CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN Tate

"You can't keep ignoring your boss, baby," Alec's voice message said. My skin crawled. "I'm back from Seattle tomorrow. Meet me for dinner," his recorded voice continued. "Call if you can."

I tapped the red delete button and laid my cell down, staring at my computer screen. Alec had been in Seattle all week, taking part in a huge case the firm was involved in. When I suggested going instead, he reminded me he'd been on the case for three long years. In other words, I couldn't step in no matter how much I wanted a return visit to my hometown. I missed a few friends and the clam chowder at Ivar's restaurant on the waterfront.

I'd managed to avoid Alec for a few days after my sleepover. He'd tried to control the narrative, telling me I could stay over as often as I wanted. I clarified that I'd been intoxicated and horny and that our one-sided sex was a one-time event, which was a big difference from being his new boyfriend.

"Then the next time, we'll make sure it's two-sided,"he'd wisecracked.

There'd be no next time if I had my way. The idea of dating a man so self-absorbed, so label-conscious, and so social-climbing, had zero appeal. Yes, Alec was handsome and rich, but I'd had that in Seattle with my ex. And yes, he was an expert cock sucker, he'd proved that too.

But what he wasn't was a shy, hidden-away country boy, who lived on a ranch in what I feared was a cult. At a minimum, he lived inside an insulated religion with very strict rules and views. Every self-argument and all my analysis supported not proceeding with Luke, but I couldn't convince my heart to listen to my brain. Hell, it wouldn't even listen to common sense. A nineteen-year-old? Really, Tate?

My heart was focused on someone who I knew was the wrong choice. Luke was almost twenty but had the experiences of a teenage boy. Now, of course, he also had the body of an Adonis and the physical appeal of every fantasy I'd ever had about being manhandled by a young country hunk.

He was quiet, timid, shy, and all the other Little House on the Prairie attributes I should run from, but he was also genuine. The biggest problem, if one could consider it a problem, and the slightly pathetic reason I couldn't walk away from him? He was a walking, living, breathing, sex-on-a-stick stud.

Which exposed another problem. He claimed to be a sexual abuse victim from a young age, and I believed him. I doubted Luke could lie about such a sensitive subject, not to mention his negative physical reaction to the discussion of sex lent credence to his story.

As much as I was concerned for his welfare, and trust me, his abuse was the absolute most important thing of my worries for him, I still felt he wanted more with me and for us. I'd been struggling with what that could be.

I glanced at my cell, in a real battle over making a decision. "Hmmm," I pondered, wondering whether I should make the call. My fingers tapped the edge of my desk. "She is the professional," I mumbled.

"Hi, honey. Your father just asked yesterday if I'd heard from you," Mom said immediately after picking up the phone.

"Hi, Mom. You got a minute?"

"Honey, you sound upset. Is everything okay down there?" she asked, sounding like Oregon was a million miles south of Seattle.

"I'm fine, Mom, but I have someone—a friend, actually—that I'm worried about," I began. "Well, he's suffered something bad and I know you have the expertise, so…"

"How bad, honey?" she asked, her tone instantly becoming professional as soon as I asked for her advice. "Is your friend seeing a licensed therapist, Tate?"

"He can't access care," I stated. "His life is complicated and… well, no, he can't afford therapy." I figured I should involve her as little as possible, even though it had been me calling her.

"Well, okay, honey. You tell your friend he can trust that whatever you tell me is between us."

This would be more difficult than I thought, and my mother was an educated woman who knew her son's life story. The fact was that if I truly wanted advice I could use with Luke, I needed to be honest.

"Actually, Mom. I need the advice," I confessed.

"But you didn't say that, Tate."

"I know, Mom. I just don't need a heavy speech about this," I said, feeling like a shitty son. "Maybe it's best I drop this."

"Let me ask you this first, honey. Are you okay? Is the real patient you?"

My mother was a licensed family therapist. Her career had provided enough life lessons, first-hand information, and overheard phone conversations to know a thing or two about therapy and its uses. I trusted her opinion and valued her applied privacy.

"I'm doing well, Mom. Truly," I began, pausing for a second. "To be honest, I've met a man who… well… who I think I might get involved with," I explained. "We're at that early-stage thing, so maybe it won't happen, but I really don't want to add to his issues."

"And of course, you're certain he's equipped for a relationship with you?" she inquired, therapist hat back on.

I laughed. "Is anyone equipped anymore, Mom?"

"Don't joke about this, Tate. If there is serious psychosis involved here, well, I might suggest you offer a referral and then back away."

"He has suffered sexual abuse, Mom," I stated, holding my breath and getting ready for some major resistance about my being involved with Luke.

Her long drawn-in breath, a weird sort of click of her tongue, clued me into her evolution to professional-speak from then on. "Mm-hmmm," she hummed. "Let me ask you an important question, Tate."

Uh-oh, she was calling me Tate, not honey. "Yes, Mother. I am interested in him personally."

And here we go. "Are you interested in him sexually?"

Sixteen-year-old Tate would've folded and run. Thirty-two-year-old Tate no longer gave a fuck about my sexuality or the choices of men I wanted to date.

"I am interested in him sexually," I confirmed. "But with that said, he's younger than me, and I do not want to add to his trauma," I clarified. "And to be clear, Mom. He is also pursuing a relationship with me."

I reached for a notepad on my desk and wrote Luke's name at the top, listing numbers down the left side in case I wrote bullet points to remember. Mom was silent, so her advice was coming next. The advice would be direct. It would be professional, and she wouldn't sugarcoat her recommendations.

"Does he have a name?" she asked.

"Can we skip that right now?"

"Okay then. Before I offer you some central techniques, and things to look for, as well as ways to reinforce your position as someone who cares for him, I will give you one positive."

"There's a positive in this?" I asked, surprised there'd be anything good about this call.

"The positive is that he is also pursuing you, Tate. That in itself makes it clear he sees you as a person who he wants to share something with. Perhaps he is unsure of what that something is, but he shows big promise in that he's trying."

"I didn't expect that," I said. "So, I wouldn't be hurting him?"

She chuckled. "Oh, trust me, Tate. You could still hurt him," she corrected. "Especially if you desire a healthy and loving physical relationship with a sexual assault victim."

"I'm confused, Mom. What are you saying, exactly?"

"I'm telling you that if you value this man, you'll need patience and a whole lot of understanding, honey. There is a very significant chance that your friend doesn't understand that sex and sexual abuse are not the same thing. He may view your loving approach as a threat, so your job will be to set guidelines with him."

I grabbed the pen again and began scribbling. "Please go on."

"Be upfront with him. If you think a sexual encounter is possible, talk about the act of sex and try to be specific. Let him explore what he's comfortable with. And when you think he is ready to at least try, then schedule a future time. This way he can expect that it will happen sometime soon, but in the future. The future doesn't necessarily have to mean days, either. No surprises. No traumatic memories."

"Anything else?"

"A couple of other things to help would be things like leaving the light on, doing routine things beforehand so he can relax, setting a plan of what you'd like to experience, what he'd like to experience. Your friend needs to feel like he wants to do this, that he has a choice, and that he will feel pleasure and safe."

"God, Mom!" I exclaimed. "That explanation was amazing. You are amazing."

"Thank you, Tate. Do you realize you've never spoken to me about my work as an adult?"

"But you're my mother," I replied. "I thought it was weird."

"Well, at least you're honest, dear."

She was right. I'd always seen my mother as the enemy because of her career. I figured she was analyzing me all the time, pushing me to open up to her, not as my mother, but as my shrink.

"I'm sorry. Mom. You always have my best interest, I know that."

"This is your mom speaking now, son."

"Okay, Mom," I unenthusiastically responded, internally rolling my eyes.

"If you care about this man, honey, you need to show patience. A sexual abuse victim does not easily trust, particularly people they view as having all the power. You did not disclose his age, so be careful. Treat him as an equal. In all ways."

"Thanks, Mom. I mean it. And I love you."

"Look at you," she observed. "Making your mom's day like this. And I love you too, honey. Do the work with your friend. Especially if he's worth it."

I clicked off and looked at my notes. My mother had provided me with tools, with real suggestions I could put into practice.

Luke is nineteen. I'm thirty-two. Could we really make a go of things? His world? My world?

"Treat him like an equal,"she'd advised.

"In all ways," I whispered, drawing a heart around Luke's name.