Ctrl + Alt + Dalt (BxB)

Ctrl + Alt + Dalt + 5

CHAPTER FIVE

I MUSTER THE STRENGTH TO MOVE ON. Still digesting what happened with Base, I head straight for Brogan's house. Everything feels surreal. I feel so empty. I'm just going through the motions. Everything feels distant—detached—like nothing is real—like I'm in a dream—but one thing reminds me that I'm not dreaming—one thing reminds me that I'm awake and in the real world—it's the pain that lingers. Jordan was not exaggerating when he said it was going to be painful. Knowing Brogan, I brace myself for how much worse it's probably going to get.

Even from the safety and the calm of the cabin of the Corvette, his house looks like an evil castle from some fairy tale—huge, imposing, impenetrable, and dark. I don't see his car outside, but that's as I expected, since he usually parks it inside his garage. Out of habit, I look to one of the corner windows on the top floor, being adjacent to his room, I know that if the lights are on in there, then he's home. Sure enough, I spot the faint glow of recessed lighting even through the brightness of the afternoon.

Walking up to his front door, I ring the doorbell. Considering the vast distance that he needs to cover to go from his top-floor bedroom to his front door, I wait patiently. Surprisingly, and much sooner than I thought it would take, the door swings wide open to reveal Brogan in his gray bath robes. He smiles as if nothing ever happened.

"Took you long enough. Come in," he says, simply and without any detectable, hidden tone. I'm in shock at the invitation and I'm confused as to just what angle he's trying to play, because I'm certain he's up to something—as usual. Both of us standing still in the same place, neither having moved an inch, he adds, "or not, it's your choice."

"You're not afraid someone might see us talking?" I ask, reminding myself of what happened at my previous encounter with Base.

"Afraid?" His hands relax onto his hips. "Why would I be afraid? Afraid of what and of whom?"

"I see—you think you're untouchable now." I bow, mockingly. "It's an honor to meet his royal highness."

"No need to be rude—all things considered."

"All things considered? I get outed and that's justification to oust me? You didn't even give me a chance."

"Oh, poor Dalton doesn't even know why he's cut off."

"Simple—I'm gay—your homophobic."

"I know you don't want to believe it and that you'll dispute it, but just for the record, I'm not homophobic—and nobody that I'm friends with is, either—in fact, nobody that I personally know is, except for you, maybe—or at least you were, before you came out—"

"I didn't come out—I was forced out—there's a difference," I say as a matter of fact and practically admitting that many of my past actions may have seemed homophobic to the outside observer despite the fact that I never said anything to the effect—but all of that was to keep people from outing me—to keep people from bullying me—to keep me from losing everything and everyone that matters in my life. "And what about the hate messages that Jordan received?"

"I think that you know perfectly well that it didn't come from anyone inside our group—I'm guessing he received them later on, possibly even the next day, if not just later in the same one, correct?"

"Right. It was later," I concede. "So that means he got it from people who heard it from others, far down the line of gossip, after it had spread—"

"Who are absolutely not connected to us—our group. So, would you care to know the real reasons why you've been cut off, or do you want to continue with these pointless, baseless accusations of something that I clearly am not?"