3. Scotty

Idon't understand what I've done wrong. It took most of the day, but I'm dressed to the nines, wearing my best—well, my only—suit. I've even got a pretty pink pocket square I bought special for the occasion. I had to go to the department store for the suit and everything. The trip took everything out of me. From the dirty looks of hateful homosexuals as they shouted my father was an asshole (tell me something I don't know), to the cruel glances of the employees who acted like I was inconveniencing them by simply existing, it was a horrible experience all around. It's not that I meant to bother the workers. I've never been on a date before; how the hell am I supposed to know what to wear? I was almost in tears by the time a kind employee finally took pity on me and helped me select the outfit. It cost me three hundred dollars I don't even have. She didn't give me a price, just pushed the new suit, pocket square, and dress shoes into my arms and ushered me onward. By the time I got to the checkout counter, I was too shocked by the unnecessarily high number to step away. Instead, almost in a trance, I tapped my card against the terminal and paid.

I won't be able to afford food for the rest of the week, and now Uri is standing me up. I don't know what feels worse. The hurt of knowing I'm not good enough, or the embarrassment of thinking I ever was.

When I told my best friend Tatum about my date, he said I was crazy for putting all of my eggs into an attempted murderer's basket. He doesn't understand, though. No matter how many times I've tried to tell him Uri isn't actually trying to kill me, he just stares at me like I'm stupid. I know I'm not the smartest guy out there, but seeing him look at me that way—the way the rest of the world does—hurts. He's supposed to be my safe place, but there's no safety in the shame his words bring me.

I loosen my tie because it feels like it's choking me. Uri isn't coming. He isn't coming, because I'm not good enough. I'm starting to think I never will be. Not for him, and not for anyone.

Resigning myself to another lonely Sunday night, I try to think of what I can do to pass the time. I don't have to work until noon tomorrow, so I can stay up late if I want, but I kind of just want to crawl into my bed, cry into my pillow and go to sleep. My therapist-slash-jack off buddy Brendon is probably online, but I really don't want to tell him about my heartbreak as he furiously strokes his cock, scolding me for the terrible life choices I'm making. I guess I can just take a few Tylenol PM and fight sleep so I can ride out the wicked, over-the-counter high they give me, but that'll just make me feel groggy in the morning.

If Mom were still alive, I could call her. Tell her all about Uri and how he's broken my heart.

Mom.

No. That's a stupid idea. The last time I visited her, it took a week for Tatum to pull me out of my downward spiral.

As much as I know it's a horrible idea, I can't stop myself. Not as I get into my beat-up Prius, not as I pull into Harmony Baptist Church's cemetery, and not as I kneel in front of her small, simple grave marker. I'd give anything to replace it with a real one. Right now, the only thing memorializing her is a small, tin rectangle with her name written in faded, black permanent marker. She deserves so much more than this. If I'm being brutally honest, she deserved more than me. If I hadn't been born gay, Dad never would have kicked me out. Mom never would have left behind a life of luxury to keep me safe. She wouldn't have been working the damn overnight shift at a gas station. She would still be here.

It"s my fault.

"Hey, Momma," I whisper, pressing my palm against the dirt hiding her from the world. "I'm sorry it's been so long. I don't—It's just hard for me to—" I close my eyes and shake my head. She doesn't need to hear this. She already had to listen to my head stuff all my life. They say the dead are supposed to rest in peace. What's peaceful about a blubbering wolf in sheep's clothing crying out for his mother?

I lay at what I hope is her side, holding my arm over what I assume would be her waist, if she were next to me. I don't say anything for a while. Finally, the wall I've built around my breaking heart crumbles, and the hurt falls down like rubble and debris.

"I miss you," I say, my voice shattering. "I miss you so much it hurts." Sniffling, I wipe my nose with my suit jacket, not caring how gross the action is. "I know I need to be strong, because it's what you would have wanted, but I'm not strong. I never have been. Dad's out there, preaching all of his hate, and no one will even talk to me. Everybody hates me. What am I supposed to do now?" I lie there, waiting for an answer I know won't come.

It isn't until I see the sun disappear over the trees that I realize how long I've been out here. An hour or two, easy. Kissing the tip of my finger, I squirm it against the cool dirt, hoping it might somehow make its way down to her, letting her know she's not alone.

"I'm sorry for worrying you. I promise I'll try to be better." Then bite my bottom lip to keep it from trembling. "I'm sorry I wasn't better when you were still here." The wind touches my cheek, and it almost feels like her.

He's leaning against the hood of my car when I make it to the parking lot, and while I should probably be happy to see him, I'm not. I'm just sad. Sad that he made me wait so long. Sad that, of all the places he could follow me, he chose this place. He chose this moment, of all moments.

I want to scream at him. To tell him I waited all evening for him in this stupid suit. That I got all dressed up just to be let down. Instead, I put my key into the door and unlock it. As I try to pull the key out, he grips my wrist and refuses to let go. Not until I look up at him.

He stares at me like he's trying to hear what's going on inside my head. I guess he must have superhuman hearing, because the look he gives me isn't one I've seen before. There aren't any twitching eyelids or teeth being bared with rage. My eyes are a little misty, and a teardrop slips from the corner. I can't lie and say it doesn't feel good when he reaches up to wipe it away, but the only reason it's there is because of him.

I open the door, but as I try to get into the car, he whirls me around. His arms crush around my back, pulling me snug against him. The embrace doesn't last long—maybe thirty seconds, at best—but it's a hug to end all hugs. Like being pummeled with affection.

"You're crying," he says, stating the obvious. His voice goes into this low, gravelly texture that, at any other time, might have made my heart swell. Now, it feels like a slap in the face. "Why are you crying? Who hurt you?"

"Don't act like you care now."

His hand touches my cheek. "Why are you crying?"

My jaw wobbles. "My mom," I say, pointing back at the cemetery. "And you. You hurt me."

He glances behind, and his shoulders sag. If he's feeling bad, I don't really care enough to ask. He should feel bad. He's hurt me worse than anyone has in a long time.

"You said you were gonna kill me today," I whisper, hating myself for how bad my voice cracks. "I bought a new suit and everything. I waited, Uri."

"I'm sorry," he says, and it sounds like he means it. "I still can, if you want me to."

I shake my head. "I just want to go home and go to bed."

He stares into my eyes, biting his bottom lip. I'm not sure what he's contemplating, but I need him to hurry up and spit it out. The longer I stand here, the closer I come to shattering, and I don't want him to see me spiral. I'm already humiliated enough.

"Do you want me to follow you home and kill you there?"

A rush of anger washes over me. Because how dare he try to play the doting boyfriend now? How dare he offer to follow me home and murder-slash-cuddle me until I feel better?

His foot is right there. Right beside me. I lift my knee as high as I can get it, and then I slam my leg down, smashing his toes. He groans in agony as I shove him away, sending him tumbling to the ground. I know I should look back and see if I've accidentally hurt him, but he's already hurt me, so I guess we can just call it even.

"Don't ever make me wait like this again, Uri. It's cruel."

In my car, I don't dare look at him through my window. Instead, I crank the engine and peel away, wanting to leave him in a trail of dust and loose gravel.

At home, I take a quick shower before sliding into bed, where I open my laptop so I can bang out a quick email to my boss. I already feel lower than low; there's no way I can sign on to the phone system and get yelled at by angry customers during my work-from-home shift. I've got eighty hours of paid vacation time to use at my leisure, so I put in a request in the portal after sending him an email, giving him a heads up.

Just before midnight, my doorbell rings. No one ever comes over this late. Honestly, aside from Tatum, no one ever comes over at all. And Uri's never knocked on my door. Sure, he's stood outside my window a few times, holding various life-threatening objects, but he's never knocked on my door or rang the bell.

The second the door is open, Uri rushes in, wrapping both hands around my throat and squeezing tight. He shoves me against the wall and leans in until our noses touch. It feels good to have him take control like this. I almost wish he'd done so at the cemetery, back when I was still breaking.

"I'm not going to tell you this again," he growls in his familiar way. "If you ever run off from me like that again, I'll take a handsaw to your throat. You fucking hear me?"

It's all I can do to keep myself from swooning. "Daddy," I croak, my voice rough from his grip. When he hears my gravelly voice, he loosens the hold he has on my neck.

"I ain't your fucking Daddy. Now, I'm only saying this once, so you better listen, and you better fucking listen well." His lips are so close to mine, all I would have to do is pucker them, and we'd be kissing. I don't, though. Uri told me to listen, and that's what I plan to do. "I'm coming over tomorrow afternoon. When I do, I'm tying you to the bed—" I whimper. I try not to, but I can't help it. "Cut out the gay shit. That's not how I meant it, and you know it."

"I think you did," I taunt, forcing a smile, but he just rolls his eyes.

"Like I was saying—I'm coming over here tomorrow, tying you to your bed, and then I'm burning you alive." God. How does he know all of the right things to say? It's like he just knows me. Like he knows what it takes to pull me out of my troubled headspace. When he loosens his grip and steps away, he narrows his eyes.

"What?"

Though his glare doesn't fade, he blushes brightly. "The suit you were wearing."

"Yeah?"

He clears his throat. "You bought it for me?"

"For our date."

He darts his eyes away and nods. "It looked nice. I liked the pink thing in the pocket."

"I thought you would. Did you think I looked cute?"

"Of course not," he insists, even though his head is nodding. He takes a step back, toward the door, and I'm proud of myself for not running to him and tackling him, just so I can cuddle up close. "Don't wear it tomorrow. It's a nice suit. Don't want to ruin it when I burn you alive." He takes a step back like he's about to leave. I don't want him to go, though. I'm not ready to be on my own just yet.

"Wait," I say, stopping him in his tracks. "Will you stay? Just a little while longer. Please?"

He eyes me up and down, considering the request. Even though he's shaking his head to tell me no, his legs work against him as he walks toward the couch and takes a seat. The arched eyebrow he gives me is all the invitation I need, and I move, shuffling across the living room and hopping into his lap.

"I didn't say you could sit in my lap."

"I didn't ask for your permission." I wriggle around, noticing a bit of swelling in his groin. "It feels like you don't mind, though." I lean forward and kiss his chin, because he's baring his teeth at me, so his mouth doesn't seem like a safe place to put my lips at the moment. We need to do something to ease this awkward tension. Having never been in a relationship, I'm not really sure how to get us out of this post-fight headspace. I don't like the atmosphere in the room at the moment, and I know it won't change unless I try to change first. I have to pull myself out of this sad slump I've fallen into. "Do you want to play a game?"

"I want to end your life."

I sigh, reaching for my deck of cards on the coffee table. "You're hardly the first. Get in line, Uri." Lifting the card deck, I shake it in front of his face. "Have you ever played Challenge of Pascurus? I'm in an online league. Last week Madame de Pumpawhore bested me, but Tatum bought me a new card, so I'm gonna get her good next time."

"I don't know what the shit any of that means." He points at one of the barbarians on the pack and scowls. "You don't seem nerdy enough to enjoy stuff like this."

"And you don't seem nice enough to be the love of my life, but here we are."

"You keep saying gay shit and I'm going to take you onto your patio and throw you over the railing."

"And if you keep threatening me with a good time, I'm going to take you into the bedroom and have my way with you." When he rolls his eyes, I just lean my head against his chest and cling tightly to him. "But for now, maybe we can just cuddle. Just for a little while, I mean."

When I catch his gaze, he looks as if he's genuinely confused by this turn of events. Like out of all the potential outcomes of this day, having an early-twenties twink nestled on his lap is what he'd expected least.

Fuck it. Call me a wild card, I don't care. All I know is right here, sitting in Uri's lap . . . this is what it's supposed to feel like. It's the most natural thing in the world.

"Do you go to the cemetery often?" he asks, his fingers kneading into my side.

"Not a whole lot. I did at first. After she died, I spent a bunch of time out there." He must hear me when I sniffle, because his grip tightens around my waist. "She's all I've ever had. After my dad kicked me out, she left everything behind to make sure I wasn't alone."

His lips pucker against my forehead, and it feels like my heart is going to burst. He initiated the kiss. There were no threats of death. No weapons wielded to make him do so. It was a simple act, that kiss. Something just for me, because he knew I needed it.

"I did some research," he whispers. "I saw the article about what happened. They caught the guy a few days later, right?"

I want to answer. Really, I do. The foundation to relationships can't be built on omissions or half-truths, but I don't know if I'm prepared to unpack all of that pain this soon. So, instead, I tighten the grip I have around his waist and inhale his scent.

"I know people. You don't have to worry about him anymore."

I stare up at him, cocking my head to the side and studying his face. "What does that mean?"

He clears his throat and averts his gaze, staring at the picture of me and Momma hanging above my television. "I watched some of the old campaign videos from your dad's first run for senate. She seemed kind." Our eyes lock, and there's a hint of fire in his. "His death won't be quick."

I try to form words—any words—but none come. The man who killed my mom had been sentenced to life. But what right does he have to life when she's six feet underground? Why does he get to keep on living when he stole her from me? Is Uri serious? Does he really have connections inside? Dare I even dream he could be telling the truth? "Why, Uri?"

His face is unreadable. It's just a blank canvas, void of emotion. "Because he hurt you." His grip is unbearable, like he's trying to shove the sincerity into me by force. "No one gets to hurt you but me. They don't even get to fucking touch you." His nails are sharp; I'm pretty sure he could pierce the skin if he wanted. Instead, he loosens his grip and pats my hip, motioning for me to move. Once we're up, I walk him to the front door. Squaring his shoulders, he takes a final look around the living room.

"You promise you're coming back tomorrow?" I say. "You won't stand me up again?"

He nods. "Yeah. Yeah, I'll be here tomorrow afternoon." His eyes are looking everywhere except at me. "If you're religious, I'd suggest getting right with God. You'll be meeting him soon."

And then, as if he'd never been here at all, he's gone. Uri's gone, and I feel like I'm walking on clouds. When I make it to bed, I pull out my phone and shoot a quick text to Tatum, telling him I'll need his help getting ready for my date. I put it on silent and slide it between my sheets, thanking the stars for my Uri.

"I don't thinkthis is a good idea," my bleach-blond bestie Tatum says before finally lighting the joint he's been holding for the last ten minutes.

I've been getting ready for my date for over an hour, wanting to look perfect for Uri. Honestly, I've been on cloud nine all day. Before he showed up at my apartment last night, I was pretty sure I'd never see him again. Now, it feels like the world is shining just a little bit brighter. He'd felt bad for hurting my feelings. He couldn't have been more obvious if he'd tried. It's a fact that makes my heart swell with pride, because it means he's really into this. Just as much as me.

A boyfriend. My very own boyfriend. I've never had one before. Sure, I've flirted with a few men on hookup apps, but it never leads anywhere. Not once they see my face. It's hard to find the love of your life when your dad is on Fox News once a week, advocating the death penalty for homosexuals. The men on the apps don't seem to care that I'm literally the main target of his slander. Hell, last time Bucky Carlton had my dad on his show, he'd been wearing a shirt with a cartoon bigot holding up a likeness of my decapitated head. But do the gays give a damn about that?

"And I don't really care what you think. I invited you over to help me get ready, not to second-guess my life choices. You're supposed to make me pretty. That's it. That's all."

Tatum rolls his eyes. His makeup bag is resting on the bathroom counter, and I'm tempted to reach in and start picking stuff out for myself. God knows he's been absolutely no help. Honestly, if he wasn't the best makeup artist this side of Dallas, I wouldn't have even invited him today. I just want to look best for my Uri.

Fuck it. I'm going rogue.

With a straightening iron in one hand, I reach into the bag and pull out a handful of eyeshadow pallets.

"Don't even think about it. I'm not letting you waste the good stuff on a fucking stalker, babes."

"Worst best friend ever," I declare, throwing my hands in the air in frustration. The action sends my straightening iron into flight, landing on Tatum's lap. Judging by the high-pitched scream he lets out, it must burn like a motherfucker.

"What the fuck, Scotty?"

I point a finger at him, scowling. "No. I'm not going to let you talk me out of this. This is my first date—ever—and you're not going to take that from me. What would you even know about it? You're dating four men at once. Haven't you gotten your fill yet, Greedy McGreedyPants? Is it really so bad to want to find a little happiness for myself? Don't I deserve a little sunshine too?"

Tatum sighs before standing and makes his way in behind me, joining me in the ensuite. His hands crush around my chest as he pulls me in for a deep hug. "Of course you do. I'm just saying, the man is literally trying to kill you."

I sigh, rolling my eyes. "Poppycock. It's just a bit of cheeky fun."

"He put a knife to your throat?—"

"And he dropped it the second our hands touched."

"Then he snuck into your apartment and held your head underwater in the sink."

"And he let go when I stomped on his foot. Honestly, Tatum, I don't know why you're so invested in this ‘your boyfriend is trying to kill you' narrative you keep trying to spin, but it needs to stop. You're my friend. You're supposed to have my back."

"I'm literally trying to save your life."

"And I'm trying to tell you I love him, and he loves me. He said so."

Tatum groans, and the grip he has around my chest eases. "After you practically shattered his kneecap with a wrench."

"I don't see what that has to do with anything," I say, reaching for the glittery eyeshadow I bought this morning. "Less gaslighting, more helping me get ready." Whirling around, I hold the case up for Tatum to see. "Which color? I was thinking pink and sparkly. He really likes my pink underwear, so I think it's a good?—"

Before I can finish, there's a loud bang. It must be Uri at the door. I pick my phone up from its place on the counter and check the clock. Fuck. He's right on time, and I haven't even put on a shirt.

"This is your fault," I say, driving a finger into Tatum's chest. "If you hadn't been harping on about murder, I'd be dressed right now."

"And if you'd have listened to me, we could have gotten you into witness protection by now. I'm serious, babes, I'm genuinely worried for your safety."

"Oh, please. How many times do I have to tell you—he's not trying to actually kill me."

There's another loud knock, and I realize it isn't coming from the living room. It's coming from my bedroom window. When I look over, my boyfriend is standing there, holding a blowtorch. He smashes it against the glass but scowls when the glass doesn't crack. Unfortunately, his impromptu bedroom-window entrance has been foiled by Tatum's overprotective streak. After the nasty little near-miss last week, he'd insisted I buy reinforced windowpanes.

Had Uri been standing on a ladder, aiming a gun at me through the window? Yes.

Was he actually going to shoot me? Obviously not.

Had he stared on in wonder as I stroked myself to completion for his viewing pleasure? Abso-fucking-lutely.

Though the bulletproof glass of my bedroom window is thick, nothing feels thicker than the air of nervousness enveloping me right now. Daddy is outside my window without a means of entry. He pulls the lever on the blowtorch, sending flames roaring against the glass. He aims his finger at Tatum, mouthing ‘Don't fucking touch him,' with a terrifying expression.

"Jesus Christ," Tatum shrieks as he dives behind my bed.

I smile at Daddy Uri because he looks just as dapper as ever. He's wearing a black sweatshirt and a super-cute black beanie. I don't like how it's hiding away his beautiful hair, but that's fine. I'll just make him take it off once I pry the blowtorch out of his hands.

I give him a wave and flash him the I love you symbol in sign language, watching as his eyes dip to stare at my underwear. I should probably show a bit of restraint, but the look in his eyes is too much, and I want to show him my appreciation. So I pull down my briefs, giving him a quick flash of my flaccid cock. His entire body goes stiff, and he falls back, his arms flailing as he moves out of view.

"It's okay," I call out to Tatum. "You can come out now. He just fell."

Tatum crawls out from behind the bed, peeking up at the window. When he sees Uri is gone, he stands up, his hands shaking at his sides. "How the fuck was he even standing there? We're on the second floor!"

I sigh, because we've already gone over this. "He likes to watch me. I bought a ladder at Wal-Mart in case he wants to sneak a peek. Jesus, it's like you don't listen to a word I say. Keep up, please." I grab my bottle of Elizabeth Taylor's White Diamonds perfume—my mother's favorite—wanting to smell pretty for my man. Spritzing three pumps onto my neck, two on each wrist, and one on the fabric shielding my dick, I breathe in the scent and smile. It smells like home.

My boyfriend is here.

I finally have an actual boyfriend, and he's come to take me on an actual date.

I'm practically giddy with anticipation.

When he bangs on the door, I rush for it, not bothering with my jeans. He's already seen me ejaculate; he can handle a little bulge action. Once I've got the door open, I take a moment to drink in the sight of him. His right eye is twitching like crazy, there's a small twig wedged in his wavy hair, his beanie having fallen off during his topple. The blowtorch in his hand is aimed directly at me, and the sight of it makes my cock swell. As fun as the fight is, I don't have time for silly games. My boyfriend is in front of me, and I want to be pressed up on him. Before he can react, I launch myself forward, wrapping my limbs around him, clinging to him like a koala.

"Daddy," I whine, burying my face in his neck. "Missed you. Missed you so much it hurt."

"Get the fuck off of me, you fucking freak!" he shouts, but I just latch on tighter.

"Where are you taking me, Uri? Where are we going on our date? I've been looking forward to it all day."

"The only place I'm taking you is the bedroom?—"

I gasp, pulling away with wide eyes, nodding emphatically. "Yes. Yes, we can certainly do that."

He lifts his blowtorch for me to see. "And then I'm melting your fucking eyeballs and feeding the leftover goo to you with a straw."

I practically swoon. "How do you just instinctively know all the right things to say? Of course I'll drink your goo, baby. Would you rather me suck you until you shoot, or do you want me to kneel in front of you while you jack off into my mouth?"

He makes a sound like he's going to throw up and uses all his force to shove me off of him, sending me crashing onto the floor. I bang my elbow against the hardwood flooring, and it hurts so badly I can't stop the cry from crawling out of my throat.

"Why would you do that?" I wail, covering my face with my hands so he doesn't see my tears. "Why, Uri?" I hear the blowtorch igniting and pull my hands away from my face. Uri is holding his torch, aiming it at me. There's a stream of fire blowing out of the nozzle, and as he steps closer, he grinds his teeth.

"The Wrath. It's coming for you," he says in a low, seductive tone. His tongue darts out, licking the length of his lips. "You ready for it? Gonna die real good for me, Scotty?"

I'm already in enough pain, I don't have time for his silly game of Murder Daddy right now. I grab the remote off my coffee table and fling it at him, regretting it the second it's in the air. Sure, he hurt my arm, but that was just an accident. I've intentionally thrown an unnecessarily large remote right at his forehead. He's going to be so upset with me when it hits him.

It connects, striking him right between the eyes, and he takes a few stumbling steps back. The way he groans in absolute agony makes me feel like a monster.

"Uri!" I cry out as he falls back, hitting the back of his head on the wall. Oh, God. I've heard one ill-placed strike to the head is all it takes to kill someone. What if I've just killed him? He's the love of my life, and it's taken me twenty-two years to find him. Am I going to have to wait another twenty-two years to find Uri 2.0? I don't want a second Uri, I want my Uri. My stalker. My salvation. My murder Daddy.

I scurry forward on my knees until I reach him, and then I sit at his side, cradling his aching head. The blowtorch is still throwing flames across the floors, and Tatum fina-fucking-lly decides to be helpful and rushes out of the bedroom, lunging for it. Once he's got the valve shut off and the flames extinguished, he growls his irritation.

"What . . . the fucking . . . fuck . . . Scotty?" Tatum puts his hand on my back, and Uri's eyes flash with rage.

"You," Uri growls, glaring at Tatum. "Get your goddamn hand off of him."

Tatum shrieks, the shrill sound causing Uri to wince. All I can do is cover his ears to shield him from it. To keep him safe from Tatum's fucking obnoxious voice. Why is he even here, anyway? He's done absolutely nothing to help me in my time of need, aside from turning off a blowtorch. He moves around the counter leading into my miniscule kitchenette and grabs a butcher's knife from the block.

"Get out," I growl.

"Exactly," Tatum says, stepping forward, puffing out his chest like he's about to do something. "Get the fuck out." He's got the knife held out like he's big and bad, all of a sudden.

With a sigh, I stroke Uri's aching head, just wanting to bring him comfort. "I meant you, Tatum. I want you to go."

"You can't be serious."

"I've never been more serious in my life. Uri is dying in my arms, and it's because of you. So, get out. Get out and don't even think about coming back until you're ready to apologize. To him, and to me."

"You know what? Fine. Fucking fine, Scotty. Let him kill you, for all I care. Let him burn you alive. But when he's done with you and you're crying to me on the phone, I'm saying ‘I told you so.' I'm saying it, and I'm going to revel in it." He sighs. "Then I'll bring over ice cream and hug you until you're better."

"Don't," Uri barks. "Don't touch him. Ever. I'll cut your hands off."

Whatever Tatum says goes unnoticed, because as I stare into Uri's eyes, I see something I've never seen before. The mask he wears when he pretends he wants to kill me slips, and his mouth hangs open. I lean in, giving him a gentle kiss on the forehead. Behind me, the door slams shut, but all I see are Uri's affectionate eyes. With one hand cradling him like he's the most precious possession in all the world, I use the other to stroke his eyebrow.

"Are you okay?" I say. His mouth opens and closes a few times, like the words are there, but he can't get them out. I want to tell him he doesn't have to force it. If he can't get his mouth to work, it's okay. I just want him to feel better. "Can you walk?" He nods, but he makes no effort to move. "Are you hurt? Did I hurt you?"

He tries to narrow his eyes but winces. The remote to his forehead must have really done a number on him. "Still got enough strength left to burn you alive."

It feels like a weight has been lifted, knowing he's back to his usual grumpy self. "I'm sure you can, but why don't we relax a bit before you grab Blowie McBlowtorch and test that theory, yeah?" Again, he makes no effort to move, so I just sigh and grab the torch. Fine. If he needs me to pretend to have the upper hand just to get into my bed so he can recover, so fucking be it. I half-heartedly lift it, aiming the nozzle in his direction. His body goes stiff beneath me. "Are you going to follow me, or do I have to literally hold your feet to this flame?"

"I could just grab it out of your hand."

I shrug. "You could try. I'd rather you let me take care of you first." Leaning in, I kiss the tip of his nose. "Please let me take care of you. I don't like to see you hurting."

He pauses for a moment, considering. With the slightest of nods, he allows me to help hoist him off the ground and walk him to my bedroom. Inside, he turns and stares at the window.

"Why didn't it break when I tried to smash it?"

God, his voice is like ice cream on a warm summer day. There's a hint of a Boston accent swimming beneath the surface. Considering we're slap-dab in the middle of Podunk, Texas, Population: Hillbilly, it certainly piques my interest, but I can ask him about his heritage later. Now, he needs to be coddled. To be pampered.

"Tatum was worried you were going to try to break in again. I tell him over and over this is just our silly little game of Murder Daddy, but he's hellbent on the idea you're actually trying to kill me."

He stops walking, and the grip he has on my arm tightens. "I am, Scotty. I fully plan on ending your life."

I smirk at him. "Promises, promises, Daddy." Initially, he objects to slipping between my sheets, but finally relents when I hold up the blowtorch and unenthusiastically shake it in front of his face.

"You're not going to do anymore of the gay shit again, are you?"

I sigh and roll my eyes. "Well, I wasn't planning on it. I mean, I'll probably jack off for you again, because I liked it when you watched me come the other night, but that's not really weird or anything." I set the blowtorch on my nightstand.

He makes a disgusted face. "If you pull that thing out again, I'll rip it the fuck off you."

My heart beats a little faster at his admission. "You want to touch my cock?" Does he really? I mean, I know I've been hoping for it, considering it's something most gay men like to do, but still. Knowing he wants to wrap his hand around my dick makes me feel light and airy.

"That's not what the fuck I said."

I sit on the bed and hoist myself over him, straddling his lap. "That's exactly what you said." I catch him looking down at my bulge, probably hoping to find my dick standing at attention. With the worry of almost killing him still fresh in my mind, my dick is taking a much-needed nap. Still, his eyes don't move from my crotch. They just stay there, locked on the prize in front of him. "Did you like my dick? When you saw it earlier, I mean."

He shakes his head emphatically. "No. I want you to keep your little worm away from me."

"You think it's little?" I furrow my brow, because—ugh—self-confidence? Shattered. I peek down at my bulge and study the landscape. Pulling the waistband away, I stare at my cock. Sure, it isn't six or seven inches, but it still looks okay, I think. I mean, I won't be winning any dick-measuring contests in the near future, but that's okay. It's still got a lovely shape.

"Keep staring at it and it's going to get hard." He grips my hip, painfully pulling my attention back to him. "I swear to God, if you get a hard-on while you're on my lap, I'll squeeze the fucking life out of you." He smirks, reaching for my neck. I want to slap his hand away to prove a point, but I can't. I just sit there, letting it happen. He wraps his fingers around my throat and squeezes, but it's a gentle squeeze. Just tight enough for me to know he's there. "Want to feel your bones crunch in my hand. Want to see the light fade from your eyes."

A rush of blood pumps into my dick, and he must feel it stiffen against him, because his eyes blow wide, and he looks down at it in horror.

"Fucking freak," he says, but his eyes never leave my bulge. His tongue darts out, and he traces a circle around his lips. Rolling my hips, I give an exploratory grind against his abs, but his grip tightens around my throat. "Don't even think about it."

"God, yes," I manage, unable to draw in air. "Choke me, baby." I rut against him again, but stop suddenly when his other hand crashes against my ass.

Did he just spank me?

Yes. More of that. Please and thank you.

"I said, fucking stop it, Scotty."

The sound of my name on his lips feels like an awakening. Like someone's thrown a torch into a gallon of gasoline, and I can feel pressure mounting in my gut. He must see it in my eyes, because he shakes his head, his expression furious. Removing both hands, he pulls away from me, right as I'm about to come. The loss of contact is like being plunged into a pool of ice water, and I whine loudly, panting as I try to catch my breath.

"Please?" I say. "Need it. Wanna come. Wanna shoot on your face again." I fall forward until our foreheads touch. "Loved seeing you wear my load. Love you." He shoves me away, and I bounce back, rolling to the end of the bed. Once I've got my bearings, I sit upright and stare at him. "I was so close," I whine again. "Why'd you stop me?"

"Because, like I've told you—repeatedly—I'm not fucking gay. I don't want to fucking fuck you. I literally just want to end your life. No kisses. No boyfriends. No cuddles."

"Maybe a few cuddles," I say with a cheeky smile. "Maybe now, actually." I scurry to his side and slide beneath the blanket. I grab my phone and the blowtorch from the nightstand before scooching in beside him, bringing the covers up over our heads, cocooning us away from the outside world. Turning on my phone's flashlight, I use it as a light source. He's still scowling at me, but I can see his gaze has softened.

"Stop staring at me like that."

"Like what?"

"All lovesick, like a puppy."

I giggle. "Puppy love. I guess that's what this is, isn't it? Can I tell you a secret, Daddy?" He reaches for my neck again, but I slap his hand away and shake the blowtorch in his face.

He sighs. "Fine. Just say whatever the fuck you want to say."

"You're my first. My first boyfriend, I mean. I've wanted one for a long time, but no one even gives me a second look. When I go to dance at the gay bar, everyone treats me like I'm diseased or something." Another tear forms in my eye, but I wipe it away. "I don't know if it's because of my dad, or if I'm just all-around unlovable, but I was starting to think maybe there was just something wrong with me. That I wasn't worthy of being loved." I lean forward and gently kiss his lips, letting go of the blowtorch long enough to cup his cheek. "So, thank you."

His eyes dart down to the discarded torch, and before I can react, it's in his hand. For a second, I think he might go back into our silly little predator-versus-prey game, but he just holds onto it like he's scared it might slip away.

"Thanks for what?" he finally asks.

"For loving me, silly. For showing me I wasn't born broken."

"Can I ask you something?"

I scoot closer, nuzzling my face into his chest. "Anything."

He groans at the endearment, but he doesn't push me away. "Do you get out a lot? Aside from the bar, I haven't seen you leave your apartment once in the three weeks I've been stalking you. I think all of this isolation might have taken a toll on you. You're unhinged."

I shrug. "I don't like it outside too much. It's really loud, and people are mean. Staying home is better, because when I'm here, I can be whoever I want to be. I don't have to worry about the boys who don't give me a second look, or pretend to be this person I'm not. If I want to lie around and watch porn all afternoon, I can." I scooch even closer until my cock is against his thigh. "If I want to jack off thinking about the man I love, all I have to do is pull it out." He's pulled his lip between his teeth and is chewing softly, as if he's taking in every word I'm saying. "And if I want to slide a finger into my hole, wishing it was you instead, who's going to stop me?"

"That's disgusting," he says, but his voice is barely even a whisper. It almost sounds like it's cracking. Like he's cracking. Good. I want him to. I want the wall he's put up to crumble beneath this blanket, showing me the man he truly is. "Fucking sick."

I grind against his thigh, because the sound of his broken voice is doing things to me. "Tell me. Tell me what's sick about it." Rolling onto my back, I slide my briefs down until the cool cotton sheets nuzzle against my cheeks. I pop a finger into my mouth, preparing it for its impending journey. "Talk to me. Wanna hear your sexy voice."

"What the fuck are you doing?"

I turn and look at him, my eyes growing narrower by the second. "What do you think I'm about to do?"

"Something disgusting, I'm sure. Something depraved." He licks his lips, and it isn't lost on me that he's inched a bit closer. "Don't do that gay shit around me, you sick fuck."

Smiling at him, I lean over and claim him, slamming my mouth against his. For a second—one beautiful, perfect second—he doesn't pull away. His lips part. Then, as if reality has struck him, he jolts back, pulling the blankets off him, leaving the blowtorch on the bed as he stumbles, falling against my closet door. He slides down, falling to the floor and sitting there, making no effort to move.

"Watch me," I say, my voice raw with desire. "I want you to watch me. I like it when your eyes are on me." Sitting up and grabbing the blowtorch, I scoot to the edge of the bed and slide down to the floor. Since my bedroom is essentially the size of a linen closet, there's only about three feet separating us, but that's more than enough for what I have in store. Every inch of me is on display, and he's doing everything in his power not to look. His eyes dart here, there, and everywhere. Everywhere except my cock.

For dramatic flair, I flick the nozzle on the blowtorch, jittering when the flame barrels out of the nozzle. For some reason, it helps him to feel like he isn't in control. Like as long as I have his daily weapon of choice, he has no say in the matter.

I point the stream of fire in his direction. "What are you going to do, Daddy?"

"The only thing I can," he bites back at me. "I'm going to sit here and watch you do whatever sick shit you're about to do to yourself."

"Goddamn right, you are." Pulling my feet toward my ass until my knees are level with my face, every inch of me is laid bare before him. I wonder if he likes the view. If he approves of what he sees. It's not just my dick this time. Now, my hole—the one that will soon belong to him—is right there for him to bear witness. I clench, making it wink at him, feeling drunk at the sight of him flinching. "What are you looking at, Uri?"

He sighs. "Your ass."

"You like it?" I bring my hand to my taint, tickling the small patch of bare skin. "I asked you a question, love."

"Of course I don't like it. It's a man's ass."

I drag my finger down until it rests at the peak of my crack's crevice. "What about right here? Do you like this spot?"

"No," he barks, but there's a questioning tone to his voice, like he isn't sure he believes it.

"Sure," I say with a laugh. With my finger only inches from glory, he acts like he's about to stand up. I need to steady him. To bring him back to me, the way I know he wants. "If you move one muscle, I'll aim that fire at your balls and watch them burn. Don't fucking test me, Uri."

His entire body shudders, and he leans back against the wall, his eyes locked on mine. I dip mine down, wanting to guide him back to his prize. Once he's staring at my ass again, I bring my finger lower, circling the tip around my entrance.

"Do you like that, babe? Is it a pretty hole?"

"No," he says, his jaw trembling. "I don't want to watch this; I'm not a queer." Then I press gently against my hole, and as the tip slips in, he sucks in a quick breath, his shoulders shaking.

"God. I wish this was you." I push deeper, driving my finger in, right down to the knuckle. His breathing is heavy, like he's having trouble drawing in air. With every inch of my finger inside of me, I begin the beautiful task of sliding it out. "Wish it was your cock. Can you imagine how it's going to feel when you fuck me? How tight I'll feel wrapped around you?"

"I'm not fucking you. Ever."

When my finger slips from my hole, I lift my hand and spit on it, bringing it back to my crack and circling the rim. Again, I slide inside, my hips joining in on the action, fucking myself on my finger. It feels so good with him staring at me like this. Having him watch me explore my most secret of places. It's an exhilarating experience, but I want more. Pulling my finger out, I lean toward him and hold out my hand. "Spit."

"What?"

"Spit in my hand."

Reluctantly, he moves closer and does just that, spitting saliva in my palm. I coat my middle finger in his slick and bring it back to my hole.

"Don't fucking do that. I don't want any part of me inside of you."

I whine like a bratty little thing, enjoying the way he stares at me. "Come closer," I say, but his eyes go wide and he shakes his head furiously. I've still got the blowtorch in my hand, and when I give it a little jiggle to remind him who's in control, he exhales heavily and scoots toward me. Still, there's a solid foot between us, and I want him nearer. "Closer."

"How fucking close do I gotta get? Goddamn."

"Lie on your stomach. Want you to see me up close."

He follows my instruction, shifting onto his stomach, his face maybe six or seven inches away from the evidence of my arousal. He looks up at me, eyes narrowed into slits. "I'm not fucking touching you."

I shake my head. "You don't have to. I just like you near. All you have to do is watch, I promise."

His eyes travel lower, staring at my cock. I really want to set the blowtorch down so I can work my shaft, but I know he gets off on this power-play thing. So I just grip the butane tank, wishing it was my cock, working my finger in and out of my hole for his pleasure. Each time he exhales, his breath tickles my sensitive skin, making me shudder.

"Do you like it?"

"No," he says, not taking his eyes off of my ass. "You're fucking shameless—you know that?"

I whimper, because his insults are doing things to me I can't explain. Crooking my finger inside, it connects with that lovely, magical button, and I can't swallow my moan fast enough. "Oh, God, Uri."

His body shivers and I watch as a look of shame washes over him, like he's surprised by how much he's enjoying the show. Working my finger faster, I find myself approaching the edge, unsure how I even got there. I haven't touched my dick for a solid five minutes, but there's an orgasm drawing near, and I don't know how long I can hold back the tide.

"Close," I whisper. "So close."

His mouth hangs open. "How? You're not even?—"

"Because of you," I tell him. He looks up at me, his eyes wide. Is that a smile I see forming on his grumpy face? "You're doing this to me. Look." I dart my eyes down, guiding him to the bead of pre-cum pearling at the tip. More than anything, I want him to taste it. To lap the pearl up like a thirsty little thing. "Would you mind getting that for me? My hands are a little full." As if in a trance, he reaches forward, swiping his finger across the tip, collecting the droplet. He stares at the liquid like it's the strangest thing he's ever seen. "That's mine. You can't have it."

"I don't want it," he insists, though the way he refuses to wipe my wetness away isn't giving his declaration any credence.

"Give it back, Uri." Leaning forward, I stick out my tongue, batting my lashes at him. He darts his eyes back and forth between his finger and my mouth, like he's contemplating what to do next. Like he doesn't want to give it away, because it's his. Reluctantly, he finally feeds it to me, leaving his finger in my mouth longer than necessary. Our eyes meet, and I swirl my tongue around the tip, wanting him to know how good I can make his cock feel, given the chance. There's a hint of arousal in his eyes, but I can tell he's fighting it because he knows what his baby needs right now. What I need is to be shamed. To be told I'm a naughty boy.

"Look at you," he rasps. "Fucking yourself like a whore." My eyes roll back in my head, and another long stream of pre-cum oozes from the tip, dripping down my shaft. He watches as it slides down my balls. I follow his eyes on their journey until they're staring at my finger sliding in and out. He licks his lips, but I can tell he'd rather be devouring my ass.

"Do you like it?"

He shakes his head. "It looks so tight."

"It is. It's gripping down on my finger, babe."

He nibbles his lower lip for a second before leaning in even closer. He rests his head against my thigh, his face only inches from the action. It's like he's cuddled up with his favorite pillow, and the sight of him watching me feels like being struck with lightning. He reaches forward, and I feel the tip of his finger tracing a ring around my hole. "It seems so tight. How the hell do you fit a man's cock into something so small?"

"I don't know," I admit. "I've never had one in there before."

His head snaps up, and he stares at me with a look I can't quite read. "You're a virgin?"

"Yeah. I've been saving myself for someone special." There's a whimper crawling up my throat, demanding release, and as I make contact with my prostate, it escapes. He grips my thigh to steady me, but when he realizes he's offering me comfort, he rips his hand away, his cheeks burning red. "Been saving it for you, Uri."

"I don't want it." He throws the denial out quickly.

"Should I give it to someone else, then?"

He looks lost in contemplation. He wants to say yes. I can tell he does. He shakes his head. "No. Don't." He darts his eyes back and forth between my thigh and my eyes. I know what he wants. What he needs me to say. At first, I say nothing, because I kind of want him to touch it without me forcing him, but then his eyes flicker to the blowtorch in my hand. I have to roll my eyes because all he has to do is reach for my leg. If he wants to feel that connection, it's literally all he has to do.

"Fine," I say with a bratty whine, tapping the butane tank. "Touch my butt. Want to feel you when I come."

"So gross," he complains as he grips my left cheek tightly, his thumb brushing back and forth. Licking his lips, he leans closer. "I bet you want to slide another finger in, don't you?"

Honestly, the thought hasn't crossed my mind, but now it's all I can think of. "Please," I whisper, needing him to tell me it's okay. Pleading for his permission.

He growls at me. "Get your finger wet. You're going to fucking hurt yourself."

"With what?"

He looks around the room as if a bottle of lube will magically appear. I should probably tell him there's one in my nightstand drawer, but I'd rather use his saliva again. I love knowing a part of him is inside of me. It's a physical manifestation of the words he refuses to say. The things he refuses to do to me. A way he can fuck me without actually fucking me. With one finger still inside, I straighten the others, readying them for him. "Lube me up, Daddy."

He pauses for a moment, considering. At first, I'm pretty sure he's going to just spit on his hand and then slick my fingers, but he surprises me when he leans forward and sucks all four of my free fingers into his mouth, nursing on them like a calf to a teat. His tongue twirls around each digit, eyes opened, staring at my hole. He stays there for a while, and I realize I'm going to have to be the one to snap him out of his lusty little stupor.

"If you want me to slide another one in, I'm going to need my finger back."

His eyes blow wide and he pulls away hastily, his hand still locked on my ass. "I don't," he practically shouts. "I don't want to see any of this. You're forcing me."

"I know," I soothe, because I do. "I know, Uri."

"I don't like this," he whines.

"I know you don't." Lifting the blowtorch, I give him another smile. "I'm the big, bad twink, and right now you're at my mercy." He exhales a sigh of relief and grips my ass harder. The edge is drawing nearer, and I'm about to fall. About to lose myself in the moment, with the love of my life staring as it happens. "I'm—I'm gonna come. I'm about to—about to?—"

"Fuck." He's so fucking awestruck right now. I've never felt more beautiful than I do right now. He's staring at me like I'm a fucking god.

I can't do it anymore. I need contact. "Please?" He might not know what I'm asking for, but it doesn't stop him from nodding. Needing pressure against my shaft, I let the torch fall to the floor, then grip him by the hair and drag him forward until his cheek is against my cock. Thrusting feverishly, I can feel my balls tighten, and I hear Uri gasp in surprise.

"Here it comes."

"Holy shit," he whispers. His eyes dart up, and I stare into them, loving the way his face looks with my cock against it. "You're gonna come on my face?"

"Please," I whisper. I want him to tell me it's okay. That he wants this just as much as I do. "Can I?"

His breath hitches and his eyes go dark. "Fuck. Scotty."

"Please, Daddy. I need it."

He blinks dazedly at me and opens his mouth, his words caught in his throat. He closes his eyes and inhales deeply like he's trying to breathe me into him. "Okay. Yeah. Come on me."

Holy shit.

With a final thrust, my cock explodes, shooting jet after jet against the side of his face. He whimpers. It's the quietest of admissions. He loves this. His shameless boy, fucking his face. Letting go of his hair, I fist my cock, quickly pumping as more cum bursts from the tip. He pulls away, but he doesn't retreat. Instead, with hesitation in his eyes, his mouth falls open and he leans in close. Seizing the opportunity, I aim the head of my cock at his lips and watch as shot after shot of my load lands on his tongue. The sound he makes is nothing short of depraved. He closes his lips around my cockhead and drinks from the source, his cheeks scalding with red heat. Jesus, did his tongue just flick over the head?

When the last drop of cum touches his tongue, his eyes dart up and his mouth falls open. Grabbing the blowtorch, he uses one hand to scurry back, with my cum still pooled in his mouth.

"What the fuck was that?" he shouts, his voice harsher than I've ever heard it. "Why would you—" He breathes shakily before swallowing my load. It isn't lost on me how he darts his tongue out, seeking seconds. "You said I didn't have to touch you." He flips the valve on the blowtorch and a stream of fire roars from the tip, warning me back. His eyes go black, and it looks like his pupils have overtaken those beautiful brown irises. His eyes usually make me feel at ease, but this look—this new side of him—sends a chill of genuine fear down my spine. He looks like he actually wants to kill me. Not like he's playing our fun little game. Fuck, I almost expect him to lunge forward and aim the flame at my face.

"Uri," I whisper, reaching for him with my still-slick hand. "You're scaring me."

"You should be scared. You should be fucking terrified. Do you know how many people I've killed?" His knuckles go white around the butane bottle, and he lifts it, reaching toward me. "What you just did—what you forced me to do—I've carved people's hearts out for less."

"You're carving mine out right now," I admit. "Please? Just come back to me, Daddy. Don't like this side of you. Uri, please?"

"My name isn't fucking Uri," he shouts. "I'm not a fucking queer. I'm not like you." He can say it all he wants—his words don't mean much when my load is still fresh on his cheek. I push past my fear and rise to my knees, hobbling forward. As if by instinct, he turns the nozzle away from me, aiming the stream of fire at the empty space of my bedroom. When I reach him, I press our foreheads together and straddle his lap.

"Get off me," he pleads.

"Make me." I lean closer, placing a delicate kiss against his lips. "If you don't want me on your lap, then push me away."

"I will," he says, sounding like he's trying to convince himself. "I'll hold you down and burn you alive."

I nod. "You can if you'd like. I won't fight you if you try." His eyes open, and I can see there are tears forming in them. "Or, you can go into my closet, pick something you think I'd look cute in, and take me on our date like you said you would."

He shakes his head. "We're not going on a date. If you want me to take you out, you're going to have to pry this torch out of my cold, dead hands. Try it. I fucking dare you."

Cupping his cheek, I force a smile, but I won't force him to do this. He's going through something right now, and if he needs to be mad at me to work through it, I'll let him. Still, I reach for the torch, and he doesn't fight me when I pull it away from him. Flipping the valve off, I place it beside me and give him another quick peck on the lips.

"What I want is for you to go home."

"What?"

"Go home." I back away from him and walk to my bed, grabbing my phone from the nightstand. When I return, I kneel at his side and bring up my contacts. I hand him the phone. "Put your number in."

"I'm not giving you my number," he says, but he's already typing it into the contact.

"And I want you to put your name in there, too." I playfully tap the tip of his nose. "Lying about your name? Naughty Daddy."

"You don't need to know my name. All you need to know is I'm going to slit your throat the next time I get the chance."

"Yes, you will," I agree, wanting to give him a bit of his confidence back. I know I've pushed him farther than he was ready to go, and I genuinely feel bad for talking him into letting me come on his face. I promised him he wouldn't have to touch me, and then I jacked off into his mouth like a slut. Granted, I know he wanted it—it was clear in his eyes—but I don't like how sad he looks right now, especially knowing I'm the reason for that sadness. I told him earlier he was the worst boyfriend ever, but I'm starting to think maybe I've got him beat. "You're going to kill me so good. I know you will." I kiss his cheek and smile when he hands me the phone. Looking down at the screen, I see something that makes my heart slam in my chest. His name. His real name. "Thank you, Brody."

"The next time I see you, you're a dead man," he says, his voice cracking.

"I am," I agree. "Dead as a doornail, I know. For now, I want you to go home, and I want you to give yourself a little self-care. Pamper yourself. Don't want Daddy walking around sad all day."

"I'm not your fucking Daddy."

I stand up and hold a hand out for him, pulling him up from the hardwood floor. I weave our fingers together and walk him toward the living room, stopping when he does. Turning, I see him eyeing the blowtorch, looking torn.

"No," I say, taking charge like I know he needs me to. "That's mine now. You can't have it."

"You'll kill me if I try to grab it?" he asks hopefully, and I just smile and nod at him.

"Gonna kill you so hard if you do, I promise." The moment the words are out, he breathes another sigh of relief and allows me to walk him to the living room. I let go of his hand and turn toward him, wrapping my arms around his waist and burying my face in his chest, inhaling his essence. "Gonna miss you, babe. When am I going to see you again?"

His arms are stiff at his side, but I can hear his heart thundering in his chest. "Tomorrow."

I melt into him. "What are you going to bring to kill me with next time? I'd prefer if it wasn't that nasty old wrench. I got rust all over my hotpants last time. Had to throw them out. I cried when I got home. They were my favorite pair."

"Sorry," he says, taking me by surprise as he wraps one arm around my shoulder, digging his nails painfully into my back. The admission must have taken him by surprise too, because he quickly corrects himself. "I mean, I don't give a fuck about your fucking hotpants. They make you look like a cheap whore."

"Your whore. All yours." I take the hand he's got fisted at his side and place it on my ass. As I snuggle closer, I can tell there's definitely life swelling below, and I know he'll be embarrassed if he realizes I can tell, so I pull away, reaching for the door handle. His eyes dart down to my cock, and his tongue pokes out of his mouth, licking a ring around his lips. His hand slips away from my ass as he takes a step back.

"Tomorrow. Me, you, and a baseball bat." He clears his throat and squares his shoulder. "I'm going to bash your skull in," he declares matter-of-factly, and all I can do is smile at him.

"It's a date."