Page 15 of The Contract

I don’t know. Maybe this isn’t a good idea.

What the fuck am I saying? This obviously isn’t a good idea.

No. The answer is no.

Before I can change my mind again, I hurry out to the bar to tell him that and—

He’s gone.

I scan the room like he might be hiding somewhere, but he’s definitely gone.

The contract isn’t. It’s still sitting on the bar. So is the takeout bag with all the leftovers.

FIVE

Tristan

I wake up grinding into my mattress. I’m not with it enough to think. I reach under myself and grip my aching cock. My hips rock forward. My ass clenches. I want to be touched. I’m fucking dying for it, but I come anyway. Face pressing into my pillow, I groan as my cock pumps, making a mess all over my hand, all over my bed.

It’s so fucking unsatisfying. I lay there panting and pissed off without having a clear reason for it.

After I deal with the mess and shower, I go to the kitchen area of my studio apartment. I get the coffeepot going.

It’s a little past noon. A hip-hop beat thumps down from the apartment above. Somewhere in the building, two people are shouting.

Just another typical Sunday.

I’m gonna have to do laundry. I came all over my only set of sheets. I’m also out of food.

Oh, wait. I have the leftovers from last night. My stomach growls. I open the fridge that, despite being little more than a mini fridge, takes up nearly half of the kitchen. I snag the container that Dante called a Bento box. It’s got little compartments like some kind of fancy Japanese kid’s meal.

My microwave takes forever, so I don’t even bother heating it. Fuck, it’s delicious anyway.

Shoveling food into my mouth, I walk over to my computer chair, which is the only chair in my apartment. The file folder beside my keyboard catches my eye.

There are so many reasons not to sign it, and yet …

The coffeepot gurgles to completion. I return to the kitchen and grab the only mug I own from the cupboard.

Putting my back to the small section of counter that fits only the microwave and coffeepot, I stare across the room at the file folder.

No.

Absolutely not.

I spend the rest of the day on boring Sunday bullshit. I spend a tedious hour and a half at the laundromat. I buy some groceries from the corner bodega. I think about going for a run, but I don’t feel like it. Maybe tomorrow. I’m gonna need something to do anyway. I have three and a half long, dull days to get through until my next shift at Lush. Maybe I should get another job just to pass the time.

Putting the sheets back on the bed, I look toward the file folder again. I walk over to it and pick it up. I open it.

When I fish out a pen from the desk drawer, I tell myself that it’s too much money to pass up. I could just say the safe word and spend at least a year or two in a nicer place.

When I set my pen to the signature line, I tell myself this is a chance to learn something about Lorenzo Capelli, which was the point of getting a job at Lush in the first place.

But when I sign my name, it’s Dante’s name I’m looking at. I imagine his hand carving those letters into the paper, sweeping that A onto the page. I imagine that hand wrapping itself around my cock.

I imagine him whispering in my ear,Good boy.

I shiver as I lift the pen because I know what I’ve done. I’ve signed my life away.

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