Page 63 of Man On

"It's not like that, Noah."

"Not like what?" I ask, pinning him with my eyes. Daring him to say it. To acknowledge it.

He huffs out a tired breath, and my hackles drop a little. My jealousy isn't going to help him. They’re going to the gym, not his bedroom. There are going to be tons of people down there on a day like today.

I push a plate of pancakes in front of him, and the jar of peanut butter because he eats pancakes like a fucking weirdo. "You should eat something first."

He seems a little taken aback that I don’t say anything else. And I'm totally planning to casually walk away, like the cool, indifferent guy I am.

But I can't fucking help myself. Before I go inside my room, I turn around and lean against the door frame. I very casually stretch out my abdominal muscles, pretending like I don't know he's looking, then winking when I catch him. It is our little game we’ve always played, after all. Only now there are stakes.

"For the record, since we haven't ironed out the details of our new arrangement?—"

"What arrangement?"

"The one where I get to deep throat your cock whenever I want. Pay attention."

He looks sufficiently taken aback, so I smile smugly and continue. "Like I was saying, we haven't ironed out all the details, but you need to know that I don't share my toys."

"I'm not your toy, Noah," he snaps.

Mmmm. Yes, please get fired up. Then we can get angry and jerk each other off instead of him going anywhere near Danny fucking Hastings.

"I'm sorry, did you prefer to be called my dirty little cum slut? Because I can bathe you in my jizz again before you leave, if you need a reminder of who you belong to."

Because I'm an asshole, I lift my phone and take a picture of his face right now. It's just too good. Caught between sheer disbelief, rage, and turned the fuck on. When he opens his mouth to tell me off, I point at his dick.

"You might want to do something about that before you go downstairs," I tell him. "I'll be in my room if you need help with it."

I manage to turn and walk away, muttering to myself. "If he finds out what you're packing, I'll never get him off you."

After a few minutes, the door slams shut and I stick out my bottom lip, having a little one-person pity party for myself. That's okay, I'll get him later.

It's been hours since Lane went downstairs to meet up with Danny, and I'm driving myself crazy. I've considered going down there a few times. I like to work out, too. But it would be too obvious.

What are they talking about? Are they talking about the church raid? Is he confiding in Danny because he thinks he'd understand better since he's a Jesus freak, too?

Fucking nice-guy-asshole.

I'm only driving myself crazy. Nothing is grabbing my attention to distract me from my unhinged jealousy over my stepbrother having a friend.

They're just friends. Friends with a lot in common. Like being super fit and good looking. And having similar religious backgrounds so they can commiserate with each other about how Jesus doesn't like it when you take it up the ass.

Is Danny a top or a bottom? Hell, is Lane a top or bottom? I feel like he gives off bottom energy, for me at least. Because despite being so large and in charge everywhere he goes, when he's with me, he's putty. He does whatever I say, even if it humiliates him. Maybe because it humiliates him. He'd probably have to look it up, but I think he might have a degradation kink.

Inspired by his incessant need to research everything, and trying to get my mind off the idea of Lane taking anything—me—in his ass, I open my laptop and turn the screen so it won't be obvious what I'm looking at in the event Lane comes home and sneaks up on me. He’ll just think I'm looking at porn.

I type Deliverance Summit Church in the search bar and start with the mainstream news articles instead of social media and gossip sites. There’s one network that has been following the story since the coverage of the raid. The newer reports show the mugshots for some of the people arrested, and I immediately recognize one man. It's uncanny. I'm looking at an older, creepier version of Lane. The only differences I can see, other than age, are that Lane's lips are fuller and his eyes are lighter. Lane's hair has grown out, although he still wears it close cropped, but he keeps it longer on top. Long enough to grip onto. No, Noah. Focus. He used to have the same buzzed haircut as this creeper, though. And haircuts aside, the resemblance is astounding. There’s no mistaking it, this guy is Lane’s father.

The charges listed under his name, Gideon Larsen, make my stomach churn. Sexual assault, specifically of underaged girls. Trafficking. Child labor violations. Abuse. Neglect. Fraud and licensing violations.

Holy shit.

I think about what my dad said, about it not being complicated, but not his story to tell. This guy is clearly Lane's father, and lived in this compound with Lane, but never claimed him? And got away with it despite there being no way they aren't related. It seems really fishy to me. Then I think about how old Hannah must have been when she had Lane—seventeen, maybe? This guy looks to be in his sixties or older. Which means he would have been in his late thirties or early forties at best. And his charges...

My stomach rolls thinking about all the pieces to a puzzle that I hope I'm wrong about. Losing her son was bad enough, but if she was forced—I want to kill him.

I feel nauseous, but I keep scrolling.

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