Page 25 of Slay the Gay Away, Daddy

“So, you chose to put me through conversion therapy?”

“It’s the only way you’ll enter the kingdom of Heaven. This life is fleeting, Dare. Once it’s over, you’re either headed upstairs or downstairs.” I absentmindedly place a hand on his hip and squeeze, gasping when I realize what I’ve done. I try to pull it away, but Darren is quicker, placing his hand on top of mine and holding it there.

“Leave it there. Please?”

I close my eyes, letting my hand rest in place. “My point is, wherever we end up, we’re stuck. There are no celestial vacation destinations for downstairs tourists. You belong to me, and if you think I’m letting you mess up our eternity because you can’t walk the straight and narrow, you’re sorely mistaken. I am notgoing to let you end up in Hell. You’re too good, Darren. That ain’t where you belong.”

“Where do I belong?” he breathes, his eyes wide, hanging on my every word.

I press a hand to the center of his back and pull him in for another hug, cradling him. “Right here. With me.”

He keeps his head pressed against my shoulder for what feels like hours, and I allow myself this moment, rubbing up and down his back like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Occasionally flexing my unending erection, just to feel some form of connection with him. Why does he have to feel so right?

“Miles?”

“Yeah, buddy?”

“I love you.” He pauses, his breath warm against my neck. “Please try to love me back.”

While I can’t give him what he so clearly wants, I can give something. I can give him the tightest hug I can manage, and I can give my sweet boy a kiss on the forehead, right where it belongs.

chapter ten

My hands have been shaking all morning. I was supposed to pick Darren up for another conversion therapy session at eight, but I can’t even get out of bed, much less drive him across town andwatch as he masturbates to a stick-figure drawing. I don’t know why we’re still doing them, to be honest. It’s been three days since our impromptu date, and I’ve seen him ejaculate once each day. He still wears his tablecloth, I still draw my stick figures, but our eyes never leave each other. I think we both know what a fine line we’re walking. I’m toeing it until I run out of line to toe, but it feels like Darren’s trying to tug me over, and with each day, I’m losing more and more of my resolve.

I grab my laptop, needing an outlet for my feelings. As soon as my Word document is pulled up, I wince, because I forgot where I left off.

I can’t write this book. I know I need to, and I know it’s what God wants, but I don’t want it. I don’t want this horrible story to be attached to my name. I don’t want someone to read it and think it’s true. My readers are mostly women in their forties and fifties, and they love these boys. I’ve gotten so many messages asking when Max and Dillon would get their stories. I knew it was a mistake including the men in book one, because my readers are evangelicals. I was just so starved for that little spark that lives inside me. I needed to let it burn, just for a second. Just to remember. Now, the readers have been practically foaming at the mouth suggesting book ideas. The first one I got felt like a punch to the gut. Max and Dillon weren’t supposed to be main characters. They were just a representation of the world we live in. Breaking them up this way—losing this one thing I wanted to keep for myself—feels like a betrayal to myself and to them.

I eye my bottle of pills on the nightstand. Maybe I could take half and get a few more hours of sleep. Lord knows I need it. It’s not like Darren’s going to pop down from the attic in the middle of the day, but wouldn’t that be nice?

Opening the bottle, I pull out a pill and snap it in half. Swallowing one half dry, and dropping the other down into the bottle, then I type out a text to Dare, telling him I’m going to tryto take a nap because I’m not feeling well, and that I’ll stop by this afternoon to pick him up.

The pills usually don’t take very long to kick in, so as I wait, I reread the last chapter of my book, trying to brainstorm ways around splitting the gay couple up. Since the series is marketed as romance, I know there has to be a love story, and as hard as I try, I can’t think of any plot points to use as a workaround.

When the pill kicks in, I lift my hand to close my laptop, but something stops me. A little voice in my head, quiet as a church mouse, soft and melodic like a hymn.

What if I give them the ending I can never have? The one I want in my secret heart.

The sides of my face feel warm, then the world goes black around me. In what feels like seconds, I blink, and I’m not alone anymore. Mal is sitting on her normally vacant side of the bed, my laptop in her lap, a tear trickling down her cheek. I can’t remember the last time I saw her cry. When I look at the screen, my blood runs cold. She’s reading my work in progress. It makes me extremely uncomfortable, because I don’t like sharing my work before it’s been polished. She turns to look at me, sniffling, and then she leans down and kisses my forehead.

“Oh, Miles,” she whispers.

“What?”

Instead of answering, she closes the laptop and places it on the bedside table. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what? Mal, what’s going on?”

“Max and Dillon.” She wraps her arms around me, cuddling up close, touching our foreheads together as we lie facing one another. Her hand caresses the side of my face, and for a moment I worry she might try to kiss me. Instead, she adds, “I want you to be happy. I want us both to have what they have in this book.” She kisses my forehead before standing and walking to my closet. When she returns, she’s carrying an outfit I haven’tworn in years. A tight Polo shirt that shows off my arms. A pair of jeans that meld perfectly with my butt—that’s what Mal says, at least. I rarely wear them because I don’t have a reason. What’s the point in looking good if you’ve got no one to look good for?

“You want me to wear those?”

She places the outfit at the foot of my bed and nods. “Get cute, then go spend the afternoon with him.”

I blush, because all this talk of Darren makes me a little uncomfortable. He’s my best friend. He’s on the path back to the straight and narrow. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself. That’s what was true a few days ago, as far as I knew. But that was before. Before he snuck in through a trapdoor in my attic like a maniac. Before the bottom fell out of the life I’ve been building. Before Darren Matthews showed me there’s still life in these old bones yet.

“I have overcome,” I whisper.

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