8. Dom

CHAPTER 8

DOM

"Cam?! Cameron!?"

He's never called me before, so I'm immediately on edge when the phone rings. Then there's nothing but shuffling, a loud thud, and muffled voices. There's laughter, and I think I hear the word slut. More laughter that doesn't sound friendly. Or maybe it's just my anxiety making the voices sound sinister.

There's more rustling, and a groan. I hear a small voice say something that sounds a lot like a plea.

"Oh, for the love of God. You're a mess. You should be ashamed of yourself, embarrassing me like this." Through the phone, I can tell that's Alistar talking. Weirdly, his accent doesn't sound as thick as it has the few times I've met him in person.

Whenever there's silence, I yell Cameron's name, hoping he'll pick up and tell me where he is.

There's some loud rustling, and then the line goes dead. I call back immediately. The phone is on its third ring when a text comes through from Cameron. It's an address.

I'm in my truck and on my way in seconds, speeding through downtown. My GPS takes me to a tall building with floor to ceiling glass windows for at least four stories. There are colored lights and strobes flashing through the windows, and a loud thumping beat coming from inside. Double parking on the street right in front, I push through the long line and stare down the bouncer. I've got a good foot in height and a lot more bulk than he does, so he doesn't give me too much trouble when I start questioning him.

"I'm looking for someone. Cameron Stevens. He’s white, about this tall, slender, with dark blond hair. He's here with?—"

"You're talking about the sloppy drunk pretty boy? He's over there." The bouncer gestures to his right with a tattooed hand. It takes me a moment to scan the area, but then I see a small figure slumped on the ground. It looks like someone sat him against the wall and he fell over on his side. I curse and run over to him.

"Jesus, Cam, what happened to you?" He smells like liquor and vomit, and I can barely get him to wake up enough to focus his eyes on me. "Cam, wake up."

"Dom?"

"I'm here, baby. I've got you."

Scooping him into my arms, I walk him over to my truck and fasten him into the front seat. I thought about laying him across the back seat, but I want to keep a closer eye on him. He's light enough that it's not too hard to get him into the seat, but getting him to sit up straight enough to buckle him in properly proves difficult. I end up having to let him slump over until I can get back in the driver's seat and then hold him in place with one arm while I'm driving.

The drive home takes twice as long as my frantic drive to find him. He looks a bit green, and the smell is not great, so I crack the windows to get a little air, but not too much because his clothes are soaked and I don't want him to get too cold.

I automatically take him back to my place, because I want to be the one to keep an eye on him. If I take him back to Dwayne’s house, I'll have to come up with a reason to stay by his side, and he'll have to face judgement for overdoing it. I know he doesn't drink very much or very often, so he probably couldn't hold his liquor. I can’t believe Emile and his friends from work would leave him like that. What kind of man lets his boyfriend be dumped outside like trash and doesn't check to make sure he's getting home safely? Anyone could have picked him up or robbed him, or worse.

I'm acutely aware of my lack of furniture when I carry him through the front door of my apartment. I bring him into the bathroom first so I can get him cleaned up. He's a little more coherent when the sound of the shower cuts on. Holding him steady with one arm, I undress him, carefully removing his alcohol and vomit-soaked clothes.

"This isn't exactly how I imagined this would happen," he slurs. I chuckle, pointedly not thinking about the implications of that statement. Now is not the time to think of him as anything other than a semiconscious guy covered in vomit. His shirt, face, and hair are sticky, and he smells like a whole bar.

I manage to get him stripped down to his underwear, which of course are the tiniest black briefs known to man. Something I really didn't need to see.

I strip myself down too, because he's not going to be able to hold himself up in the shower and I don't have a tub. We end up on the floor of the shower, with Cameron's back to my chest. I wash his hair, rinsing it with the detachable showerhead. Then I gently wash away the last remnants of vomit and whatever sticky drink he must have spilled on himself.

When I'm finished, he turns himself in my lap, nuzzling his head under my chin.

"Did I get sick?"

"Little bit," I say, keeping my voice soft.

"I thought I was having an anxiety attack."

"Just had too much. It happens to the best of us."

"They all hate me," he slurs. “I hate me,” he whispers, so quietly I almost don’t hear it over the running water.

He's snoring softly before I can ask him anything more. His face is pressed against my wet chest, looking soft and innocent. A fresh wave of anger washes over me that Alistar didn't take care of him when he needed him most.

I get him dried off and tucked into my bed. It didn't seem like a good idea to have him wearing wet underwear, so I did my best to protect his modesty while changing him into a pair of my boxer shorts, since everything else would be way too big. They're still incredibly loose on him, but I roll the waist a couple of times so they'll hopefully stay on.There’s still too much leg showing, but I cover him up with a blanket.

I watch him sleep for hours, just observing the rise and fall of his chest. At around four in the morning, he stirs. I bring him a glass of water and some painkillers, which he takes gratefully before falling right back into the pillows. The covers slipped off him in the process, exposing all that smooth, flawless skin. I pull the sheet back over him, and the back of my hand accidentally skims his calf. I stop, staring down at my hand before pulling it back quickly. The skin burns where the heat of his body touched me.

The heat from his body is enough to make me concerned that he could have a fever, but I don’t trust myself to touch him. Instead, I let my hand hover just above his skin, enough to register his body heat without actually touching him. I move my hand gently up his body, not touching, skimming up the outside of his thigh, and along his hip. I splay my fingers out over his flat stomach, imagining circling half his small waist in one hand, tracing his defined abs with my fingers. I journey upwards, running my open hand over the side of his rib cage. I imagine I can feel his heartbeat with my palm, a steady thumping in time with my own. My fingers trace over his collarbone and the side of his neck, where I pause at the sight of a dark bruise.

Forgetting not to touch him, I tilt his jaw to the side so I can see it better. I run my thumb over it and resist the urge to squeeze, to cover the mark with one of my own. The thought scares me, and I snatch my hand back.

I'm sleep deprived. And possibly depraved. There's no excuse for these thoughts, or for touching him, however innocently, without his permission.

I back away slowly, thinking I might go downstairs and nap on Dwayne's office sofa until he gets in. But Cam reaches for my hand, pulling it back to his face. My palm slides against his jaw again, and he nuzzles into it. My body tenses with fear and apprehension, unsure what to do now. Do I pull my hand back, or let him have it and hope he lets go soon? He presses his face into my palm when I flex my fingers.

Sigh. Well, I guess that's his now.

Without jostling the bed too much, or so much as attempting to pull away from him, I try to find a comfortable spot. I end up sitting with my back against the wall, one hand crossed over my chest to cradle Cam's face. It's not the most comfortable position, but it's the closest I've come to laying down since the night before.

When I next crack my eyes open, it's too warm in the apartment. I'm still leaning against the wall, but I've scrunched down enough to give me a wicked crick in my neck. My hand is now on the back of Cam's head, holding him against my torso. The rest of his body is glued to my side, one leg crooked up over my thigh, way too close to?—

Jesus Christ, what the hell is wrong with me?! I don't remember the last time I had a morning wood this bad. That thing definitely can't be blamed on having to pee.

Shit shit shit. What do I do?!

Cam stirs, and I freeze in panic. Once it's clear he's not fully awake, I make a plan to dislodge myself before this gets more awkward than it already is. I have no idea what Cam remembers from last night, and I'm sure he's going to be upset about the turn of events. Not to mention the shock of waking up in someone else's bedroom after being stripped, showered, and put to bed while you were unconscious. A massive boner is not going to help make the situation any better.

I scoot a bit lower and attempt to gently lift his head so I can slip out sideways.

Only as soon as I move, so does he. The leg he has thrown over my thigh hitches up higher, and he snakes an arm around the tops of my thighs, latching himself firmer against me.

I suck in a harsh breath and bite back a pained groan when his forearm rubs the underside of my erection, pressing it against my hip.

Cam twitches and blinks his eyes open. I stay completely still, afraid to even breathe. I contemplate closing my eyes and pretending I'm still asleep, but my gaze is glued to him the way onlookers watch the aftermath of a car accident. I can't look away.

He blinks rapidly. His eyebrows twitch and then furrow slightly, creating an adorable dimple in the center of his forehead. His head moves a little, then he twitches back, eyes flashing wide with surprise before he schools his expression. Lifting his head, he examines the state of our bodies, no doubt noticing his state of undress. I'm only wearing a pair of thin cotton sleep shorts, so I'm not much better off.

Finally, Cam's gaze lifts to mine.

"Good morning," I say, wondering what time it is. It’s probably still early. Judging by my sore throat and dry eyes, I don't think I dozed for very long. And I have a feeling Dwayne would have called or come knocking if we didn't show up for our workout routine. Some of the guys have been joining in on Cam's circuit training and yoga stretches, so he'd definitely be missed if he skipped a day without telling anyone. "How are you feeling?"

"Foggy," he answers. "My head is sore, but nothing else on me is, so I'm going to guess I didn't try to take that thing for a ride."

I choke on my own spit. "W-what?" I sputter.

"I mean, typically when one wakes up mostly naked next to one of those," he gestures towards the tent in my pants with his eyes, "it means something happened. But that something wasn't my throat or my ass, because I'm pretty sure I'd feel it."

The look of horror on my face must be enough to answer him. He sits up, half laughing and half moaning. "Oh yeah, I forgot. You're straight ." He eyes me with a weird expression.

"Right," I say, pulling my legs up to hide the offending appendage.

“ Riiight ,” he repeats, drawing out the word sarcastically. "So, what exactly did happen?"

I sigh and try to convey as much support and comfort as I can through my expression. "You, uh, had too much to drink, I guess. You called me, but I think you dropped your phone. The next thing I know, I got a text from your number with an address, so I came right away. You were passed out outside the bar." It takes everything in me not to start ranting about how useless his stupid boyfriend is.

"That doesn't make any sense," Cam says, shaking his head in confusion. "I had barely a few sips of one drink."

That has me sitting up straighter. What does he mean he only had a few sips?

"Where are my clothes?"

"In the bathroom. You threw up and your clothes were soaked in alcohol like you'd spilled something. Or a lot of somethings. You really only had one drink?”

“Not even one. I didn’t finish it.” Cam groans and puts his head in his hands, rubbing his eyes with his palms. "Why can't I remember anything?"

"What's the last thing you remember?"

"Being at the party. I was in a group of maybe ten others. Someone passed out a round of drinks to do a toast. Then people got weird, and I think I told them off? I remember I wanted to leave. I didn't feel good, and I thought I was having a panic attack because the assholes I work with?—"

My entire body bristles, every muscle in my body twitching to rectify the dejected look in his eyes. "What did they do?"

He lets go of his forehead to wave me off. "Nothing. They didn’t do anything. They were just talking shit, and I got upset. I looked for Emile, but I don't remember much of anything after that. I have flashes of being in a dark hallway that was spinning, and I fell?" He huffs out a heavy breath. "That's all I can remember,” he says shakily, then groans.

Tentatively, I reach a hand over and rub his back. "It's okay. You're okay. But maybe we should go to a hospital or something to get you checked out?"

His head snaps up. "What? Why?"

"I don't know how to say this, but I think you might have been drugged."

"Ya think?"

Now it's my turn to rear back in confusion. The sarcasm in his tone suggests he came to the same conclusion, but how can he be so cavalier about it?"

Cam looks up at the ceiling. "Let's just say I used to drink a lot more than I do now. Like, a lot more. Empty calories aren’t the only reason I stopped."

"Cam—"

"Don't," he says flatly, pointing a finger at me. "Don't you dare judge or pity me."

"I'm not?—"

"I've made questionable choices in the past, but they were mine to make and I own them."

Cam stands, wrapping his arms around his chest. I get up, my erection thankfully only at half-mast after that depressing conversation, and pull a t-shirt from a basket of clean laundry.

I hand him the shirt. "I wouldn't judge you. And I'd be a hypocrite if I did."

Cam scoffs and takes the shirt from me, pulling it over his head. "Oh yeah, I'm sure you've made tons of unhealthy, impulsive decisions in your day."

"In my day?" I repeat incredulously.

I'm distracted for a moment by the sight of Cam in my shirt. I thought the boxers were bad, but somehow, he looks even sexier despite being more covered up. The shirt is huge on him, coming down to mid-thigh and falling off one shoulder. Suddenly that small shoulder, that handful of smooth skin, is the most appetizing thing I've ever seen, and I'm a starving man.

"How old are you, anyway?" The words are meant to tease, but the husky tone of his voice does more damage than the words themselves.

Am I imagining it, or did he just take a step forward?

"Forty-two."

He hums noncommittally and definitely takes another slow step forward. It’s like he's stalking prey. My cock starts to fill again, remembering what had it so interested this morning.

Pretending not to notice his advancement, I move to the other side of the bed, putting the king-sized mattress between us. I bend down and pick up a pillow, busying myself by straightening the bed like it's something I do regularly.

Single-minded Cam isn't to be deterred, though. He steps up onto the mattress and walks across it, coming to stand directly in front of me. The platform under the mattress elevates him by a couple feet, so he's now a head taller than me rather than vice versa. His hands smooth over my head and land on my shoulders.

My words come out in a hoarse whisper. "What are you doing?"

"I’d like to thank you for taking care of me."

Clearing my throat, I shake my head and fervently ignore how my body reacts to what he's saying.

"That's not—that's not necessary, Cam."

"Why not? Because you're 'straight'?"

I don’t know how to answer that. I've yet to process the thoughts I've been having, or what they mean. I refuse to think about it too hard. It doesn't matter, because this can't happen.

"Cam—"

"Answer me, Dom. Do you not find me attractive because you’re straight?"

"That's definitely not the issue," I say, accidentally out loud.

"So you do find me attractive," he says, not asking but confirming.

"Cam, I have a hard time imagining any red-blooded human not finding you attractive. You're?—"

"I'm what?"

I shake my head, but he stops the movement with a hand on either side of my head.

"Tell me,” he demands. "Tell me you think I'm sexy."

"I—"

"Say it."

I let out a deep breath.I’m concerned about his rapid change in behavior, and the way he’s pushing this. It feels unnatural. Forced. Terrifying as hell.

"Cam, this isn't appropriate."

"I won't let it go until I hear it."

"I think you're incredibly sexy," I say, my voice raspy with my admission.

"Do you think about me?"

"All the time."

"Do you fantasize about me?"

"Too much," I admit.

"Tell me something you want to do to me."

"What? No. Cam, we need to stop this. I know you want to avoid thinking about what happened, but?—"

"Quit deflecting, Uncle Dom."

"Well, that makes it a whole lot better, thanks."

"You don’t like that? Want me to call you daddy instead?”

I don’t like this.

“Tell me, Daddy . What do you fantasize about? Do you want me to suck you off? Open my throat and let you thrust inside until I'm choking on your big cock?"

My eyes flutter closed, and I shake my head. Nope . This isn't happening. He's been through a lot, and this is just his way of processing. It'll be over soon, and we can go back to normal. Maybe. Okay, probably not.

Cam is relentless. "Do you want to fuck me with that monster? Split me in two until I scream your name?—"

"No!"