10. Brody

She'll be fine. It's what I keep telling myself. Fee will be fine without me. She's strong. She's never backed down from a gunfight. The woman can hold her own better than any man I've ever met. Still, it doesn't stop the guilt from washing over me every time my mind drifts back to her.

What I've done—what we're doing—there's no forgiveness for this. I'm essentially throwing her and Kincaid to the wolves for a man I've barely known for a month. It makes no sense, logically. I'm well aware of that. I've been married for five years. She should take priority. Her safety should be my number one concern.

But it isn't.

I love my wife. I know my actions don't give much credence to that claim, but it's true. My wedding ring might not be on my finger anymore, but it's right here in my pocket. Close enough to remind me of what I'm giving away. From the moment I saw her on my first day at the agency, I felt the connection. An unyielding tether. But I'm on a new journey now. One that will involve constantly second-guessing my decisions. A perilous path leading to one destination. My death, and the deaths of those I love. The thing is, I can't stop myself from hurling all of us head-first in its direction. Even if I could somehow end this before it goes too far, I wouldn't. Not if it means sacrificing Freakshow. I'll burn the fucking world to ash just to stand at his side in the ruins.

We've been driving for three days. By now, Fee will have found the note. She'll have had the realization I've left her with only one option. The same one Scotty and I have.

Run.

She'll have Kincaid. I even left my baby girl behind, because Fee loves our dachshund just as much as I do. It fucking ached to tell my good girl goodbye, but I didn't have a choice. Fee is going to need her.

Scotty's taken the news surprisingly well. He didn't argue when I told him we didn't have time to say goodbye to his friend Tatum. There were no tears when he was forced to leave most of his possessions behind. In fact, the only thing he has objected to is when we stopped at a Wal-Mart on the outskirts of Austin and told him we needed to alter our appearances. For me, it'll mean shaving my head and letting my beard grow out. For Freakshow, it's dying his brown hair blond. Also in store for him is a bottle of self-tanning lotion. The death-glare he shot me when I put the bottle in our buggy had been enough to send a chill down my spine.

The life of an assassin can lead you into hot water, so I've always kept a few hundred-thousand in my wall safe. On the way out of town, we stopped by the house to say goodbye to Daisy and grab a chunk of my nest egg. I left Fee with two-thirds, wanting her to be comfortable. Maybe once everything settles down—after Senator Levinson eventually meets his end—I'll be able to find her and apologize for putting her through this. It's a pipe-dream, I'm sure, but it's something I can hold on to when the nights get long and the road gets lonely.

The first night, we stayed in a Comfort Inn in Louisiana. I sent that Tatum boy a text from my burner phone, letting him know my wife was coming for us. With us out of the picture, I figured they'd look into Scotty's friends and family. Since it was a small circle, I felt like the least I could do was give him a heads up that he was probably in danger. Yeah, I'll drown the motherfucker if he ever touches Scotty again, but I don't want him to die at Fee's hand for something he had no say in.

Tonight, we're at a shithole in Opelika, Alabama. The No-Tell Motel isn't a sight for sore eyes. It's a place where dreams and destiny go to die. Somewhere, tweakers are ingesting copious amounts of methamphetamine until their hearts finally give out. I wonder how many people have forfeited their lives in this shithole. How many tweakers spent weeks binging on meth before it finally claimed them? Judging by Freakshow's pained expression when we walked in, he must have been wondering too.

I want to put him at ease, because I hate this is what a life with me has resulted in. Scotty doesn't deserve to live in squalor. He should be pampered. He should be placed on a pedestal, never wanting for anything. I can't give that to him, though. At best, we'll live a transient lifestyle, bouncing from one city to the next until our nest egg runs out. All I can do is hope the senator dies sooner rather than later so we can forget about the hit he's placed on his son's life. Of course, there's always the option of shortening his lifespan myself, but it would mean inserting myself into the belly of the beast, risking death in the process. No. For now, we just need to worry about putting space between us and the state of Texas. We can think about everything else later. The room is ours for the night. Tomorrow, we'll head north.

Freakshow's been in the bathroom for half an hour. It shouldn't be taking this long. All he has to do is wash the dye out of his hair and then we can go to bed. I plan on showing him just how thankful I am for coming with me. I'll show him however he needs. Sucking his cock. Eating his ass like a fucking buffet. Maybe we can pick up where we left off earlier—my cock in his ass, my cum lining his walls.

I've been carving our initials into the side of the nightstand for the last half hour, too nervous to do much else. When he finally emerges, I know I'm in for it. At first, there's a look of rage on his face, but his anger fades when he sees my reaction, replaced with an overwhelming sense of shame. Fuck. There are tears in his eyes. They don't fucking belong there. I've told him over and over to stop fucking crying, because it kills me every time.

His once-stunning brown hair is now a disastrous shade of orange, thanks to the over-the-counter hair dye. It's not even a solid shade. There are swirls of amber, strands of peach, and there's quite a bit of pumpkin in the mix as well.

His shoulders are shaking as he cries. It's all it takes to send me into action. I rush across the room and grab him by the wrist, and drag him back to the bathroom.

"Brody?" he whimpers.

I shoot him a stern glare before slamming the toilet seat down and plopping his ass on it. He opens his mouth to object, but I don't give him a chance. I just grab the clippers I used earlier, flick the lever, and shave away a patch of hair, right down the center of his head. His eyes go wide and he pulls away, shaking his head.

"What are you doing?" he shouts. "Brody, no!"

My knees bend until I'm eye level with him. Cupping his cheek, I brush my thumb against his skin. "It's gonna grow back even more beautiful than before."

"But I'm going to look awful. I'm going to look awful, and you're going to run off in the middle of the night and leave me here alone."

I scowl at him. "Obviously, I wouldn't do that. Jesus, Freakshow." When I turn the clippers back on, he moves back, like he's trying to slip away. I hold them near his neck and snarl. "You move another muscle, and I'll saw your fucking throat open. You hear me, boy?" The way he tries to palm his cock doesn't go unnoticed by me. I stare down at the expanding bulge and lick my lips. "If you let me do this, I'll let you fuck my face when we're done. Deal?" The red rush of heat spreading across his face is darker than the orange hair on top of his head.

Five minutes later, there's not a hair left on his head, and there's not an inch of his cock that isn't engulfed in my mouth. I can't lie, I've skull-fucked a girl or two in my past, and if I knew the rush that comes with a cockhead hitting the back of your throat—hearing the moans and whimpers it earns you—I would've done this years ago. The way he comes undone when he's inside my mouth is like a religious experience. I half-expect him to start singing "Glory, Glory, Hallelujah" when he shoots his load.

His balls draw closer to his body, and I pull away, taking his cock in my hand and stroking it for all I'm worth. I know he likes to shoot down my throat, but there's just something about taking a man's load on your face. Being branded a whore by someone's seed is a rush.

"Come on, sweetheart," I say, light and low, just the way he likes it. "Dirty me up. Come on my face."

He takes a final breath as his body tenses, and I close my eyes. Each shot feels like it's made of fire. It scorches and burns his essence into me. When he's done, and he's in my lap, falling apart in my arms, I hold him close, whispering words to bring my perfect boy's confidence back to him.

"So fucking beautiful," I say.

"You're my fucking world, Freakshow," I say.

"I'm going to ask you to marry me one day, Scott Levinson," I say.

The noise he makes is one of the most beautiful sounds I've ever heard. It's love and passion and so much goddamn hope it takes my breath away.

We take another shower together because I want every stray hair off him. If a single strand makes him itch later, I'll pluck it from his precious skin and chuck the son of a bitch in the sink, set a napkin on fire, and burn the bastard down to ash. No one hurts my boy, not even an inanimate object.

When we're done, I lead him out of the bathroom and I take a seat on the bed. He's still standing by the bathroom door, his eyes darting between my eyes and my lap.

He wants to run to me. I can tell he does. He's holding himself back, though. Muting himself. But I don't want him to hide. I want my boy. My freak. I pat my thigh, firm and insistent. As he slowly shuffles over, I unwrap the towel from around my waist and let it fall onto the blanket, wanting to feel him, skin-on-skin. When he gets to me, I rip his towel away and fling it over my shoulder. We shuffle across the bed until we're resting against the headboard. His soft cock is sitting right there, looking lonely, so I wrap my hand around his package and slowly rub his balls. It's not a sexual act. There will be sex later, I'm sure, but for right now, I just want to hold his pretty dick in my hand.

"I love you, Brody," he says, burying his face in my chest.

"I love you, too."

"You promise I don't look ugly now? I was scared you wouldn't like me anymore."

"Scotty," I whisper. "Oh, Scotty." I kiss the tip of my finger and press it against his lips. My way of reminding him. My way of assuring him he's the most beautiful person I've ever met. "You're always beautiful. Shaving your head doesn't change anything."

He sniffles and burrows his face closer to my chest. "But what if you change your mind? What if I wake up one day and you're gone?"

"Never," I insist, gripping him tighter. "Me and you, I promise." I squeeze his package again, because it's a way I know I can reassure him. A gentle reminder. He's mine. When I look down at him, he looks content. His eyes are half-lidded, and I realize he won't be able to stay awake much longer. Any plans of burying my cock inside that tiny hole of his tonight are gone, but I don't mind. I have him here with me. In my arms where he belongs.

I lay him on the bed, and as I walk to shut off the lamp across the room, his sleepy eyes never leave me. He watches each move I make like he's scared I'll disappear if he takes his eyes off me. He'll need a reminder tonight. Something to bring him comfort if he wakes in the middle of the night. When I climb into bed, I guide him to my chest until he's stretched out over me. Once he's nuzzled on top, I wet my finger with my tongue. He peeks up, one questioning eyebrow arched at me. Without explanation, I bring my finger to his crack and softly circle the rim.

"Daddy," he rasps into my ear.

"Right here, baby. I'll always be right here." I slide my finger into his entrance, smiling as he gasps at the intrusion. "You're going to sleep with me inside you. Understood? Keep me in there."

He blinks at me, wonderstruck. "I can?"

I crinkle my nose at him and nip playfully at his chin. "You fucking better. I'll wear your ass out if I wake up with a cold finger." And, as he fades from consciousness, my name leaves his lips on an exhale.

It tookus fourteen hours to make it to Chicago. After checking into our motel room, I'm tempted to just fall into bed and sleep away the ache of the drive. Freakshow seems to have other plans, though. When he gets out of the shower, I realize the plan's just been shot straight to Hell.

He looks good. Damn good, if I'm being honest. He's wearing a tight black shirt that clings to him like a second skin. The jeans he's chosen have holes in the knees, giving me a peek at his creamy legs. When he turns around to grab a stick of eyeliner from the duffel bag, I'm greeted with the sight of two plump, perfect humps, just begging to be spread and devoured by my tongue. I haven't gotten to eat his ass in days, and now it's all I can think of. His body writhing beneath me as I penetrate him. His breathing, quick and shaky, like he can't get enough air in as he comes undone on my tongue.

"Stop staring at my butt and get dressed," he says, scowling back at me through the mirror.

"Get dressed for what?"

"I want to go somewhere. We've been cooped up in the car for days."

"Not happening," I say, folding my arms over my chest to let him know I mean it. There's no way I'm taking him out of this room. It's too dangerous. Sure, the burner phone I bought after ditching our iPhones shouldn't be traceable, but it doesn't mean I'm not worried. Every time we leave the motel, it's a risk. Someone could spot him. His face has been all over the news after his prick of a father shared the video during his smear campaign. Yeah, he's no longer got his beautiful brown hair, and he's wearing an adorable pair of glasses he doesn't need, but I'm not willing to risk it.

"I'm going to go stir-crazy here. Come on, Brody. Even if it's just to grab something to eat. We're in the breezy city, for God's sake. We can't just not explore."

I snicker, because he's adorable. "It's the Windy City, Freakshow." I rise to my knees on the bed and hobble forward, holding my arms out for him. "Wouldn't you rather stay in?"

He arches an eyebrow at me. "No. I literally just told you I wouldn't. God, Brody. Is your memory failing you in your old age?"

"I'm only nine years older than you, dick," I say with a chuckle.

"In gay years. That's practically a lifetime in cishet world."

"I'm not gay," I remind him. Honestly, I'm still not sure what I am. I can't deny every touch from Scotty gives me more comfort than all the women who've touched me combined. Though I can look at a woman and think she's attractive, I've never caught myself staring at their breasts or butts. I just assumed I had a low libido compared to the women I've been with. Maybe that's not the case. Maybe I'm gay. Or maybe I've just been Scotty-sexual all this time, and my sexual partners have been temporary stand-ins as I waited for my leading man.

"Well, you're certainly not straight," he says. "Not after the hand job you gave me on the interstate."

"See? And wouldn't you like another one?" I lick my lips, my eyes darting down to his bulge. "Or maybe I could suck you off again. I've got a craving for your cum."

He just sighs and rolls his eyes. "You ate it off your hand in the car. No one needs that much protein. Now, shut up and get dressed. You're taking me on a date."

"Did you just fucking tell me to shut up?" I ask, narrowing my eyes. He catches sight of me in the mirror, and I watch as the color drains from his fake-tanned face. He knows he just fucked up. We both know it. Once I move to sit on the edge of the bed, I pat my thigh, but he quickly looks away, uncapping the lid to his eyeliner. I clear my throat. "Lap. Now."

"I'm sorry," he promises, the honesty and fear clear in his voice. "I'm sorry, Brody, I didn't mean?—"

"It's Daddy," I correct him. "And Daddy isn't very happy with you at the moment."

His legs tremble, and for a second, it looks like he might stumble. "I'm sorry. I wasn't trying to make you mad. Promise. I'll be better."

"Yes, you will," I agree. "I distinctly remember telling you it's my job to keep you safe. Keeping you safe means teaching you right from wrong. We're going to have a little lesson in good behavior. Now, pull down your pants and get on my lap."

When he gets to me, he's got a fearful look in his eyes, but judging by the strain his cock's got on the front of his jeans, it must be a good fear. He's enjoying this as much as I am.

Laying over my thighs, I'm greeted by a beautiful sight. Two pale pink cheeks ready to be reddened. Demanding to be dominated.

The first strike is a gentle one. Just enough to get his attention and to raise a little color to the surface. His cock twitches against my thigh, and as much as I want to roll him over and take it in my hand, I resist, planting another slap against his ass, harder this time. The third strike cracks against his skin, making him whimper.

Fuck.

This has no right being as hot as it is. To have him come undone beneath me, completely at my mercy, feels like I'm God himself, staring down at my creation. "When Daddy tells you to do something, what do you do?" I slap his ass again, licking my lips as a pink handprint stares back at me.

"I listen," he says as I spank his ass even harder. "And don't talk back. I'm sorry, Daddy."

"You will be." I strike his cheeks three more times in a row, each one harsher and heavier than the last. "You're going to be a good boy for me? You're not going to fight with me again?" He doesn't answer, just thrusts his cock against my leg. I smack his ass again, making him cry out in pain. Immediately, I pull my hand away, worried I've gone too far. As he arches his back, he glances over his shoulder with tears in his eyes.

Fuck. I shouldn't have hit him so hard. He's just a fragile little guy. He can't handle this much this soon.

"Please?" he begs.

I swallow the lump in my throat, preparing to cradle him in my arms and whisper sweet nothings into his ear until he can trust me again. I'll beg for his forgiveness as many times as it takes.

He reaches for his face and wipes away his tears. "Please, Daddy? More?"

Fire flashes in his eyes, and I see just how wrong I am. My boy. My beautiful, tender Freakshow wants it. He wants to hurt. Wants me to whip him into submission.

"You're sure?" I shouldn't be asking. It's not what he needs. Still, I can't bring myself to hurt him without his telling me it's okay first. He gives me a quick nod, and it's all I need. "Just remember the safeword, baby. If you need it, use it."

I rear back my hand and slap his ass harder than before, one after the other. I count to ten before letting my hand rest against his cheek, gently comforting him the best I can. He's openly sobbing into my jeans now, pressing his face right against my thigh.

"I love you," I whisper, wanting to give him something to hold on to. "I love you so fucking much, I can't stand it." When I slap his ass again, he lunges forward against my thigh, crying out. "You're mine. Do you understand me? Me and you. You're not getting away from me."

"Never," he says, his voice cracked but certain.

"I swear to fucking God, Scotty. If anyone ever tries to take you from me, I'll kill them. If another guy touches you, I'll shove an ice pick through his eardrum. I'm not fucking playing with you."

"Daddy. More. Need it. Need you."

I crack his ass, back-to-back, until the only sounds left in the room are his pained cries and the sound of skin striking skin. "You so much as look at another man, and I'll put a bullet in his skull and then I'll wear your fucking ass out until it's raw."

By the looks of it, his skin already seems raw enough. I'm worried he won't be able to sit down for a week if I keep going, but he's still arching his back, begging for more. I can't. He'll be aching in the morning. There's something else I can give him, though. A little game Fee used to play with me.

"Spread your legs," I say, and he does so without question. With his legs splayed wide open, I stare at his beautiful little balls. Soft and pink, like two Georgia peaches, ready to be devoured. "This is going to hurt."

He looks up at me with tear-stained cheeks, and the son of a bitch grins at me. He's fucking grinning. "You promise?"

It feels like someone's set my insides on fire. All I'm running on is desire and determination. The instinctual need to fuck up my boy as he fucks himself against my thigh. I start off soft. Just the slightest tap to his balls. His eyes widen when he realizes what's in store for him, and he starts to shake his head, only to stop as I brush a caress to his sack with my thumb. He opens his mouth, but he can't seem to find his words.

"Do you trust me?" I whisper, breaking character. He doesn't even have to think. He nods his head with surety. It's all the consent I need. I tap harder this time, focusing on his left testicle. His body tenses, and I give him a second to absorb the shock. "More?"

"Yes," he hisses.

I tap harder this time, slap-slap-slapping his balls until he lunges away from my touch. As he writhes on my lap, I run my finger up his crack, caressing his hole affectionately. "Such a good boy. You're so fucking good for me, Freakshow."

I know his stomach must be aching. Each time I experienced ballbusting, it felt like the worst round of cramps I've ever had. Like my insides were churning, and there was no end in sight. There was no relief, only strike after strike until I was sobbing on the floor and shooting my load on the carpet.

Once his shivers stop, I roll him over on the bed. His eyes are wide and unseeing, like he's lost in a haze. Taking his cock in my hand, I stroke him slowly. "Tell me to stop and I will. I'll jack you off and we can go to bed. Your call, Scotty."

He closes his eyes and wordlessly mouths, "Daddy."

"I need you to say it. I need you to tell me you want me to keep going, because it's only going to get worse. It's okay if you have to use the safeword."

His eyes lock on mine, and the undeniable need swirling in them is clearer than it's ever been. He shakes his head. "Keep going."

I pull my hand back and pop his balls harder than before. Repeatedly. I slap them until he's writhing beneath me, agony and pleasure dueling for dominance in his expression. He has one hand wrapped around his stomach and the other grips my shorts, pulling as a means of relief. I don't stop. I won't. Not until I hear the safeword or until he's spilling over in my hand. At one point he screams my name so loud, I'm sure the occupants in the next room will hear, but fuck them. Let them come over here and interrupt us. I wish the fuck they would. Scotty will come in my hand and then he'll get to see someone die right in front of him.

Jesus.

The thought of my boy watching me take a life, coupled with his agonizing screams of pleasure, is all it takes. I grind against his thigh twice and my cock explodes, drenching my underwear in cum. I pop his balls one last time, harder than any of the ones before, and his cock explodes, sending rope after rope shooting against me.

"Brody!" he cries, rolling away and onto the bed, both of his arms hugging his stomach. He sobs, and it feels like someone's stabbed me. I've hurt him. I rush to the bathroom and grab a rag off the rack. Drenching it in warm water, I rush back to my boy and cuddle up behind him, resting the cloth against his sack.

"Are you okay? Did I hurt you? God, Scotty, I'm so sorry, baby." I kiss his cheek, trailing a path up to the crook of his neck. He grabs my hand and wraps it around his waist.

"Thank you," he rasps, his voice small and broken. "I didn't—I never knew—thank you, Daddy. Thank you." The grip he's got on my hand is almost unbearable, but it's everything I need it to be. A firm reminder of what's at stake. The man I love. The man I'm pretty sure I'm going to spend the rest of my short life with. If we don't make it out of this—if we're destined to die at the hands of my wife or another henchman—there's no one I'd rather leave this world with than my Freakshow.