Page 310 of Rage

I didn't vote for my father. And I didn't vote for the man he thinks of as a messiah for bringing America back to Christian values. Never mind that he's a convicted felon who, by his actions, seems to be the antithesis of Christian values.

As I stood in the gymnasium of our town community center, I watched my father hover behind my mother while she made her choices. I looked around and saw several couples standing in similar positions. I don't think I would have noticed it before, but just weeks before, there had been a social media advertisement that my father had just about lost his mind over. It was about wives being able to vote however they like, and that their husbands would never know otherwise. Pastor Reynard stood on the pulpit that next Sunday and preached that men are the heads of the household and that the responsibility of decision making should lie on their shoulders as God intended.Wives, he said, should vote as their husbands direct them to, that they are bound by their union to be as one in all things. It's the first time I ever wanted to stand up and walk out, to disagree with the man that I considered my mentor, and who will eventually become my boss once I'm through with Seminary and come to work at the church officially.

On voting day, I strongly considered causing a scene. I wanted to demand that the tall tables with partitions didn't provide enough privacy, that there should be more space between them, that people shouldn't be able to congregate together, even as families, to vote. Because I know if I had been standing next to my parents rather than across from them, my father would have looked at and tried to influence my ballot the way I know he was doing to my mother.

I'm sure he trusted that I was voting the way he'd coached me. Admittedly, it's how I made my decisions the first few elections I voted in. Before I started to pay attention. Back when I trusted that my father had good intentions and cared about his constituents.

"Son?"

I jolt out of my thoughts, remembering that I was trying to come up with an excuse for my hasty retreat.

"Sorry, sir. I'm just a little embarrassed. I got some of Mrs. Mill's chicken pot pie dropped right in my lap, and we're heading to the retirement home soon. I thought I'd just pop home real quick to change. I'll be gone before you and mom get home, but I'll be home for dinner later,” I add on, rambling like an idiot.

"We have plans this evening and likely won't be home until late," he reminds me, staring at me a little too intently. Like he knows I'm lying. I've been holding my jacket in front of my pants to hide the stain from my earlier indiscretions, and I take the opportunity to show him now, hoping the spot that I scrubbed at with flimsy paper towels and hand soap will pass as a food slipand not bodily fluids leftover from being drained within an inch of my life. My face flames, and I think it's enough to convince my father. He shakes his head and dismisses me with a remark about being a twenty-three-year-old man child that needs a bib.

Chapter Three

Levi

"Fucking finally," I say, leaning against the bed of Adam's big, shiny, black truck.

"Get in," he hisses, looking over his shoulder to check if anyone is watching. He parks all the way around the back of the lot because his massive vehicle doesn't fit into a normal parking spot, so I don't think he has too much to worry about. But there are only so many things I can pick on him for in one afternoon.

"Why exactly does anyone need a truck this big?" I ask as I buckle myself in, lifting an eyebrow at the pristine condition of the cab. It still smells like new leather and money.

"I probably don't, and it gets terrible gas mileage," Adam replies as he pulls out of the lot and onto the road. I don't ask where we're going, because I don't actually care. He can take me behind a dumpster at an inland seafood restaurant if it means I get to see golden boy Adam Havre on his knees with my cock in his mouth. "It's convenient sometimes, though. Like if someone needs help to move, or if we need to transport fifty cases of water and a ton of other stuff across the state line for hurricane relief.”

I nod, trying to focus on his words and not on the way his mouth moves.

He wears his happiness and pride over his usefulness all over his face. His lips are pulled into a broad grin, and I've decided that I've either done something very, very right or I'm being punished in some deviously clever way, because this man has dimples.Fucking dimples!

"It is a big truck bed…” His smile drops, eyes wide and serious as he focuses on the road more intently than he was before, squirming in his seat. Just as we're pulling into a long driveway, I unbuckle my seat and lean across the center console to lick his earlobe. "I can think of some things I could do to you in this truck. There's plenty of space?—"

"We're here!" he shouts, his voice almost cracking with nerves. Did he forget that we left explicitly to get some privacy? And where ishere? Was he not driving us somewhere secluded so we can suck each other dry?

Apparently not. Because when I pull my attention from him, I notice we're sitting in a large U-shaped driveway in front of the biggest house I've ever seen up close. A bona fide mansion.

"Is this where you live?" I can't decide if I'm impressed or disgusted, or an anxious mix of both.

"It's my parent's house. I stay here between semesters, though, yeah."

I whistle as I follow him around the side of the house.

"My church clothes not fancy enough to take me through the front door?"

"W-what? No. I— This is?—"

"I'm kidding, Adam. Chill."

He makes a face, pausing once he unlocks the door. "I don't know what I'm doing here."

"You needed to change your clothes," I remind him gently. He relaxes slightly. "And suck my cock," I add, leaning in next to him to push the door open. He stumbles inside, and I follow, chuckling. He's too easy.

We enter what looks to be a basement that has been turned into a large living space. It's decorated like something out of a magazine, masculine but also too fashionable to really fit Adam's personality. He strikes me as the collectibles, sports paraphernalia, and framed posters kind of guy. Maybe some fancy model cars.

"You like video games?" I ask, gesturing towards the entertainment center that holds what looks like every gaming console available.

"Not really," he says. "It's all, um, Christmas and birthday presents, I guess." He shrugs awkwardly. "Poor little rich boy," he says sarcastically.

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