Kairos - Blood (MxM) | Book 2 | ✅

1.No Hard Feelings

30 days to go.

I saw Sean that Saturday and got dragged to the houses he had been working on.

The plaster moldings my brother had created were an impressive mix of sharp angles and classic vines. Spotlights brought out the shapes in warm colors.

Laying on my back, I stared up at the ceiling puffing out smoke.

"The owner is a non-smoker," Mira hissed stealing the cigarette from my hand.

"It's at least a month until the guy moves in. I say Stevy can have a smoke if that's what he wants." Sean put a freshly lit cigarette between my fingers.

"What if the owner shows up to check on our progress?" Her heels hit the hardwood floor as she stomped to a window.

"He's not going to give a damn." Sean lit up a cigarette for himself.

"Oh, you think you know my clients better than I do?" Mira opened up window after window.

But no matter how much of the crisp breeze cut through the rooms I was suffocating. Their squabble brought forth the kid in me, stuck listening to his parents argue.

"I'll be in the car," I said getting to my feet.

My thighs and buttocks were sore. Strained muscles and bruised skin. But sitting in the car was fine. Feeling pain from my Master's hand was also fine. In fact, I had a hard time settling down my lust and my erection.

Bill Long Face occupied the driver's seat and his constant presence made everything all the more awkward. I huddled in the back and let my mind wander.

And where else was my head going to go but to the gutter where my Master could use me? Jack. I spun the name in a web of feelings. Hurt, frustration, loss, lust, and devotion.

My things had been moved around the apartment for the past weeks. Pens. Folders. Books. I was a slob, but did Jack really have to go through all my stuff and shuffle it about? There was an order to my disorder.

"Stop cleaning up my room," I had said over my dinner plate some days ago.

"No." Jack didn't look up from his book.

He avoided sharing a meal with me and I avoided cooking for the both of us. Jack ate out or made himself some God awful smoothies.

"You're moving my stuff and I end up spending the whole morning trying to find it."

"I never touch your stuff," he mumbled with a scowl and stood from the sofa adding, "You're an airhead. You probably forget where you put them."

"Fuck off, neat freak," I shot at him.

And he did fuck off straight into his bedroom. And there went my appetite.

You're such a jerk, Not Steve.

I knew why I was so bitter but I didn't know how to stop myself from railing. I had laid out my feelings for Jack and he had turned them down asking 'why' and 'what happened'. Who does that? I'm yours. Do you really need a fucking graph from me to explain it?

It was 7:30 p.m. when Jack came out of his bedroom. I worked on my laptop, sat between the sofa and the coffee table. A mess of papers and books around me as I busily typed away. For some reason, I enjoyed the discomfort of sitting on the floor but that was no excuse for turning Jack's living area into my work station.

Clink-clank. A cold leather belt coiled around my neck like a lover's embrace.

"Busy?" Jack whispered.