Page 41 of Slay the Gay Away, Daddy

But it also means keeping him.

I’m startled awake an hour later. I know it’s been an hour, because I’m still facing the clock, and it says it’s just a few minutes past nine. There’s a commotion behind me, and when I roll over, Dare is straddling Mal’s stomach, tying her hand to the bedpost. She has one free, but she’s not doing anything to stop him. If anything, she looks bored by the exchange.

“Dare? What . . . how did you even—” I quickly snap my mouth shut when he shoots me the coldest, most mechanical expression I’ve ever seen. He doesn’t even look like my Dare-bear. He’s all power and brawn and gusts of bravado. I place my hand on his wrist. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t,” he growls at me. “Don’t you dare try to apologize to me. Do you know how much you hurt me tonight? Bars, Miles? You put up fucking iron bars?” I open my mouth to answer, but he shakes his head fiercely. “You better thank God that Dad had bolt cutters in the garage. I swear to God, Miles. Worst boyfriend ever.”

I whimper. Can’t help it.

Noticing my straining erection, his pupils darken, and I notice a tent rising in his jeans. Mal notices it too, and she groans when it stiffens even more.

“Ugh, what the hell? What, are you switching teams?”

Dare blinks dazedly at me. Hungrily. “Daddy.”

“Oh, for God’s sake. Get your penis off me, Darren Matthews. I won’t ask again,” Mal orders. The angered tone in her voice snaps him out of it, and when he looks down, he blushes furiously and scurries away from her.

“Sorry,” he pants, wincing. “You’re like my sister and I almost touched your Polly Pocket.”

“Like a sister?” Mal asks, and there’s a twinge of surprise in her tone. Maybe even a bit of fondness in her smile.

“Polly Pocket?” I ask.

He nods. “You know, because they open up to a magical world. Just like her vagina.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Mal groans. “Adorable though this little exchange may be, can we just get on with it? If you’re going to tie me up, finish tying me up.”

“Why in the world would you let him?” I ask her.

She shrugs her one free shoulder. “What can I say? I enjoy the theatrics.”

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. “Darren, what the heck is going on? Why are you binding us to the dang bed?”

“I’m not tying you up. I’m tying her up so she doesn’t call the police when I kidnap you.”

I swallow. “Kidnap me?”

He nods. “That’s what I just said, isn’t it? Keep up, please.” Once her other hand is tied, he walks to my closet. With Darren obstructed by the wall, I stand to see what he’s doing in there. As I approach, I notice his trap door is still in place.

He must hear me enter, because he turns, holding a black shirt I usually only wear when I want to look cute. It clings to me likea second skin, but I rarely get the chance to show it off, because it’s not really something a pastor ought to wear. He’s also got a pair of jeans I haven’t worn in years because they’re too tight and show everything off. I lift my hand and test the trapdoor. To my surprise, it’s still screwed in tight.

“How did you get into my room?”

A blush rushes across his cheeks. “You’re gonna be mad, but I don’t care.” That’s not true. His face is coated in worry, so clearly, he cares.

“Try me.”

Handing me the clothes, he guides me out of the closet, then past the bed. We walk into the hallway, and I stare in horror at the sight in front of me. There’s a big, gaping hole in the ceiling, crudely cut. Sheetrock covers the carpet like liberally sprinkled carpet freshener. Resting against the wall is a handsaw.

“You cut my ceiling open?”

He nods proudly. Proudly! I ought to take him over my knee and blister his ass until it’s bruised. Feel it grow warmer and warmer each time my hand touches down. Maybe let a finger slip between his crack. Maybe even my tongue.

No. Focus, Miles.

“You literally locked me out. What else was I supposed to do?”

“Go home. You were supposed to go back home.”

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