, too, as if he couldn’t decide whether to smile, frown—or run and hide.
Wes was tempted to try the latter. Heat flooded his cheeks, and it had nothing to do with the balmy weather. “How’ve you been?” he asked, wincing inwardly as the words left his mouth. Could he sound any fucking lamer?
“That’s what I should be asking you. Although, actually, I already have,” Connor said, “in those voicemail messages I left.”
Messages Wes had listened to more times than he cared to admit. Messages he’d longed to answer. God, he was such a coward. He should’ve summoned the nerve to call Connor back, tell him he’d had fun but that’s all it’d been. He should’ve at least been man enough to give him some closure. “Sorry. The last month’s kind of gotten away from me.”
“Starting with that night at the conference, huh?” As a flicker of pain shot through those gorgeous green eyes, Wes’s body ached with guilt. “I don’t usually get stood up after sex, but I guess there’s always a first time.” Wes swallowed hard, glancing down at his shoes. “So, what’re you doing here?”
Wes held up the grocery bag. “Just moved in. Apartment 413.” God, why’d he have to blurt out that last part? Standing in front of this guy was all it took to short-circuit the “edit” function in his brain.
“Three doors down from me. We’ll probably be running into each other every day. Lucky us.” With that, Connor tucked his phone in his pocket and headed for the front stairs.
Wes watched him go, the entire world crumbling under his feet.
Wes held his breath every time he poked his head out his door, praying he wouldn’t see Connor. He’d lain awake the entire first weekend in his new place, agonizing over what to do. He’d even paid a visit to the manager’s office to see if he could switch to another floor, but no such luck. Every unit in the building was rented. Hell, every apartment within walking distance of campus had been snapped up weeks ago. And even if that weren’t the case, no way could he afford to move again so soon. Like it or not, he was stuck here for the time being.
Late Tuesday afternoon, he trudged home from class and crumpled onto the sofa. All he wanted was a short nap before he started studying. He almost let himself drift off, but then remembered it was his night to meet Tom. Oh, God. He wasn’t in the mood to deal with that pervert.
Groaning, he scooped up his phone, his thumb lingering over Tom’s number. But if he canceled, how would he pay his tuition? Plus, his car’s front wheels were making this annoying grinding noise. If worse came to worst, he could use public transportation—except for his appointments. Most of them were in the city, and no way did he want to end up waiting for BART or the fucking bus after dark.
“All right, all right,” he muttered, dragging his ass into the bathroom to get ready, then headed for the hotel.
Tom had texted him the room number, so Wes went right up. They’d settled into a routine over the past few weeks, which included Tom leaving the door slightly ajar so Wes could let himself in. He took off his clothes and hung them in the closet, then walked naked over to the desk and assumed the position. He didn’t look back, but he could hear Tom huffing out big gusty breaths, like a bull about to charge.
He closed his eyes, willing himself to relax as Tom began stroking his skin. Tom’s clammy touch never failed to make his stomach roil, but he swallowed his revulsion, focusing on the money Tom would be handing him in an hour and a half—sooner, if he was lucky.
Tom’s hands skimmed over Wes’s shoulders, then closed around his throat just long enough to make him squirm. He was always doing stuff like that, edgy, scary shit, like he was purposely trying to unnerve him. Most of the time Wes managed to keep his cool. He hated giving the sick bastard the satisfaction. Sure, it was part of what the guy was paying for, but he’d never told Wes not to make it a challenge.
The first slap always took him by surprise. He never knew how hard it would come down, or where. Tonight it landed in that sensitive crease between his cheek and thigh, with a thwack that echoed off the walls. Tom took his time, as if waiting for the initial sting to blossom into a tissue-deep ache. Then, he switched cheeks and did it again. And again.
Wes had heard of people who enjoyed this kind of pain, but he couldn’t imagine why. At first he didn’t understand why Tom hadn’t sought out someone who liked it, until he realized his own suffering was part of Tom’s kink. His sadism. It wasn’t fun for him with a willing participant—or someone he hadn’t paid to be willing. Half the erotic charge lay in administering the pain, the other half in watching someone who hated it struggle to endure it. Wes sucked in a breath, steeling himself for the next blow. He wondered what his freshman-year psych professor would say if she could see him now.
He hunched over the desk and took it, smack after smack, far beyond what he’d been capable of enduring a couple weeks ago. If Tom thought he could push him into begging for mercy, he’d be waiting a long fucking time. At last Tom stepped away, panting even harder than when he’d started, the mattress groaning as he plopped down.
Wes turned around, stretching to ease the throbbing in his legs and back. A perverse thrill snaked through him when he saw Tom’s hands, pink and swollen, like his own ass after one of these sessions. Forty more minutes to go, by Wes’s watch. “Anything else I can do for you, lover?”
If Tom picked up on the undercurrent of sarcasm in his tone, he sure as hell didn’t show it. He was too busy unzipping his slacks and yanking out his dick. “Get over here and suck me.”
Tom was already close—thank God. A few quick flicks of Wes’s tongue and a couple hard pulls, and Tom shot all over his chin. Wes grabbed some tissues to wipe himself off, then went into the bathroom to wash his face.
His money was sitting on the bedside table when he came out, a signal that it was okay to get dressed. He threw on his clothes as quickly as possible and came back to pick up the cash. “Same time next week?” he asked, pocketing the money.
Tom didn’t answer right away, just swung his legs over the edge of the bed and squinted up at Wes. He seemed more cunning than smart, and was probably pissed that Wes wasn’t all that scared of him anymore. “Why don’t we meet at your place from now on? This hotel’s too fucking expensive.”
What? Wes covered his surprise by pretending to pluck a speck of lint off his jacket. “Sorry. I don’t do in-calls.”
“Not even for the guy who pays your rent, Mr. Martin?” He licked his lips. “Wesley Martin. That’s your name, right?”
Wes’s head snapped up, every cell in his body going cold. “How the hell do you know that?”
“You think I let just anybody suck my dick? I know where you live. I know where your family lives. I know where you go to school.” He stood, staring Wes down. “It’d be a shame if your aunt an
d uncle found out your photo’s splashed all over a website for male hookers. Or the chancellor at Berkeley, who I happen to play golf with every Saturday.”
Oh, God. Oh, Jesus. What the fuck had he gotten himself into? Why the hell hadn’t he seen it coming? “What do you want from me?”
“Anything. Everything. With no complaints.” He laid his hands on Wes’s shoulders, sliding in to linger at his throat, thumbs poised over his larynx. All he had to do was push, and he could choke off Wes’s air in a second. “Don’t worry, I’ll still pay you. But if you’re thinking about jacking up your price like on that first night, think again. I’m not about to be taken for a ride by some jumped-up trailer trash like you.”
Wes’s mind whirled, heart thrashing. His hands curled into fists, nails digging into his palms as he fought to stay calm, find some way out of this. “Look, just let me go, all right? I’ll give you your money back if you’ll let me walk out of here. I just . . . I don’t want to do this anymore.”
“It’s a little late for that. I already fucking own you.” Tom reached up to fondle Wes’s cheek, ran his fat finger along his lower lip. Wes’s stomach lurched.
“Jesus, you’re a pretty one.” Tom sneered wolfishly. “It’s going to be so much fun breaking you.”
You can do this. It’s no different from meeting him at the hotel. Just get him off and get him out of here.
Wes steadied himself with a deep breath, then opened the door. Tom sauntered in, his gaze sweeping the room. “You don’t have a whole lot of stuff.”
By which he probably meant, “What’re you going to prop yourself against while I beat your ass?” Since Wes didn’t have a desk or a dining table, the back of the sofa would have to do. He stepped toward it and started to unbutton his jeans.
“No,” Tom snapped, jerking his chin toward the hallway. “Get in the bedroom.”
“Nothing’s in there,” Wes replied, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice. No way was he letting this asshole see how rattled he was. Shutting his eyes, he sucked in another breath. He was probably safer here than in any hotel. At least here he stood a good chance of someone actually hearing him if he called for help. “I sleep on the couch. It folds out into a bed.”
“Well, fold it out, then.”
He did as he was told, then cast a glance at Tom, waiting for further instructions.
“You didn’t get all dressed up this time,” Tom observed with a gravelly chuckle, backing him up against the sofa. “What happened to your fancy suit? Or don’t you think I’m worth the effort anymore?”
Wes swallowed hard. “I, um . . . figured you’d rather get down to business.”
“Ah, yes, business. Which reminds me . . .” Tom fished some cash out of his wallet and tossed the bills on the coffee table. “If you need some extra motivation, keep your eyes on that. But don’t fucking touch it ’til we’re done.” His breath stank of beer. As if Wes needed another reason to feel sick. “Take your clothes off.”
Well, this was new. Except for that first night, Tom had never seemed particularly interested in watching him strip. He usually wanted him bare-assed and ready to be spanked as quickly as possible. Still, it only took Wes a few seconds to yank off his shirt and let his jeans and boxers slide to the floor.
Tom just looked at him, his piggy eyes taking a leisurely stroll up and down Wes’s body, as if this were the first time he’d seen him naked. Then, slowly and deliberately, he wrapped a hand around Wes’s throat and shoved him onto the bed.
Fucking hell, he was strong. Strong enough to hold Wes down with one hand while wrestling his zipper open with the other. Black spots swarmed in front of Wes’s eyes, until he managed to bat Tom’s hand away long enough to catch his breath. “Wh-what the fuck’re you doing?”
“Just something I saw in a video once. I’ve always wanted to try it.” Tom fumbled in his pocket, pulled out a condom and rolled it on. “Lie back and spread your legs.”
Oh, Jesus. He’d never tried to fuck him before, and Wes had counted himself lucky for it. Sucking that ugly dog dick had been bad enough. Thank God it was just sticking out of Tom’s pants. He’d probably vomit if he had to look at Tom’s fat, wobbly body without any clothes on.
Money. Groceries. Rent. Close your eyes and let him do what he wants. He’ll be out of here in half an hour.
But his eyes flew open when he felt the tip of Tom’s cock prodding his hole. What the hell? Couldn’t he bother to prep him first? He let out a yell as Tom pushed roughly inside. The shock sent Wes flailing, hands twisting in covers, every muscle achingly rigid.
Calm down. Breathe. Relax, or he’s really gonna hurt you.
He let his eyes close again, trying to go to another place, but it was pretty damn impossible with a fucking elephant rutting on top of him. The condom was lubed, though not nearly enough to ease the stab and burn of Tom’s battering-ram thrusts. Felt like he was being fisted by King Kong, and Tom’s dick wasn’t even that big.
“C’mon, take it easy,” he huffed, “you don’t have to—”
Tom hauled off and slapped him, an open-handed blow that smashed into Wes’s right cheek. Momentarily stunned, his head lolled on the pillow while Tom kept moving, grunting and grinding like a barnyard animal in heat.
To hell with this noise. There wasn’t enough cash in the world to make him put up with being used like a goddamn punching bag. “Get the fuck off me,” he growled, trying to push Tom away.
He got another hard slap for his trouble, and it dawned on him—his struggling was exactly what this twisted fuck wanted. But money or no money, Wes couldn’t just lie back and let it happen.
“Stop it!” He pounded on Tom’s chest, tried to kick him. A fat forearm slammed across his throat, cutting off his protests and his air.
Lungs burning, blood roaring between his ears, chest jerking—aching—with the need to breathe. Panic surged through his veins like acid.
OhGodohJesusI’mgonnafuckingdie.
The bed shook, his body rocking as Tom slammed into him again and again. At least the pain had turned dull and distant, as if it were someone else’s. He was only vaguely aware of Tom now, the horror and humiliation of not being able to stop him fading as he fought to remain conscious. The room shimmied and blurred, going dark at the edges.
Suddenly the horrible weight on top of him shifted, and air came rushing back into his lungs. Trembling all over, he dragged in huge, desperate gulps and rolled to the far edge of the bed. He didn’t want to touch Tom again, ever. He couldn’t even bring himself to look at him.
The first time he opened his mouth, nothing came out. His throat felt like it’d been crushed in a vise, his vocal chords rubbed raw. Swallowing hurt. Then the coughing started. “You . . . you fucking choked me,” he croaked. “You could’ve killed me!”
“Don’t be so melodramatic. I knew what I was doing.”
Like hell. He flopped on his back, still shaking, trying to drink in enough air. Seemed like a fucking hour before Tom got up, his footsteps moving toward the kitchen. Wes heard water running, the clink of a glass. The floor creaked under Tom’s weight as he walked back in the living room. Wes didn’t look, but he thought he heard him toss more money on the table.
“See you next week,” Tom said. The door opened and closed, and he was gone.
Groaning, Wes staggered to his feet, his head throbbing, still buzzing with residual adrenaline. Felt like he’d pulled every muscle in his torso. Then the searing pain in his ass kicked in, his stomach clenching when he saw several small, dark spots on the blanket.
He stumbled down the hallway to the bathroom, bracing himself before glancing in the mirror. The reddened imprint of Tom’s hand on his cheek stood out in vivid detail. His throat was already turning purple. Shit. By tomorrow he’d look like somebody’d taken a baseball bat to him.
His body shook and shivered. He sank to the floor, sheer will the only thing holding back the sobs thrashing in his chest. He’d gotten lucky tonight. What if he’d pass
ed out? He didn’t even want to think about what Tom could’ve done to him while he was unconscious.
Sheer panic twisted through him, nearly doubling him over. What the fuck was he supposed to do, find someplace else to live before next Tuesday? It was the only solution he could think of, and he doubted even that would be enough. Tom would just track him down again. If he was sufficiently pissed off, he’d talk with his golf buddy the chancellor and get Wes kicked out of school. With only nine months to go until he got his degree.
Oh, God. No way could he put up with Tom’s abuse for nine more months. He wasn’t even sure he could last another week. But what choice did he have? He was trapped, and it was his own fucking fault.
Connor’s last morning class ended at eleven, so he decided to head home for lunch. Indian summer had kicked in with a vengeance, sunny and hot enough to walk around in short sleeves and sandals. He’d worked up a sweat by the time he reached his building and stepped inside, letting out a sigh as he headed for the elevator. When he saw Wes walking toward him, he froze. Wes stopped dead too, fingers tightening on his backpack’s shoulder strap.
Connor hadn’t seen him since the day he’d moved in—and to be honest, he’d been doing his best to avoid him. He almost gasped aloud when he saw how thin—and awful—Wes looked. Purplish rings under his eyes had turned his pale skin pasty. And why was he wearing a turtleneck when temperatures had been in the eighties all week?
Normally Connor would’ve minded his own business, but the concern rippling through him overruled that instinct. “How’ve you been? Classes going well?”
Wes shrugged. “I guess.”
Connor’s concern quickly morphed into unease. What’d happened to the energetic, knowledge-hungry Wes he’d met last July? This kid seemed like a totally different person. “Where’d all that enthusiasm go? Isn’t senior year challenging you enough?”
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