I know what happens next, since it’s happened more times that I can remember. My rational thought is gone, leaving me in survival mode. I just have to make it through to the end, because there’s always an end.
Jeremy calling me, trying to stop me from leaving, almost broke me. He shouldn’t care about me. I’ve given him no reason to.
But I need it.
For once, someone cares about more than just what I can do on the ice. I don’t know what to do with it. With Jeremy. How do I let him in when I’ve never let anyone in? It scares me more than anything my father threatens. Is it selfish to want it anyway?
The driver drops us off in front of the building and without a word, I climb out and follow along behind my father.
I’ve only been inside the penthouse once. It was enough.
The space is modern, with sleek lines and shiny surfaces. Nothing about it is inviting but it does scream money and that’s all he’s ever been concerned with.
“Go change,” Father says over his shoulder while he pours himself a drink from the decanter on the liquor cabinet.
I don’t argue or fight. That takes too much brain power. In the bathroom, I find the box with my compression shorts in it and pull them out.
The room is gleaming black stone and glass and huge. It’s definitely bigger than my dorm room. One wall is a window looking out over Denver with the mountains behind it. It’s beautiful but makes me feel nothing.
Compression shorts are all I’m allowed to wear during correction. He knows I hate being exposed, so he does it to make me uncomfortable and to prove he’s got the upper hand. I don’t think he’s realized that I’ve given it to him and there’s a countdown to when I take it back. Does that knowledge help me deal with it? No.
I strip my clothes off, take a shower, and put on the fucking shorts. Then I stand in front of the mirror and wait for him to come get me. The tension in my body grows with every passing minute, not knowing when something will happen. He’s never predictable.
Sometimes I stand here for five minutes, other times it’s hours. Will he start with the scalpel or cattle prod? Will I have to pick which happens first? Maybe an ice bath is what he has in store for me first.
The air conditioner turns on, the cold air prickling my bare skin.
Even I don’t recognize myself in the mirror. Who is this guy?
You’re a freak. Jeremy will never accept you.
What is there for him to like?
You’re a constant failure.
Your mother would hate you. It’s better that she’s dead and you can’t embarrass her now.
When the door finally opens, I don’t know whether to be afraid or relieved.
I flick my gaze to him as he steps inside, holding the jacket Jeremy left at the dinner and a jar of peanut butter with a spoon sticking out of it.
Fuck.
“Tell me, Charles.” He stops in front of me, lifting the jacket. “Why was that imbecile wearing this?”
I keep my stare on the mirror in front of me, trying to disassociate and lose myself in my own head, but it doesn’t work. His slap across my cheek makes my body jerk and heat singes my skin. I don’t make a sound or try to protect myself from him. There’s no use. He’ll make me regret it another way if I do.
Logically, I know I’m bigger, faster, and stronger than him. But the little boy inside me is terrified of this man. The little boy who lives in my chest trembles at the thought of my father. Shutting down, making myself numb, is the only way I’ve found to protect him from the pain.
“I expect an answer, Charles.” He runs his finger along the newest scar on my chest. Every muscle I possess tightens, making my body shake with the effort to not shove him away from me. It turns my stomach. The skin is numb, but I can feel the pressure in the tissue underneath it, then some spots tingle like my nerves were hit with a jolt of electricity.
My teeth ache from the clench of my jaw. I can see it in my reflection, the lack of life in my eyes, the tense set of my shoulders. Why would anyone want to be around me? I’m an asshole on the best of days. Keeping everyone at arm’s length to protect myself means my people skills suck.
I’m the personification of this apartment.
“Charles!”
“He doesn’t own a suit right now, so I offered mine.” It’s as close to the truth as I can get. If my father finds out I went on a jealous rage because Jeremy was wearing Brendon’s, he would find a way to use it to blackmail me or find a way to hurt Jeremy to keep him away from me. Probably both.
“Since when are you altruistic?”
“If anyone on the team looks bad, we all look bad.” The motto has been beaten into me since I was a child. Father insisted on perfection for all of us. After Mom died, it was my job to keep Lily in line or pay for it later.
I usually paid for it later. Not because Lily was a difficult child, but because I refused to scare her into compliance. She was barely more than a toddler when Mom died.
“What have I told you about taking care of your things?” The cold tone sends a shiver down my spine.
“If I can’t keep track of my things, I don’t deserve to have anything.” I don’t know how many times I’ve said those words. How many times did he take everything from my room but a blanket on the floor and the clothes I needed for school?
A backhand snaps my head to the side again, the instant sting on my cold skin forcing a hiss from me.
He tosses the jacket on my clothes that I left on the counter, grabs the peanut butter, and shoves a spoonful into my mouth. I gag but keep it down.
I hate peanut butter. It’s the only thing he allows me to eat during correction.
My stomach revolts but I have to swallow it. If I throw it up, I’ll be made to eat more. Probably the entire jar.
My mouth floods with saliva, the muscles of my abdomen clench painfully, trying to get rid of the thick paste in my mouth. Father stands there with a lifted eyebrow, watching me with no emotion.
By the time the peanut butter is down my throat, sweat is breaking out across my forehead, but it’s done.
Father takes my pile of clothes and turns toward the door, turning at the last second to speak to me. “If you would act right and pay attention, I wouldn’t have to do this.”
“Yes, sir.”
The door closes and, once again, I’m left alone to stare at my reflection and wonder what he has planned. There’s no way I’m leaving this place without a new cut and I won’t be allowed to sleep. The only thing I have going for me now is I have to be back in my room by tomorrow night, so at least I know when this will end.
How long have I been standing here? The sun is down and has been for a long time. The sky above the mountains is almost black in the distance.
I keep falling asleep only to jerk awake when my body starts to relax. One of these times, I know I’m going to slam my face into the counter, probably break my nose or something.
Images of Jeremy last night filter through my exhausted brain when I’m too tired to keep them out. Even in the dark, the flush of his skin was clear. His moans when I left marks on his body haunt me now that I have zero hope of hearing them.
Why did he let me touch him?
His acceptance of whatever I wanted calmed me, soothed the fear and anxiety that is my constant companion. He seemed to need me just as much as I needed him. Why does he care about me? Doesn’t he know I’m not worth the effort?
I shake my head and suck in a deep breath, rolling my shoulders to get my heart pumping a bit. The waiting might be the worst part of this. Knowing pain is coming but not when is a special kind of torment.
Footsteps sound in the hallway and I hold my breath. Both wanting it to open so I can get it over with and hoping it doesn’t so he leaves me alone.
“Prepare the table.”
Here we go.
On the top shelf of the hall closet is a black box with a lid and a label that says “CHARLES” in his hand writing. Pulling it down, I make my way to the dining room and set it on the chair at the head of the table. Inside are the sanitized tarp and the medical supplies, including his suture kit and scalpel.
On autopilot, I get the plastic sheet laid out and his supplies sealed in a bag set at the seat I suspect he’ll want, the one next to my right shoulder, then climb on the table and lie down. The plastic rustling with my movements is a sound I’ll remember the rest of my life.
My hands open and close in fists at my side as I wait for my father to come in.
This room doesn’t have tiles to count. The floor-to-ceiling windows on my left show the busy life of the city below and a chandelier hangs in the center of the table. The ceiling is gray and flat. Nothing to focus on.
The faucet turns on in the kitchen, probably my father washing his hands before putting on gloves and coming in here.
Goosebumps break out on my skin as the air conditioning kicks on again, blowing directly on me.
Father comes in with blue surgical gloves, a blue surgical gown, and a clear plastic face shield. This outfit haunts my fucking dreams. If I have to have surgery at a hospital, they’ll have to sedate me long before I get to the table to avoid me freaking the fuck out.
The plastic sheeting under me crinkles as I breathe and he moves things around, prepping my skin with an alcohol swab. I refuse to let myself do anything more than just lay here and take it. Staring up at the ceiling while he gets started, I inhale sharply when the blade pierces my skin and the clenched muscle below.
It burns, stings, as he drags the insanely sharp blade through the flesh on my chest. Blood trickles hot against my cold skin to pool on the tarp. Sweat dampens my face, back, and the middle of my chest as my heart rate spikes, adrenaline making my hands tremble. I close my eyes to focus on my breathing, slowing my heart rate, and convincing my muscles to relax.
Behind my eyes is Jeremy dropping to his knees and swallowing my cock in an instant. His hollowed cheeks as he choked, his unmatching eyes locked on mine while he lets me use his mouth.
“Why are we here, Charles?” My father’s matter of fact voice interrupts my daydream, the only coping skill I have left, the way he always does.
