Page 15 of Atlas & Miles
Me, on the other hand . . . I’d stayed in Gomillion my whole life, doing an apprenticeship of sorts with the local handyman and taking over his business when he retired. Last I heard, Gus had moved to Florida.
Neither Claudia nor I had spoken to our mother for almost two decades, since Claudia had moved out. As far as we were concerned, Claudia and I were the only family we had. Though in the past year or so, she’d started dating someone and would probably be getting married sooner rather than later. I was gladfor it—I loved her girlfriend, Ophelia. They made a kick-ass team.
After securing the AC unit and making sure it was working properly, I sat through a long story about Ms. Caterina’s prom—which happened in 1960 and had me blushing more times than I could count; she was a vixen in her younger days—endured the lemonade and lavender cookies, which were only tolerable when placed in the mouth at the same time, and managed to escape only forty-five minutes later. I was good coming up with excuses, but while sitting in Ms. Caterina’s stuffy, dated kitchen wasn’t the most comfortable, I knew she was lonely, so I upheld our annual ritual with the respect it was due.
I was lifting my toolbox into the bed of my truck when my phone rang. I hurried to offload the heavy metal box then rushed around to the driver’s side door, hoisting myself inside before I answered the phone.
“Miley!”
I chuckled at the nickname my sister had given me when she was old enough to understand sarcasm. She’d called me “Smiley” ironically one day, and she’d instantly gasped, shouted out “Oh. Em. Gee. That’s so close to your real name!” and promptly dropped the S. And now I was stuck with a nickname that was pretty much the opposite of my signature demeanor.
“Cloudy!” Of course, being the responsible older brother I was, I’d had to do the same and give Claudia an equally ironic nickname. Aside from Atlas, she was the most sunshiny person I’d ever known. Practical, yes, but she always put a positive spin on things.
My heart pricked at the thought of Atlas—even two months later, he was never too far from my mind—but I shoved that aside as my sister started speaking.
“I have something to talk to you about.”
I groaned, knowing this wasn’t good. I stuck my key in the ignition and started the car so I could crack the windows. It wasn’t hot yet—it was still early spring—but the sun had been baking my truck’s cab while I was in Ms. Caterina’s home, and I was starting to sweat. I had to get going to another appointment, anyway.
“What,” I growled out, not a question.
She chuckled, her laugh lilting and sweet. “You’re always saying how you need to get out more.”
I scoffed audibly. “Actually,you’rethe one always saying that.”
She scoffed right back. “Well, I’m right. You don’t have a life, Miley. You run around town fixing shit for people, but you barely leave the house otherwise. You need a social life.”
“I have a social life!”
“Occasional takeout with Theo where you barely say two words to each other is not being social.”
I sighed at her words. Theo and I were friendly, but neither of us was super talkative. That’s probably why we clicked. We weren’t social by her standards, but it worked for us.
I glanced at the time. I needed to be across town in ten minutes, so I buckled my seatbelt, put the phone on speaker, then shifted my truck into gear. “Sorry, you’ll get some road noise because I’ve got to get to my next appointment. And I’m social enough.”
Claudia knew I was gay, sure. But she didn’t know much past that. She didn’t know—couldn’t know—that I found my hookups on an app and met them out of town. And shedefinitelydidn’t know what those hookups entailed or that I sometimes drove down to Atlanta to spend a weekend at my favorite kink club so I could scene with a random partner.
I’d stumbled into kink twenty years ago entirely by accident and probably how most people did: porn. It was innocent at first, a few impact play scenes that got me off faster than I had evergotten off before, but as I dove deeper into it, I explored all sorts of kinks and power dynamics.
And the one that got me harder than anything? Daddy kink.
It didn’t take me long to realize I never wanted to be a Daddy, though. I wanted to be a boy.
Even at eighteen, my muscles had been prominent, and I wasn’t a little guy. I’d kept my body in prime condition over the years, thanks to my job and a membership at the local gym, and I towered over most people both in height and bulk. But I craved having another person, especially one smaller than I was, dominate me, take me in hand, then show me he cared about me. I wanted the stern and the sweet, a good amount of pain and even more aftercare. I wanted it all, though I had no clue how to get it.
Especially since I wasn’t out.
Football in middle and high school, something I’d managed to stick with despite the lack of support then outright hostility from my mother, had taught me how to take care of my body and given me an outlet for my anger and teenage angst, especially my suppressed sexuality. I’d joined the swim team during my junior and senior years just for something to do when it wasn’t football season, but I was ever only average at either sport. I’d never wanted to go to college and had never had aspirations to play football or swim professionally, so I’d given both up when I graduated. And that void had been filled with kink.
I’d started to notice guys around the time my dad got sick. It was confusing as hell, and my dad and I had had a single conversation about it right before he’d passed. I’d been so nervous to tell him I found other boys attractive, but I should’ve known I hadn’t needed to worry. He’d teared up, pulled me into the strongest hug he could manage at the time, and told me he loved me and was so proud of me. He’d passed away minutes later, taking my secret to his grave.
I wouldn’t tell another soul until I came out to my sister years later, when I was sixteen.
With all the shit going on after my dad died, it was easier to just keep my sexuality to myself. Given how rampant homophobia was in the South, in small towns, and on sports teams especially, those three strikes against me—wrong sport, of course—made me keep my mouth shut. I’d been sort of close with the quarterback on Gomillion High’s football team back then, Brad, but I’d never worked up the courage to come out to him. Instead, I’d told my sister and swore her to secrecy. I wasn’t even sure she’d told Ophelia.
But despite my frequent trips to my usual hotel several miles away from Gomillion and even my club visits in Atlanta, I wanted a Daddy of my own. I wasn’t into age play or anything—I didn’t like to regress—but I craved having someone take control, give me some pain to make me fly, and take care of me so I didn’t always have to feel so alone.
Once upon a time, I’d dreamed that could be Atlas. Something about him told me he’d make a good Daddy, and I’d come to that fantasy more times than I could count over the past couple of months. But I’d fucked that up. All because I was too scared to take a step forward.
