Page 8 of Control Freak
The bus pulled into the stop, and the doors opened with a hiss. I pulled out my bus pass to scan and climbed the steps.
The bus driver carefully averted his eyes at the sight of me. Not one of my better days, I was sure.
I took the closest seat and shifted uncomfortably as my back twinged. The ten-minute ride gave me too much time to think about how alone I was with this problem, how I had no one to turn to, how if my parents had loved me more, or I’d been a littleless queer, then maybe I’d have somewhere to go, someone to ask for help.
When Jimmie’s “friends” first threatened me, I’d sold my car, hoping to make them go away. That had been a mistake, because they became more demanding. No matter how much I gave them, it was never enough. I’d sold everything of value in my apartment, and still, they wanted more.
I wasn’t dumb. I knew there was no amount that would make us square. I could go to the police, but they wouldn’t be able to do anything until they caught them in the act, and I knew from watching my favorite true crime shows that it would be too late for me then.
I could go to one of my friends, but I really didn’t want to lead Brick to any of their families. Nate had kids, and Sheila lived with her younger sister.
No. I couldn’t risk making any of them a target.
The bus came to a stop in front of my building. I let myself into my quiet little one-bedroom apartment.
I shed my coat by the door, too drained to bother hanging it up. Then I made my way to the kitchen to grab a baggie and fill it with ice. I laid it on my jaw, tensing at the cold burn over my skin.
I was reluctant to look in the mirror and see the mark Brick had left—or how badly it might fuck up my camming plans for the week. It was the worst possible time to cancel shows, but I always showed my face. That was half of the appeal. Viewers felt like they knew me. I talked to them, joked around, flirted. I couldn’t just aim the camera at my dick and call it a day. That wouldn’t satisfy anyone who could easily look at dick shots for free on the Internet.
I had to bring something special—somethingreal—to the experience.
I held the ice to my face and walked into the bathroom. Turned on the lights. Lowered the ice.
A red splotch was spreading across my jaw, already bruising.
“Damn it,” I whispered to my reflection.
If I didn’t come up with the money by next week, this would be the least of my bruising.
I picked up my toothbrush holder and flung it across the room. It hit the shower door with a clatter.
“Fuck!” I shouted at my reflection, face twisted with rage before crumpling into fear. “I’m fucked!”
Tears spilled over my cheeks, hot and scalding, but there was no one there to hold me while I cried.
I was alone and vulnerable.
An easy mark.
And I didn’t know what to do about it.
CHAPTER 3
Holden
I clenchedthe steering wheel as my GTO idled in the parking lot outside the auto shop I ran with my brothers. My chest hurt, and my nerves were shot. I inhaled a shaky breath, held it, then exhaled.
And another.
One more.
Therapy always made me feel like trash. It dredged up memories and emotions I’d prefer to bury. Guilt twisted my insides. I should tryharder.I hadn’t made enough progress in exposure therapy. Dr. Levy didn’t say that. Wouldn’t say that. Every recovery moves at its own speed, she regularly said. But I knew it was true. It was just easier to avoid the problem.
I’d hugged Axel when he was having a breakdown a few months ago. But I wanted to be capable of touch outside of an urgent situation. To wrap an arm around Bailey’s shoulders and give him a squeeze when he needed reassurance. To playfully accept Gray’s slap to the arm, instead of shaking like a leaf. Tohug Axel when he wasn’t in crisis but just needed to see that his family wouldn’t leave him ever again.
Never mind the possibility of kissing someone. Of having intimacy. That was hopeless.
Bailey emerged from the garage, squinting into the sunshine. He probably wondered why I was sitting in the damn car.
