1

-Malcolm-

"SHIT."

Itumble out of bed and have to pause for a moment on my hands and knees as the world tries to flip end over end, like a stomach-curdling fairground ride.

I groan.

The swell of endorphins from North's slow ride has eased my hangover but I'm far from all right; my body is pissed at me for falling off the wagon, and it isn't going to let me forget it in a hurry.

North sits up, his blond hair sticking out every which way. "What are you doing?"

All he's wearing is his oversized hoodie, and the black jersey material falls to the top of his thighs, which are still smeared with our cum from the slowest fuck I've ever had. I don't think I can even call it a "fuck," what he just did to me. It was so languid and soft and filled with . . . meaning, that I still need to wrap my head around it. I want to savor the feeling. I feel like my world has catastrophically changed, the bedrock of my existence shifting and changing beneath me. He's my boyfriend now. I want to taste the unfamiliar word on my tongue. He's moving into my house for fuck's sake. Officially. I need to process what this means. But I can't, I can't do any of that because all I can think about is the fact that my father, the shadow who has hung over me my whole life, who I've managed to avoid for years, is at my house right now, waiting for me. And I have no idea why.

"I have to go," I say.

I steady myself on the bed with both hands as I stand, wait for my head to stop spinning, and then grab my boots from where they're set neatly by the end of the bed. North must have put them there last night. I shove them on, wobbling on one leg on the unsteady ground. My limbs don't seem to be cooperating. It's only when I straighten again to an uncomfortable tightness across my shoulders that I realize I'm still wearing the stupid, too-small cowboy vest, and it takes even more effort to shrug it off.

While I do, North gets up, scoops his sweatpants off the floor, and slides his long legs in.

"Ok, just let me get dressed."

Does he think he's coming with me? The thought of my father having any sort of interaction with North is enough to make me want to be sick again. North is good, and nice—sunshine personified. Everything that's good in my life. I can't let his essence be tainted by my father.

"You stay here," I say.

He looks up at me. "What? Why?"

"Just stay here," I say, grabbing my phone, keys, and wallet, and backing toward the door, holding my hands up like he's a wild animal. "I'll deal with this, and I'll be back later."

North is disbelieving, like I just said I was going to go dance in traffic. "No. Are you kidding? You just told me what he did to you, Mal. I'm not letting you go on your own."

No one has ever wanted to protect me before, and it's a strange feeling that makes my chest squeeze. Is this what it means to have somebody love you? To feel privileged and deathly afraid at the same time?

But I can't let him. My father is unpredictable; I have no idea why he's here or what he'll do. I can't risk anything happening.

I open the door as North shoves his bare feet into a pair of sneakers.

"No, you're not coming, North. Stay here and I'll see you later. I'll text you. Ok? Just stay here."

"Mal—" He jumps to his feet but I'm already out of the room and closing the door behind me.

I run down the hallway, alone, to face my father.

It's true that I don't want North anywhere near my father, but there's another reason I need to do this alone. One that I don't want to admit to myself. I hate being weak, and no one makes me feel weaker than my father. And if North comes with me, he might see just how scared I am.

***

Bright sunlight makes me squint as I walk across the parking lot. The air is crisp and cool which helps my head, but the clear sky does nothing to block the light, and the sun has decided it hates my retinas. The feeling is entirely mutual.

I scowl as I look around for my Porsche, before I realize it's still at the bar. North walked me back last night didn't he? Shit. I curse and sigh. With the way my head is spinning I'm probably not safe to drive yet anyway.

One call to Uber later, and I'm sitting in the back seat of a stranger's car trying not to retch at the overpowering smell of cheap aftershave, and sweating through my top.

My skin's clammy, my stomach turns like it's on a speed cycle, and my clothes are too tight. Underneath the potent aftershave smell there's something else assaulting my nose. I raise my arm, sniff at my armpit, and grimace. Fuck, I stink of stale beer, body odor, and sex. I should have had a shower at North's before I rushed off. But then, it's never a good idea to keep my father waiting. I'll just have to face him like this and hope he doesn't notice. He's not the most observant of people, he's always too busy being wrapped up in his own self-important bullshit. Narcissists like him never put too much effort into what other people have going on.

Maybe it's the hangover, maybe it's my nerves. All I know is, it'll be a miracle if I can get through this without throwing up. Again.

The driver is chatting away, but I'm too preoccupied to pay any attention. That doesn't stop him though, he's apparently happy to keep on going with no interaction from me. I wish he'd shut the fuck up. My head's spinning enough as it is.

Finally, after what feels like torturous hours and fleeting seconds at the same time, the Uber pulls up, and the first thing I see is a sleek black Mercedes sitting in the driveway in front of my house. My stomach rolls again and I swallow bile. He's here. My father is inside.

For the entirety of my time at Langley, he hasn't visited or contacted me once. Has he somehow found out about what I've been doing in my spare time? He knows I'm gay, but that's it. If he knew about . . . all of the rest—the toys, the clubs, the session room.

I curl my hands into fists to stop the tremor.

"Erm, we're here," the driver says, peering at me over his shoulder. "Are you getting out, dude, or what?"

I nod. My limbs suddenly don't want to move, and I have to drag myself out of the back seat. As soon as the door is shut, the car speeds off, leaving me with no route of escape, standing on the hard driveway in front of my own house. Well, in front of my father's house. I don't own it. He does. He owns everything in my life, including me, and I was stupid to ever think that he'd just leave me to it.

I move up the driveway, putting one numb foot in front of the other, past the shiny black car, my reflection warped in its paintwork. Suddenly everything in me craves for North to be at my side. But no, that would be just as bad. Would he think differently of me if he saw how much of a coward I really am? What if my father did something to him too? Better that North stays well out of this.

Somehow I make it to the front door.

With my heart pounding in my ears, I push it open and step inside.