WICKED BOY (Preview) M/M

(CHAPTER (7): Patreon-Exclusive Story)

[A/N: Warnings for: Long chapter, new content. Escorts (will be explored more later). Implied child abuse, offhand remark about suicide. Written accents.]

—

'Oh, is a suit all it takes not to be fucked up?'

I always had a curfew, from the time I started middle school until eighteen. My curfew was from the moment I took the last step off of the cobblestone walkway up the schoolyard — the first touch of my hand to the passenger door of my mother's car.

I was on the path to success, unfettered by the influence of any who could bring me down, friendless, and as my Dad said, it was just curfew.

For some reason, even when he was staged out on business trips for days — I just listened.

I always listened.

I was a good son. The best, and if I weren't, my father would beat obedience back into me without hesitation. Reluctance wasn't his forte. Neither was guilt — or affection, or a semblance of tenderness.

I always heeded his wishes like a little pup, Lucas said. Not that I could help it. Newly weaned pups depend on their owners for food and water, no matter how they're treated — and my bowl was made of pure silver, just like the buckle on my father's belt, after all.

Who was I to complain?

'Didn't your daddy wear a fuckin' suit?'

And why would I ever open up about the pain of that, when it could be used against me?

—

"Welcome to the Rest Stop!"

I'm half asleep by the time I'm welcomed. I startle a bit at someone's disembodied call from the kitchen, thirty minutes after I've seated myself as far from the bar as possible. It's not like it matters.

I'm not hungry, though the smell of late-night breakfast food being cooked is more appealing than I want to admit. It smells like a warm home on an early morning, like the ones on television; the ones with gaudy, floral wallpaper and white eyelet kitchen curtains — and big, green yards.

Only the sun isn't shining. It's dark outside, and the delicate curtains aren't there — just large, glass windows that are desperately in need of a better cleaner, and the reflection of a dying, neon sign.

"We'll be with ya' soon!"

I glance around, tired eyes chasing the voice— but the restaurant is empty aside from me and a man that appears to be asleep — his head underneath his discarded leather jacket, two seats away from my booth. Judging by the tattoos covering his exposed arms, he doesn't seem the type to yell things like, "welcome," to strangers at a diner.

Great. This is more uncomfortable than the car-ride with Isaac.

I manage a feeble smile and nod to no one in particular, only because I feel too awkward to call back, and politely nodding makes me feel less rude. Then I think, what if they have cameras, and feel extraordinarily stupid.

Why didn't I just let Isaac take me home?

The sounds of dishes clacking and a noisy sink carry into the dining area, as does laughter, and snippets of a conversation echoing off the empty, tiled walls.

I'm in a bad part of town, I think. I should feel nervous — should be jittery or on edge. I'm surprised to find — that at the McLaughlin event I was, but here, I'm not.

Why is that?

My focus drifts into something foam-like and intangible, until the man across the diner from me shuffles into a more comfortable position, the jacket slipping from his face.