Chapter Ten

CHAPTER TEN

TREVOR

I thought by leaving New York City that maybe I’d finally escape my parents’ manipulative clutches. My parents are in prison. There are over one hundred federal prisons in the country, so surely the likelihood of either parent being incarcerated near me was small.

False. God laughs when you make plans.

Especially when it's me.

Months of manipulative phone calls from both parents begging me to deposit money into their prison trust accounts has me finally giving in to agree to visit my mother. Who else is going to visit? The rest of our family hates them. I’m an only child. The guilt to at least go see her a few times a year weighs so heavily on me that usually I end up giving in. Despite how seeing her kills me afterwards.

The clubhouse is quiet when I wander in on a Tuesday afternoon. Soft voices filter from Claire’s office. Davis, Claire’s assistant, sits at his desk, clearly on the phone with a prospective client. He sends a small wave my way, so I wave back with a pasted-on smile. Doubtful he’ll notice.

Claire does though. As always. Her eyes narrow dangerously as I stride into her office, carefully gathering intel on what could possibly be going on with me. The door of her office closes gently, and I lean heavily against it, feeling weighed down just at the idea of the conversation ahead of me.

“Which one?” Claire asks, leaning back just as heavily in her chair.

“Mother.”

“You want me to come with you again?” Claire’s voice is gentle, nurturing, as it usually is when the topic of my parents comes up.

I nod, unable to say the words. With a heartbroken sound, she stands, tugs her skirt down like the proper lady she is, then comes towards me to wrap me up in her slender arms. No tears come, despite the anguish rising inside me just at the idea of having to see my mother again. Everything about seeing her is so draining. The sight of the prison, the sounds of the place, and the smells. Dreadful experience every time.

“Let’s get it over with,” Claire announces with false cheer when she pulls away. “Have you given them money again?”

“Yes,” I admit, defeated.

“I wish you’d stop.” Claire cuts a look at me, not cruel, just slightly judgey. That’s just Claire’s way. Growing up together, she knows my parents, and all their manipulation tactics. Her parents weren’t too dissimilar from my own.

“Hard to say no.”

Claire hums as she grabs her purse. She leaves her office, heels clacking on the floor. I follow along behind her like a lost puppy.

“I’m gone for the rest of the day,” Claire tells Davis. “I’ll be back tomorrow. Let the other boys know I’m reachable by phone. Also, don’t schedule Trevor for anything for two weeks.”

My heart races. Two weeks? I can’t go without pay for two weeks. “Claire?—”

“Pay him the standard boyfriend rate,” Claire interrupts, eyes on her phone as she types.

“Yes, ma’am.” Davis nods, staring up at her, waiting for her to look, but she pointedly ignores him. His besotted gaze follows us until the elevator doors close.

Claire presses the button for the first floor, still typing away at her phone.

“Are you and Davis…?” I trail off, waiting for her to look up at me.

The only sign she heard me is the little tic in her eye that I know means she doesn’t want to talk about it. “Pointless.”

“Why?”

“You know I don’t date. Being asexual and all. Also, look at what we do. There’s no way he’d… anyway it doesn’t matter.”

Now my gaze turns hard. “Claire.”

She waves her hand dismissively at me as she steps off the elevator. “Doesn’t matter, Trevor.”

It does matter but neither of us are very emotional people, so I don’t know how to goad her into talking about it with me. Usually I just wait people out, instead of pushing them to talk. Maybe on the drive to the prison Claire will open up.

We quietly climb into her fancy sports car, and she peels out of the garage into the bright spring sunlight. Once we’re out of the city, we roll the windows down for a blast of crisp air.

The few hours’ drive passes dully, especially since Claire stays buttoned up, her eyes firmly on the road. Her fingers are so tight on the wheel that I’m worried she might permanently lose blood flow. I go to speak, say anything, just fucking words, but she turns the radio up to preempt me from putting my foot in my mouth. Thank you, Claire.

With every mile we get closer, the harder my heart pounds against my ribs, until I feel almost dizzy with the force of my racing heart. Claire parks the car in the lot after we check in at the security gate.

Since she’s not on my mother’s visitor list, she can’t join me, and for some reason that causes me even more anxiety. Seeing my mother alone is like going up against an army.

Anxiously stepping out of the car, I brush off my crisp black suit, doing my best to get out the wrinkles that formed during the drive. My reflection in the window of the car shows my blond hair messy, windswept. That won’t do at all. Mother will hate it.

I walk around to Claire’s side of the car and dip down, patiently waiting until she rolls down her window. She aims eyes full of the brimstone of Hell as I wiggle my fingers at her with the small, anxious smirk I’ve perfected over the years.

“Bobby pins?”

Claire sighs in abject irritation, but still fumbles around in her purse for a few bobby pins anyway. I move over to the back window, then do my best to get my hair into the semblance of a short cut style. It’s hard, considering my hair's current length, but once it’s good enough, I head towards the prison without a backward glance. Head up, back straight, take no shit.

The sterile prison and fluorescent lights greet me like a slap when I step through the noisy automatic doors. Once through the metal detector, I head straight for the check-in desk.

“Here for?” the older female guard asks. She radiates annoyance and yeah, me too, lady.

I awkwardly clear my throat. “Lyla Shaw.”

The guard rolls her eyes. “Of course you’re here to see Ms. Priss. Look at you.”

Discomfort rolls through me, but I bite my tongue to keep from giving a sarcastic reply. She returns my driver’s license, the one with my real name, then another guard leads me back to the room where inmates take visitors.

Since it’s a low-security prison, inmates are allowed to meet at tables, instead of behind glass. I almost wish I had the separation though. It would add a layer of protection that my heart so desperately needs.

Unease settles in the pit of my stomach as the guard leads me to the table already occupied by my mother. Her fake smile beams at the guard, but the guard leaves without acknowledging her pretend sweetness. The smile predictably drops the moment we’re alone.

“You could visit more often,” she says snidely.

“I have my own life.”

She scoffs and rolls her eyes, clearly already over me. “Doing what? I know you’re working with that Claire girl. Just because I’m in prison doesn’t mean I don’t get informed of your… ways.”

I stare at her, hiding my expression so she doesn’t know she’s gotten to me. “Do you mean being gay? Or being an escort?”

Her expression tightens at my words. Leaning forward, her eyes glare daggers at me. “Don’t get sassy. Did you deposit more money in my account?”

I deflate under her stare, already exhausted from our brief interaction. “Yes.”

A winning grin spreads over her face. “Good. For your father too?”

“Yes,” I repeat dully.

“Good, good.” Her fingers tap on the table as she glances quickly around the room. “Your hair looks awful, by the way. I don’t know why you insist on keeping it long. It’s so proletarian of you. You should get a gentleman’s cut.”

“I like it long,” I murmur, but she either ignores me, or purposefully doesn’t hear me.

“Is that suit off the rack?”

The line of questioning needs to be stopped before I lose my shit in the middle of federal prison. By losing my shit, I mean by walking out without another word.

“It’s Tom Ford.”

She huffs, clearly finding my answer acceptable despite wishing she didn’t. Her hair is a little more gray than it used to be, but otherwise the color still closely matches my own. I inherited my light blond hair from her. My father’s hair is black, probably more salt and pepper now after the past few years. But I’m surprised she’s not maintaining her perfect shade of blonde. Lyla Shaw always maintains appearances.

“Well, this visit was nice and all. But you know why we have these. Looks good for my record when my son visits.”

“I graduate in a few months.”

Her eyes cut back to me, a hard glimmer in them. “Finance?”

I want to melt into the earth. “No.”

With a roll of her eyes, she stands from the table. The guard returns and escorts her to the exit, leaving me alone. The prison fades from my view as I walk out towards Claire and the waiting car. My head stays down, counting the taps of my shoes against the hot black asphalt. When I lift my head, the sight that greets me is Claire sitting against the hood of her car, cigarette dangling from her fingers. Fuck if that isn’t a good view.

I gingerly take the cigarette from her extended fingers. I inhale the smoke, letting it burn my lungs until my eyes water at the sting. Sitting between her legs, I lean back so that she can pull the bobby bins from my hair. The strands fall to my shoulders, blowing with the soft breeze that passes over us.

“So?” Claire asks, voice gentle.

“She’s still a raging bitch.” I take a pull from the cigarette, letting the acrid smoke blow into the breeze. The only time I ever smoke is after drama with my parents or a particularly bad boyfriend experience. Claire doesn’t know about the second though. I’ll keep it that way.

Her fingers comb gently through my hair, forcing my eyes to fall closed at her tender care. “You need to stand up to them. Cut them off.”

I flick the ash off the cigarette, frowning deeply. “They’d have no one.”

She hums softly. “They don’t have you either, baby.”

A laugh bubbles out of me, but it’s a laughter full of sadness, full of pain. It’s such a beautiful day outside. Makes me think of Beau. Where he is, what he’s doing? Does he ever think of me? It’s a nice wish. Even if he does think of me, it’s just about the persona, about Trevor. The perfect fake boyfriend is all I’ll ever be. Not worth much more than that.

But sometimes just the idea of him, the memory of Beau, can calm the violent ocean of pain inside me. The pain that says I’m only worth what I can be bought for. His gentle smiles, the warmth of his touch against my overheated skin, the looming promise of what his love could do to me if I deserved it… it could destroy me.

Once we’re back in Georgia, the sun has almost set, and Davis is gone from the clubhouse for the day. Claire settles at the desk, eyes still keenly aimed at me.

“I know this is a really weird question to ask, and it’s crossing a million fucking lines, but would you happen to have Beau Callahan’s number?”

Claire’s gaze doesn’t tear from me. Her eyes sharpen, but her mouth quirks up just a little, as if fighting a smile. My stomach curdles with nausea as she stares at me, only easing once she taps at her keyboard, then writes a number down on a sticky note, pushing it across her desk for me to hastily grab.

She taps her perfectly manicured finger on the sticky note just once. “Be good, Trevor.”

A smirk tilts my lips up as I reach for the sticky note. “I’m always good.”

Claire grabs my fingers, gives them a hard squeeze, before letting go. “I love you.”

I hold the note up and nod in thanks. The note burns a hole in my suit pocket the few moments it takes me to go down a couple of floors. My cold, mostly empty apartment below the clubhouse has never felt less like a home to me. Gaze sweeping the room, I realize that there’s nothing here, nothing has ever been here for me. Going through the motions is all I’ll ever do. All I’m capable of.

I carefully place the sticky note on my kitchen counter with shaky hands. Unable to be in the same room as temptation, I head into my room to shower away the awful day. Even the shower, soft sweatpants, and a cold beer from the fridge can’t calm my racing thoughts.

Two empty bottles later, I stand at the kitchen counter, eyes staring without blinking at the hot-pink sticky note. The numbers that’ll get me to Beau. Maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s everything with my damn mother, maybe it’s just the need to know he remembers my name, remembers me at all, but I don’t know what to blame my impulsiveness on when I dial his number with trembling fingers.

One ring.

Two rings.

And then…

“Hello?” Beau’s soft, sweet southern voice filters through the phone.

My breath stutters in my chest, words stuck like rocks in my throat. Pressing the heel of my palm to my forehead, I just listen to Beau breathe for a moment, listen to him move around wherever he is, probably in the living room. It’s so easy to imagine. I can even smell the sweet, cedar smell of his sheets without even trying. A phantom smell. A phantom loss.

“Levi?” Beau asks, voice trembling.

A cry gets caught in my throat. I cover my mouth with my hand, desperately doing anything I can to hold in the sobs that want to wrench loose.

Once I’ve gathered myself, I ask, voice hushed, “For keeps?”

Silence, unending silence, and then a softly whispered, “For keeps always, sweetheart.”

A smile breaks through the tears slowly inching their way down my cheeks. The taste of the tears invades my senses, enough to overpower the taste of Beau that my brain summons from the deepest well of my imagination. The line is quiet for a few beats, just us on the phone together, and I think maybe that’s enough. Just to know someone, somewhere, could want me enough to play for keeps.

We sit on the phone for a while, resting in gentle silence, until the moment becomes too much for me to bear. After hanging up, I sit alone in my empty apartment. Without even saying a word, Beau made me feel less alone than I ever have.

Tears swim in my eyes as I save his number in my phone under My Beau. Because even though he’s not mine, can never be mine, the idea of him will always be enough.