Fallen Hearts: Fallen Book 2 (a Boys of Porn novella)

CH 15

Derek jogged to the end of the path which took him close to the far edge of the property, then started back at a walk. Not because he was winded. He enjoyed the woods, especially early in the morning. And besides, when he returned to the house, he would have to find something else to distract him from thoughts of Patrick, so he didn't go nuts having to wait until Saturday.

Already, time seemed to be dragging, each minute stretching out as if to purposely torture him. It was working.

When he reached the small clearing within the woods, with the fallen logs, he stopped and perched on one of the downed trees and removed his phone from the arm pouch. He brought up the incoming calls list and stared at the unknown caller at the top. No phone number accompanied it, no other info at all, just those two words—yet they packed a punch knowing it was Patrick's call. If only he'd left his new number...

Derek shifted to the outgoing calls, his eyes narrowing as they settled on the two calls to the same number. I'm sorry—you have the wrong number. Bullshit. The urge to call again nearly overtook him. What good would it do, though? Now that Patrick's dad knew Derek had their number, he would surely be monitoring the phone and certainly not allowing Patrick to answer any calls.

Or maybe you're blowing it all out of proportion. He had worked the scenario into that of Patrick practically being held against his will in his own home, everyone in his life working against him—when in reality, it was surely nothing so drastic or dire.

Admit it, you want to be the hero in his life—the white knight who rushes in and rescues him from a life of oppression.

"Shit." Derek chuckled. "When the fuck did you become a fairy-tale savant?"

. . .

Patrick inserted the card into the ATM and attempted to take out two hundred dollars. Maybe he hasn't canceled my card yet—

Declined.

Fear and fury clenched his gut, causing pressure in his chest. The stress of this day was coming to a head and he was ready to start punching things. Patrick wasn't a violent person or even prone to flares of temper. But today—today—was testing him harder than he'd ever been tested.

What am I going to do?

Go home? He couldn't.

What about tonight? Would he sleep on a park bench rather than go home?

As if directed by his thoughts, Patrick walked to the neighborhood park. There was no one around and he went to one of the picnic tables and sat on the top, feet on the bench seat. After a few moments, he lay on his back and stared up at the clear blue sky. The sun hadn't yet worked its way to the top, its rays spearing in from the edge of the sky.

"Why is this happening to me?" he whispered, gazing into the heavens. Because he'd lusted—awake and asleep? Maybe he should've gone back to his house with Brian. Was this even a fight he could win? His dad held all the cards—in some cases literally. His bank card.

The thought of going home filled him with nausea—and fear. Once he was in the privacy of the house, where no one outside could see... his dad and the men from the church could do whatever they wanted with him. And Brian had already proven whose side he was on.

The sky shimmered above him and warm tears trickled from his eyes. His whole world was collapsing, and he didn't know how to stop it. Was there any point in fighting the inevitable? His dad had wanted him in conversion therapy the second he came out. Obviously, he'd never given up on the notion. Had he been biding his time? Waiting for the right opportunity?