Submission is about trust.
Yeah, but it’s also about doing what someone else wants.
And I’m not into that anymore. From now on, I’ll do whatever
the hell
I
want.
He kicked a stone down a drain and tried not to
think about Keaton’s smile, Keaton’s hand in his.
* * * *
He knew it wasn’t really his place to worry about Aiden.
Aiden was an adult, perfectly capable of making his own
decisions.
Except that Keaton had known more than a few
adults who had trouble making their own decisions, who
longed for guidance and security. Boundaries. Aiden,
obviously an intelligent young man, was lost right now.
Scott Runge had harmed Aiden physically and
psychologically, and it would be a while before Aiden
felt safe again. In the meantime, the boy was letting his
health—and his attitude—go to hell.
Keaton had yet to see Aiden eat anything that could
Keaton had yet to see Aiden eat anything that could
be called a meal, and he was fairly certain Aiden had
thrown up what little of his lunch he’d eaten. When
Keaton had sat on the bed beside Aiden this afternoon,
trying to ease the boy through his nightmare, he’d been
struck by how small Aiden looked in the large bed, the
covers kicked askew—painfully thin, huddled in the
center of the bed in a T-shirt and underwear, his ribs
jutting as he drew quick, shallow breaths.
If somebody didn’t look out for the kid, he could
end up in real danger.
Keaton toyed with the idea he’d been trying to keep
at bay. On one hand, it seemed that the last thing Aiden
needed was another D/s relationship with someone he
didn’t know well, didn’t trust. But the type of
relationship Keaton had in mind would be very different
from what Aiden had had with Scott. Keaton had no
intention of taking advantage of the boy, of harming or
frightening him.
It’s not a good idea, Keaton warned himself. He
barely knew Aiden, after all. But there was something
about him—underneath Aiden’s skittishness, his
defensive sullenness, was a beautiful, intelligent,
talented young man. Keaton longed to get to know him
better.
He heard the front door open. Aiden had barely
been gone ten minutes. Keaton forced himself not to go
downstairs, to let Aiden have time to himself.
Even
though I don’t think that’s what he really wants
. Aiden
needed to know that what he asked for would be
respected—he’d said he wanted alone time. He had a
right to privacy, without Keaton watching and worrying
over him.
The TV went on, the volume far too loud. Keaton
smiled, recognizing he was being baited. Yes, it was
possible that Aiden Cole would benefit from some
discipline. But Keaton had no intention of rushing things
or pressuring the boy. He painted for another half hour,
turning up his music to counter the TV’s volume, which
decreased when it drew no reaction from Keaton. When
he finally went downstairs, Aiden lay on the couch,
staring at the ceiling. The TV had been muted.
“I have an idea,” Keaton said.
“What?” Aiden muttered.
“I’m a member of an all-night gym in Frankfort.
What do you say we head over there for a little while?”
Aiden sat up. “Really?”
Keaton almost laughed at the boy’s wide-eyed
eagerness. “Really.”
“I’d like that. A lot.”
“Then that’s what we’ll do. There are a couple of
rules though.” He watched Aiden carefully to see how he
reacted to this statement. Aiden sat up straighter, looked
directly at Keaton, and waited. “The first is that the
workout lasts no more than an hour.” Keaton assumed
anyone with Aiden’s eating issues was a candidate for
exercise addiction as well. “The second is that, when
we’re done, I buy you a protein shake from the smoothie
bar, and you drink the whole thing.”
Aiden looked uncertain and a little disgusted, but
finally he nodded. “All right. I’ll pay for it, though.”
Keaton shook his head. “My treat.”
“But—”
“No,” Keaton said firmly. He noted how quickly
Aiden stilled. The boy’s muscles relaxed visibly, as
though Keaton’s “no” had unburdened him somehow.
“Okay,” Aiden said, still looking at Keaton. Aiden
wasn’t intimidated, wasn’t frightened. He accepted
Keaton’s rules.
The drive to Frankfort took about twenty minutes.
Keaton loved this gym for the drive as well as its
insomniac-friendly hours. At two or three a.m., when his
mind was wild and his body singing with energy, the
dark, winding road to Frankfort was a comfort and an
adventure. He loved the town of Frankfort at night—the
historic brick buildings dark and vacant, the glow of
streetlamps on Main Street…
Tonight he enjoyed the drive even more than usual,
because Aiden was finally talking. The idea of working
out seemed to have cheered him immensely, and he
chatted happily with Keaton, cracking jokes and telling
stories. At the gym, Keaton left Aiden in the weight room
while he made use of the indoor track and lap pool. After
an hour, he returned to the weight room to find Aiden
diligently bench pressing what looked to Keaton like far
too much weight for such a slight body.
“Let’s hit the showers, kid,” Keaton said.
“Just a few more.” Aiden strained to lift the bar.
“Uh-uh.” Keaton took the bar from him and set it
back on the frame. “And what do you think you’re doing
benching without a spotter?”
“He’s spotting me.” Aiden nodded at a good-
looking, dark-haired man on the rowing machine, who
was watching Aiden hungrily. “He’s been spotting me all
night.”
“Very funny. That’s dangerous and foolish. Come
on.”
Aiden followed Keaton to the locker room. Keaton
stripped down to his underwear, keeping his back to
Aiden. Watching Aiden at the bench press had produced
uncomfortable evidence of his interest in the younger
man. He wrapped a towel around his waist. Aiden, too,
seemed shy. He removed his shirt, and Keaton tried not
to hiss at the few pink welts and yellow bruises that
hadn’t faded completely from his back and torso. Aiden
slipped quickly into a shower stall and, a few seconds
later, reached around the curtain to hang his pants and
underwear on a hook.
Keaton showered, hating Scott Runge with a fury
that made his head hurt. He closed his eyes, trying not to
think about Aiden, naked, soaped up, just one stall over.
He wished he could slip inside that stall with Aiden and
rub soap into the boy’s pale skin, being careful not to
press too hard on his bruises.
Cut it out, Hughes. He just came out of an abusive
relationship. He tried to offer you sex in exchange for a place to
stay. He doesn’t know what he wants right now.
Showered and dressed, they headed for the
smoothie bar. Aiden looked increasingly apprehensive
as they approached. “I’m really not hungry,” Aiden said.
“You didn’t eat dinner. You barely ate lunch. You
can’t burn the kind of calories you burned tonight on that
kind of a diet. Now what kind do you want?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
Keaton shot him a look.
“Really! I like anything.”
Keaton ordered him the Protein Powerhouse.
On the car ride home, they discussed a production
Keaton had seen of one of Aiden’s favorite plays. Aiden
grilled him about how the lead actor had approached the
role—a role Aiden dreamed of playing one day. Keaton
role—a role Aiden dreamed of playing one day. Keaton
enjoyed the discussion so much that he didn’t have the
heart to nag Aiden about drinking his shake until they
were almost home.
“You’ve barely taken a sip.”
“Look what I did to the straw.” Aiden held up the
cup, grinning sheepishly. He’d chewed the end of the
green plastic straw completely flat. “I can’t drink out of
it.”
“Then take the lid off.”
Aiden shifted in his seat. “I hate drinking out of
Styrofoam cups. I can’t do it without a lid.”
Somebody does have a touch of brat in him, Keaton
thought, smiling to himself. Maybe more than a touch.
When they got home, Keaton poured Aiden’s
smoothie into a tall glass with a straw and set it on the
table in front of him. “Drink,” Keaton said.
“I’m not—”
“Drink,” Keaton repeated in the same calm, certain
tone.
Aiden’s face clouded. He took a few sips. Keaton
brought up the play again, but Aiden no longer seemed
interested in talking. He pushed the glass away, still
more than two-thirds full. “I don’t feel well.”
“You’ll feel worse if you don’t get some nutrients in
you.”
“You don’t know everything.” Aiden tipped the
glass back and forth in his hand, watching the sludgy
drink shift.
“I know it won’t hurt you to drink that.”
Aiden glowered. “I wish you’d mind your own
business.”
“That’s hard for me.”
“No kidding.” Aiden took another sip, wincing.
“No more,” he said, pushing it away.
“At least half.”
“Goddamn it!” Aiden picked up the glass and
hurled it. It cracked into several large pieces on the
kitchen floor, and chocolate-peanut-butter sludge coated
the floor and the nearby wall.
For a second, Aiden looked horrified, as though he
couldn’t believe what he’d done. Every muscle in his
body tensed, and he stared at the floor. His breathing
became shallow, and he closed his eyes.
First things first, thought Keaton. He’d worry about
the mess later. He stepped behind Aiden’s chair and
placed his hands on the boy’s shoulders. Aiden flinched,
and Keaton ignored it. Keaton moved his thumbs firmly,
slowly toward the base of Aiden’s neck, where he rubbed
small circles, pressing deep into the knotted tissue.
“Easy. You’re all right.”
He felt the boy tense, relax, tense, relax—like a
flickering lightbulb. Then Aiden slid out of his chair and
bolted upstairs. Keaton decided to give him a couple of
minutes before he went after him. He knelt on the floor
and picked up the large pieces of broken glass, then
sopped up the smoothie with paper towels. He headed
upstairs.
Aiden was gagging in the hall bathroom. Without
knocking, Keaton opened the door and went in. Aiden
was hunched over the toilet, bringing up strings of bile.
Keaton hooked an arm around him, supporting him, and
rubbed his back in slow, soothing circles. Even when
there was nothing left to throw up, Aiden continued to
gag and choke.
“That’s enough now,” Keaton said.
Aiden gagged again.
“Shh. Deep breath. You’re okay.” Keaton helped
Aiden to the sink to rinse his mouth out, speaking
soothingly to him. He wet a washcloth and wiped
Aiden’s tear-streaked face. He felt how hard Aiden was
trying to contain his sobs. “Let it out,” Keaton said. “It’s
fine.” But Aiden tensed and fought harder for control.
Keaton led him down the hall and into the guest room.
He stripped the boy of his shirt and pants and got him
into bed, pulling the covers over him. He sat on the edge
of the bed, one hand on Aiden’s shoulder. “Breathe,”
Keaton said.
Aiden choked, tears still flowing from his red,
swollen eyes.
Keaton got up, intending to get the boy a glass of
water, and was surprised when Aiden caught his wrist.
“Don’t go,” he whispered.
Warmth flooded Keaton. He sat back down on the
bed. “I was just going to get you some water.”
“Stay.”
Keaton kicked off his shoes and got on the bed,
propping himself up slightly with pillows. He shifted
Aiden so the boy’s head rested in his lap. Aiden grabbed
the fabric of Keaton’s pants with one hand as if to keep
Keaton there. Keaton stroked Aiden’s hair, and after a
few minutes, the boy quieted. His body stopped
shaking, and some of the tension left his muscles. “That’s
right,” Keaton said as Aiden drew a deep breath. “Good
boy.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t worry. Just rest.”
Aiden lifted his head from Keaton’s lap and