Page 30 of Kiss, Kill, Thrill Me, Daddy

Tatum’s nails dig into my thigh, piercing my skin through the jeans. “It is not!”

Scotty shakes his head. “It is, and it’s okay, Tater Tot. There’s nothing wrong with a bit of voyeurism. Tell him, Momma Lindsay.”

Tatum’s mother looks horrified. She’s got her hand to her chest, clutching non-existent pearls. “Yes. I think it’s best we move this one from themaybepile to theI’m going to need copious amounts of Xanax to forget this conversation ever took placepile.” She grabs the paper from her husband without looking at it, folds it in half, and tucks it under a tall stack of other ideas Tatum’s father must’ve vetoed already. “Oh, now, this ... this, I like.” She holds up another piece of paper. This time, there’s a stick figure with yellow hair that appears to have been drawn with a crayon. Next to the figure—who I can only assume is meant to be Tatum—is an unnecessarily tall man with a hand wedged between the other man’s cheeks, fingering him mercilessly. There are two other figures in the drawing, and the smaller of the pair is riding on the other’s hip. It almost looks like a double wedding.

For Scotty’s sake, I pray this doesn’t mean what I think it does. It would make sense. The marriage license. Scotty’s noncommittal plans for their wedding. My heart slams in my chest, because I’m pretty sure he’s planned a?—

“A double fucking wedding?” Tatum screams, his voice loud enough to shatter glass.

“There is no need for that sort of language. How many times do I have to tell you? Honestly, Tatum. I didn’t raise you this way. All we want is for your wedding to be special, and you’ve been screaming and shouting since you got here. This is all new to us, too, and you’re not making it any easier. We’re trying, Tatum.”

Fee cocks an eyebrow. “Trying to do what? To cope with your son marrying a man?” She scoots away from Mrs. St. James. Considering she’s wedged between her and the arm of the couch, she doesn’t get far. “If that’s a touch of homophobia I hear in your tone, you can nip that in the bud this instant.”

She shakes her head emphatically. “Oh, goodness, no. That’s not what I meant at all. It’s not that I don’t approve.” Reaching for her neck, she pulls a small necklace from under her shirt. There’s an oversized rainbow attached to the chain that looks like one of those acrylic paint-by-numbers items you might purchase at a craft store. “I’m the proudest PFLAG mom this side of the Mason Dixon line.”

Tatum’s father offers a clipped nod in agreement. “Love is love. They’re born this way.”

“Exactly,” Tatum’s mother continues, shooting an annoyed look at her husband. “We’re not bothered by it in the slightest, we just don’t see that many gay weddings in Tallulah, so I don’t know how to plan one. Well, Mayor Rivera and his fiancé—Phillip Firecracker, you remember him, don’t you, Tatum?—they’re getting married next spring.” She stares into the distance and nods. “Huh. I guess we do get gay weddings here. Look at Tallulah, Texas, becoming a hotbed of human rights. How fabulous!”

“Mrs. St. James, I believe you’re spiraling,” I say, wanting to rein the conversation in. Tatum’s almost in a full-blown panic, and I’m sure the last thing he needs is a tangent.

She gives me a wide grin. “Baby, what did I say outside? Just call me Mom.”

Tatum’s father nods. “And you can call me Dad.”

The last time someone said those words to me was when I moved in with Brody. His parents offered to adopt me, telling me I was family. Asking me to call them Mom and Dad. Just the mere suggestion was enough to send me into a three-day spiral. This doesn’t feel the same. It almost feels ...right.

Tatum’s back is now cradled snugly against my chest, my hand wrapped around him, keeping him close. His breathing is erratic, so I try to calm him by gently stroking his stomach. Mrs. St. James is still pleading her case to Fiona, but I can’t tear my eyes away from Tatum. I want to comfort him the way I usually do—to slip a finger inside him as a constant reminder that he is safe—but I cannot do that here. So, I offer him the closest thing. I grind my soft cock between his cloth-covered cheeks and imagine his naked form, trying to become hard enough he can feel me. The moment I’m at half mast, he looks over his shoulder at me and stares. There are questions and demands written all over his face, but he doesn’t even attempt to voice them. He simply stares at me, his eyes pleading with me to make this right. How can I?

We do not move. We do not speak. All we do is simply exist in this moment, allowing the world to fade around us.

There’s the sound of laughter, and when I look up, Mrs. St. James and Fee are sharing a joke. How long were we lost in each other’s eyes? They seem to have gone through at least a hundred pages of Scotty’s notes and plans. Plans he’s apparently spent months making. I’m not sure if it’s registered with Tatum yet, just how much thought his best friend has put into this double wedding. The longer he stares at the papers, the clearer the picture becomes.

“So, you’ve both been planning this for a while now?” Tatum asks, forcing a smile.

Scotty nods, refusing to look up. “Just a few weeks, Tater Tot.”

“A few weeks?” Tatum’s mother says with a snort. “We’ve been discussing plans for the last two months.” Tatum’s nails dig deeper into my thigh. “Wouldn’t you like to come over here and get in on the action? It’s your wedding, too, after all.”

“I think,” he grits out, closing his eyes and letting out a huff. “I would like to lie down for a while, if that’s alright. The trip took everything out of me.”

His mother looks at him with concern written all over her face. “If you’re sure. Would you like me to fix you another cup of coffee and bring it up to your room?”

He shakes his head and hops off my lap. “No, thank you.” I reach for his hand, but he’s already walking away, muttering under his breath. He heads toward Scotty, and the twink flinches each time Tatum’s feet touch down on the carpet. Once he’s in front of Scotty, he holds his arms out invitingly. “Come here, Scotty. I would like to give my biffle a hug.”

Scotty blanches. “Sorry, Tate. Wedding plans take priority over biffle hugs. Need our special day to be perfect.” He grabs a sheet of paper and feigns interest in whatever’s written on it. Tatum snatches the paper from Scotty’s hand and glares at him.

“It’s going to be a day you’ll never forget.” He takes a step forward, leaning in and kissing Scotty’s forehead. His teeth are grinding back and forth, and before he pulls away, he hisses something into Scotty’s ear that makes the twink shake with fear.

As Scotty whimpers, Tatum whirls around and marches toward me, grabbing me by the wrist and hauling me out of the room. Once we’re in the foyer, he marches toward my bag, which is hanging off the coat hook where he placed it when we entered, and unzips it. He rifles through my belongings like they’re his for the taking. Which they are, of course.

When Tatum turns around, he’s holding the small blacksatchel that houses our finger cleansing products and as his serum. I haven’t dosed him in over three months, but I like to keep a bit on hand, just in case. He holds it out for me.

“Drug me,” he demands. My eyes bulge. The only thing hiding us from his parents are thin walls and Scotty’s incessant cheerful laugh.

“Your mother is in the next room,” I hiss into his ear. I need to keep my voice down. The last thing we want is her knowing sedative-play is occasionally part of our repertoire. “I’m not drugging you in your childhood home.”

He growls at me before grabbing my hand and dragging me up the stairs. Once we’re on the landing, he leads me to the end of the hall, toward a room on the left. The moment he opens the door, my heart flutters in my chest.

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