Tight (24 page)

Collecting prints and DNA. Had my suspicions really come to this?

I’d give my father permission to run them both through the system. He’d be clean. I knew it. My polished, beautiful man wasn’t doing anything wrong, at least not that my father would find. I was certain of it. This would just close one door and give me a little more information. This would just give me a little peace of mind.

I knew what I felt. I loved him. But I didn’t know him. And I didn’t trust him. The man I had fallen for hid something. I could feel it, slipping into bed with us at night, slithering up my bare legs, looking for a vulnerable place to bite.

I wanted, needed, to know that secret.

I crawled quietly back into bed, the soft sighs of Brett comforting. And the next night, I packed my bag and we headed back. I landed back home a little after nine, the plane empty, Brett dropped in Lauderdale where we fueled up.

“Thanks, Abe.” I ducked through the door and down the steps, waving through the glass at the airport’s desk clerk, her acknowledgement barely visible through the dusty glass. Behind me, I heard the hum of propellers as the plane rolled on. It felt good to be home, it felt as if I’d been gone a month and needed to play catch-up with my thoughts.

I hefted my bag open and dug for my keys.
Found ‘em
. I popped the trunk and tossed in the bag. The bag containing Brett’s DNA. Funny how that made the tote that much heavier. Glanced quickly around to make sure no abductors were lurking in the shadows, then unlocked and got into the car. Stifled a grin when I thought of Brett’s concern about my house. Abductors in Quincy. Another thing that wouldn’t ever happen. Our worst crime last year was when Beau Thomas exposed himself to old Mrs. Huddleston in the library. She snapped a picture and posted it on the bulletin board with a small rose sticker over his private parts, ‘Tiny’ written in her delicate script beside the photo. The police came, scratched their heads over the situation, and finally decided the photo was punishment enough, provided Mrs. Huddleston would leave it up for a year. Mrs. Huddleston did one better, getting it published in the Quincy Quarterly as well. Now, every soul in Quincy knew how perverted, and underendowed, Beau Thomas was. I already knew; I’d found out in sixth grade.

Yeah, Quincy wasn’t Jamaica; we didn’t have armed guards and disappearing spring breakers, but it didn’t mean I was stupid. I was fine in that club despite Brett’s posturing. I was fine in this town without his directives. I put the car into drive and pulled out of the empty lot.

I knew, when I was taken, that my parents would look for me. Brett would look for me. I held on to that with every fiber of my soul. But that fiber, along with my sanity, unwrapped a little bit each day, a wisp of thread at a time, the slow uncurling of the person I used to be. I fought it, clung with greedy hands and stubborn retorts, to my old self, to the memories that I had. But with each new day, each new experience, I lost a bit of them. And he didn’t help. He stood over me with his fucking clipboard and pushed for
moremoremore
of my soul, was never satisfied, would never be satisfied, not until I was fully worshipping at his feet, my body and soul offered up without hesitation. I struggled, I fought, I clung to the memory of Brett. He loved me. He would find me.

“Come here.” The voice came from across my cell, from the chair where my tormentor sat, his legs slightly spread, naked thighs leading the way to his cock. It stood before me, upright and beckoning, the shaft bobbing at me as if to wave.

I looked away, my hands fisting on the sheets. He had once mentioned dog training, had taken that psychology to heart. I felt like Bill Murray in
Groundhog Day
, this event a complete repeat of the last six or seven encounters. He asked, I refused, he beat me. Today, my body sore and broken, I stood. Walked with tender steps to him. Stopped before him, my eyes down.

Phase Two had stretched countless days, months. Maybe even years. I had, through the pain and deprivation, further lost track of time. I also had broken on a few things. I now called him Master. Assumed subservient positions. Kept my head and eyes down. I actually liked that part of it. Not having to look at him. Not until the moment that he grabbed my jaw and forced my eyes to his.

I woke from Brett’s touch, his hand soft on my jaw, brushing over it so lightly, a whisper of contact as I curled into his hand. “Hey beautiful,” he whispered, his eyes on mine, his leg wrapping around mine and pulling me closer.

I blinked, the dark room hiding much of his features, my groggy mind trying to place our location. My house. I recognized the padded headboard, the dark grey comforter that hung off my bare shoulder. “What time is it?” My voice cracked, groggy from sleep.

“Around three.”

I snuggled closer and let my eyes close, resting my head on his chest. “And why are you waking me up?”

“I didn’t mean to wake you. I just couldn’t keep myself from touching you.” I felt the soft press of his lips against my hair, the brush of his fingers across my hip, the hook of his foot beneath my leg. We were completely fused, his body a warm glove, his chest gently rising and falling underneath my head.

“I love you,” he whispered.

“I love you too.”

I pulled from the past when I felt his fingers, the lean of his body forward as he pulled my face up. I yielded under the pressure, lifting my chin and looking up into his eyes. He slid his hand from my chin to my throat, his thumb gently running along the tender muscles before he continued further back, cupping the back of my neck and pulling me forward. “Keep your eyes open,” he ordered, his hand hard. “Look at me when you suck my cock.”

I obeyed, held the contact as I slid down the shaft.

I held the contact as he lifted his hips, thrusting into my mouth, my eyes watering at the depth.

I held the contact as he called me a good cocksucker and asked if I liked his taste.

I held the contact as I clamped my jaw down on his most sensitive organ as hard as I could.

2 weeks before

The coffee at Sunshine sucked. But it had for sixteen years, and everyone quit bitching about it a decade ago. I pushed the white mug away from me and mentally vowed not to touch it until the food arrived.

“When will you see him again?” my father’s voice creaked from a lifetime of smoking.

“Two weeks. He’s got something this weekend and I’m going to work on Saturday. Try to get back in Anita’s good graces. Speaking of which, I’ve got to leave here by eight.”

He shrugged, taking a sip from his cup. “What made you give me that?”

I looked into his eyes. “Just a feeling. Something is off. I’m just trying to figure it out. I figured extra information couldn’t hurt.”

He sighed, reaching for the creamer and adding a little to his cup. “I shouldn’t be drinking this,” he remarked. “Dr. Bonner told me to cut back on my caffeine. My blood pressure’s high again.”

I held the gaze and our table fell quiet in the minute before a young redhead approached our table, order pad in hand. We put in our breakfast order, then she left.

Finally, he spoke. “So, tell me about this man. What you do know. Then I’ll share my goods.” My dad leaned forward, his fingers rubbing his knuckles, the extra weight on his frame pushing the table slightly in my direction. An imposing man, despite the years and the stress, his full head of silver hair stuck in the buzz cut he’d worn my entire life.

“Brett Jacobs. He’s a boat—yacht—salesman, but seems to make a lot of money. As you know, he travels a lot. He’s single, never been married, no kids.”

“Do you want kids?” Brett asked, his hand sliding under the sheet and curving around my hip. I opened my eyes, blinking the impending sleep away.

“I’d love kids.” I reached out, putting a hand on his chest. “What about you?”

“Kids are good. Preferably sooner. Before I get too old.” He smiled, the scant light catching on the shadows of his face.

“You know the problem with kids.” I sighed, frowning.

“What?”

“The process to make them.” I roll onto my stomach, away from him, his hand dropping from my hip, the bed shifting as I felt him move closer.

“What’s the issue with that?” His words, close to my ear, his breath hot on my neck. I smiled against the pillow.

“It’s so... boring,” I mumbled.

Then I felt him, bare and hard, his body atop me, his hands like hot stones on my skin, and I shrieked into the dark room and there was nothing boring about it.

“What else?”

I shrugged. “That’s about it. I won’t bore you with his eating habits or taste in movies.”

“I know I’m protective of you.”

I stopped playing with the creamers and looked up at him. “What’s wrong?” That sentence...from my father. My stomach twisted in a way I hadn’t felt since I was young.

“You care for him, I know that. But you must have known something was up or else you wouldn’t have let me run full course with this.”

“You’ve done background checks on every man I’ve ever dated.” And he had. It had been embarrassing. Invasive. Annoying. Never appreciated. Not until Brett. Brett was the first time I had willingly turned over a partner’s DNA. Willingly met with my father and
wanted
to know what he had found.

“He’s lying.” The words flat and without enjoyment.

I swallowed. Pulled my hands off the table and hid them on my lap. Pushed at my cuticles, a habit I had squashed a few years earlier. “About what?”

“Hell, just ‘bout everything.”

***

Lying about everything
.

Bullshit.

Impossible.

I knew this man. Loved this man. Kissed and fucked and wanted him, not just physically but emotionally. I wanted to go to bed with his arms around me every night. I wanted to walk down an aisle and look in his eyes. I wanted him to hold my hand as we watched a pregnancy stick. I wanted to watch wrinkles multiply and years pass and build a lifetime of memories with him.

He was not lying about everything. He loved me. I closed my mouth and watched my father begin to speak.

“His real name is Brett Betschart. He doesn’t sell yachts; he manufactures them. Or, more specifically, he owns the company that manufactures them. He seems like he makes more money because he does make more money. Millions more. Hell, the type of money I don’t even understand.” He reaches for his front pocket and pulls out a can of dip.