“Victor.” Clive cleared his throat and squeezed my knee. “Look at me.”
“I thought that was just part of your sex kink.”
He scoffed and pinched my thigh again, prompting me to drag my heavy eyelids open so I could see him. He’d slid back into his underwear and was sitting at the edge of the bed. Post-sex Clive was hot as hell. His eyes were still all heavy-lidded, his lips puffy from biting on them, and he couldn’t stop touching me. He was gliding his fingertips along my leg in a gentle way that did not match up with the take that dick, slut mode he’d been in a few minutes ago.
“Isn’t that a kink thing?” I pressed. “Some dominance shit?”
“It’s something,” he said, dragging his finger up above my knee. “I like being in charge. I like ordering someone to do what I want, when I want, and having them get off on it. And I like going hard. Pretty much the opposite of what you want, right?”
I crumbled the sheet in my hand. “Yeah, I guess.”
A flicker of the usual Clive came back with all of his irritated impatience. “You guess?”
“I mean, yeah, fuck. Whatever.” I pushed myself up. “I need to clean up.”
Clive dropped his hand. “Are we really going to do this?”
“Do what? I just want to wipe the eight ounces of semen off me, man.”
“Fine. You do that, and then bring your ass back in here. I’m not done with you.”
Did that mean more fucking? The idea lit my entire body up like a Christmas tree, which… was a real big indicator that I needed to not screw this up.
I took a deep breath, nodded, and then awkwardly left the room bare assed naked to head to the bathroom. It was an old house, so there was no master bathroom. It felt weird to go out into the dark hall without clothes on. It was max unprofessional.
Guilt cracked me hard, and I dropped my head as it weighed down on me like a blanket. I couldn’t shuck it even when I washed up and stopped by my room for some cigarettes and a fresh pair of underwear. I returned to his room, cigarette in my mouth.
Clive laughed. “Cliché.”
“I’m stressed. I need to smoke.”
He sobered a bit. “Open the window.”
I shoved it open with an obnoxious shriek, then sat on the edge of the wide sill. For several moments, Clive watched me smoke as he lay on the bed. It felt weird. Like he was enjoying the sight of me. Like I was his to enjoy.
“This is weird,” I muttered.
“Why is it weird?”
“Because you just beast fucked me so hard you made me nut.”
Clive’s mouth tugged up at the side. There was a gleam in his eyes that made it clear he was definitely up for a round two in the foreseeable future. “And that’s weird?”
“Uh, yeah, that’s pretty weird, my guy.” I exhaled a stream of smoke and slumped against the window. The air was cold against my back, but I didn’t move. “After all these years of staying away from guys, and it happens again. You’d think after last time, enough would have been enough.”
Clive propped himself up, hand against his face. “You’re really good at deflecting every single thing that happens in your life, kid.”
“How do you figure?”
“It happened again? Enough would have been enough?” Clive scoffed. “You act like a gay demon slipped into your body and made you open your legs for me. Like it should have learned its gay demon lesson since you were with Shawn but keeps making these bad gay decisions.”
I bit the inside of my cheek, trying not to laugh.
“Am I wrong? Did you not just take away your own agency?”
“I don’t even know what that means. My agency. Are we secret gay agents?”
This time it was Clive visibly trying not to laugh. “No, fool. It means you’re restructuring the narrative of your life to make it sound like things just happen to you as a result of other people or things, and you’ve had zero choices or decisions in the matter. You acting based on your own desires and wants is your agency.”
I rolled my eyes. “You sound like my sister.”
“Probably because your sister is highly intelligent.” Clive sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. “Let’s try this. Restate what you said using ‘I’ statements.”
“Oh my God, man. You’re fucking wack. I feel like I’m in therapy.”
Clive’s face practically lit up. “Have you been in therapy before?”
“Briefly.” I took another drag of my cigarette. “It was stupid and the dude was a dumbass who didn’t get where I was coming from, so let’s just not discuss it.”
“Fine. But I still want you to restate what you said.”
“This is dumb. And a total turnoff.”
Clive sneered. “You love dick, Victor. I could whip out a behavioral intelligence workbook, make you do it, and you’d still be fiending for me to come down your throat after.”
My heart skipped a beat, and my breath huffed out a bit. “Okay, whatever.” I ignored his self-satisfied little smirk. “After… all these years of me staying celibate and trying not to be weak and find someone on an app or some shit, I just begged you to fuck me. And I should know better than to start something up again after what happened between me and Shawn last time.”
Clive nodded. “Was that so hard?”
I flipped him off.
“Can I point something out?”
“Can I stop you?”
He smirked again. “What happened to Shawn had nothing to do with the two of you having a sexual relationship. From the way you describe him, Shawn seemed to have very little control of his own behavior or emotions, and was a violent individual. It sounded like he was jealous because you were still into Ray, and he decided he wanted to hurt Ray to make himself feel better. Is that inaccurate?”
My brows snapped together. “I don’t know about all that. He was just fucking me because I was a willing hole, man. Because I begged him for it and he could get off. I doubt he was jealous.”
“Bullshit,” Clive said sharply. “Even if you were just a willing hole, and he had no romantic intentions towards you, you were his willing hole. One that enjoyed rough sex and probably letting him do whatever he wanted to you. Right?”
I shrugged, looking away.
“I’m not naïve enough to confuse lust and control and ownership with love, Victor. I know very well how it feels to want someone’s body without feeling an ounce of affection for them. But if he was fond of having control of that big powerful body of yours, and he thought there was a chance you’d move on to Ray…” Clive cocked his head. “Why else would he be so fixated on your crush? It was a control thing. And he happened to be a violent individual with zero impulse control from the sound of it.”
I wanted to deny it, but it made sense. It made way more sense than the story that had been in my mind for years—that Shawn had rushed out to rid me of Raymond.
“And then he died not because you two argued and he ran out of the apartment,” Clive said quietly. “But because a bunch of murderers killed him. That’s on them. Not you. Not Shawn. He died because someone killed him.”
I blinked rapidly and lit another cigarette. “Can we not talk about this?”
“Obviously we don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. But do you see what I’m trying to say?”
“Yeah.” I saw his point, and I knew he was right, but I was still coiled tight and waiting for something to go wrong. Or my brain to rewire and make myself feel like shit for wanting him. “What about your ‘I’ statements?”
Clive raised an eyebrow.
“Yeah, you heard me. Why don’t you state to me why you ran out of that wedding party like a bat out of hell? Using I statements.”
He pursed his lips, a look of annoyance spreading over him, before he sighed. “I tried to escape the sight of my happy ex-boyfriend and his disgustingly attractive husband. Then I was followed by my ex-boyfriend, who pointed out that I keep running away from him, so I told him that I’d
lied about cheating on him when I broke up with him, and that I suspected he and his bottom-feeder husband had already been fucking, anyway. Then I left after he got pissed.”
“Did you legit call him a bottom-feeder?”
“No. I called him a scavenger.”
I burst out laughing. “Man, you’re bugging. How are you going to insult his husband then storm off when he gets mad? I’d get mad if someone insulted you, and we just had sex like thirty seconds ago.”
“Because you like me,” Clive said smugly.
“Uh-huh. Don’t be changing the subject. Look, you made it sound like Nunzio was in love with Michael forever, which maybe was shitty for you to watch but imagine how shitty it was for him to watch you and Michael be together? That was his lifelong friend, man. And he probably felt like he couldn’t make a move.”
“I fail to see how that’s my problem.”
“Well, all I’m saying is, you should consider doing a little behavior workbook about how to stop casting him as the Angelina to your Brad.”
Clive stared at me. “Am I Jennifer Anniston in this scenario?”
My mouth twitched.
“Fuck you, Victor.”
“Fine. Stop making him the… the fucking Becky to your Jay-Z.”
Clive looked infinitely happier to be Beyoncé in that cheating scenario. “I’ll work on that as soon as you work out your gay demon narratives. But in the meantime, give me a cigarette.”
“Whoa. You serious?”
“Dead serious,” he said dryly. “I don’t smoke much, but this conversation calls for some deep breathing exercises.”
I pushed away from the window to hand one over. When I offered my lighter, he grabbed the back of my neck and drew me in so he could light the end of his cigarette off the cherry of mine. It was weirdly intimate, so much so that goosebumps spread over my skin, but I couldn’t look away.
He inhaled, causing the cherry to flare, and pulled the cigarette away from his mouth. I hesitated, and he leaned in to kiss me. It started as the same dry soft kiss as earlier, then he parted his lips and flicked his tongue at mine. I opened my mouth and groaned when his tongue slid against mine. If he’d meant for it to be a quick kiss, he had to be in for a surprise because I went from tentative to hungry for his taste.
I feasted on his mouth, tasting every part of him, and sunk to my knees in front of him like I’d done earlier. It was desperate. Kind of pathetic, really, to be this into a guy’s mouth and touch, but there was zero part of me that cared. I could barely think straight as the kiss grew slippery and our teeth clashed, but when he pulled away for a breath… one thing was certain.
I wanted him to fuck me again.
Clive took a slow deep breath then brought his cigarette back to his mouth. I did the same, still on my knees, still watching him closely for a reaction or a judgement.
“So,” he said, voice gravelly. “We have an agreement?”
It took me a minute, but then I remembered. If I behaved, he would fuck me as much as I wanted for as long as I wanted him to.
“Yes.”
Cross Island, ch 15
Chapter Fifteen
Clive
The direct messages from my stalker had been sitting in my Twitter inbox for weeks.
How does it feel to know they used you? Did you get a bonus?
They made a fortune on their lie and you’re still alone and friendless in your big cold house. How does it feel, mouthpiece?
You let them use you, and it makes me sick. You’re not one of them, and they would never fight for you. They don’t even appreciate you. You’re as alone as I am, mouthpiece. You go to work, go on your long runs, go to the gym, then you go home. Rinse. Repeat. The rest of them are a big happy family… EXCEPT YOU. They USED YOU.
He’s not your type.
Scared?
You disgust me.
Wow. This shows how desperate you are, mouthpiece. That you’d settle because none of your big queer family will give you the time of day. Have some dignity.
And if your bitch comes at me again, I won’t hold back.
The messages had been sent over a period of six weeks, and they were all from an inactive Twitter account called TruthSeekr. It was a sad play on QFindr, and I wasn’t impressed. I was even less impressed with the fact that my stalker was stupid enough to begin contacting me directly for the attention he wasn’t getting by loitering around my block. It was foolish but ultimately… not a surprise even if it sent a shiver down my spine to know these words had been written by the man himself.
If I went by the dates, the original correspondence had come at the tail end of the depositions for the civil suit. The rant about how QFindr had used me had come on the day of the settlement, and everything after had come following Victor’s appearance at my house. The emails made it blatantly clear that this person was spying on me, and even alluded to the fact that they knew about the sexual relationship that had evolved between Victor and I only a week ago. That, more than anything else, was shocking. Either the stalker had come near the house or he’d followed us enough to see my hand linger too long on one of Victor’s broad shoulders at the park after one of our runs. Fucking hadn’t just served as a physical outlet for me. It had activated chemistry that had already been there and was now impossible to ignore.
Clearly, the stalker had noticed.
The most fascinating and disturbing part of it all was that the emails weren’t being sent specifically to intimidate me. Obviously it was harassment, but the real red flag was how they’d gone from ranting about the lawsuit to a fixation specifically on my personal life. On me and my loneliness and what they perceived as desperation to not be alone. Somehow, over the course of the past month, my stalker had become interested in me as a person. Me and our shared loneliness. And my potential involvement with Victor had enraged the person… who had a surprisingly candid view of my relationship with the QFindr staff. In fact, the person had a pretty solid perspective on how the startup’s whole vibe was “big queer family”.
“What are you looking so serious for?”
I flicked Twitter off the screen of my phone and slipped it into my pocket. “Just checking my work emails.”
Victor glanced at me briefly before turning his attention back to the road. That minor interaction gave away his suspicion, which was mind-blowing. He’d known me for only a little over a month, and he could already pinpoint minor changes in my tone. My tells. Michael had been with me for two years, and he’d been oblivious to the pain he’d caused me time and time again when it came to Nunzio. It was interesting how different things could be when someone paid attention to you.
I dragged my teeth over my lower lip and frowned through the windshield. It was snowing hard enough for Victor to be drive slower than his usual heart attack speed, and for me to have enough time to digest everything I’d just seen.
I knew, reasonably, what I’d told the QFindr staff to do when their harassment had begun: immediately send all documentation of harassment to me. In their circumstance, it was all that could be done. Even if my stalker wasn’t using TOR or some other IP masking mechanism, the NYPD wouldn’t act unless I had solid evidence connecting these messages to the man who’d been outside my house. And given I had no proof that the person lingering on the block was the same person who’d put the note in my mailbox… it was a nonstop circus of circumstantial evidence that would never get us anywhere until we had concrete proof.
The more I involved other people, the less likely it would be that I would figure out a plan to put any of it together. Although, one thing was starting to become clear to me: given the language of the messages, it seemed likely that the enraged sender was connected to the lawsuit and QFindr.
“I wonder what Travis Gills has been up to lately.”
Victor glanced at me again, longer this time. “The rich motherfucker who got himself sued by y’all?”
“Yes, that’s the one. The last thing I heard was that his family had disown
ed his sorry behind.”
“Uh-huh.” Victor narrowed his eyes through the windshield. “And our friend showed up the same night you got his money, right?”
My mouth twitched. “The night we settled? Yeah. After that stupid ass party they forced on me at QFindr. The timing makes sense. I just want to know if he’s been on anyone’s radar since then because he’s the person who seems more likely to have a specific vendetta against me.”
“I’m surprised we didn’t think of that shit already.”
Frankly, I was surprised too. So surprised that I felt like an asshole for not thinking about it sooner, but it hadn’t seemed like his style. The Travis Gills I knew had been quiet and sullen with a permanent pout that bordered on a sneer, mumbled disagreements at staff meetings, and a general air of laziness. Honestly, I’d paid him very little mind until one day when he’d come poking around my office, asking vague inquiries about whether he could trademark an idea he had for a new app. His questions had been generally nonsensical, and I’d brushed him off. He’d seem offended by the lack of assistance or interest in his brilliant idea, and I’d forgotten about his existence until he was fired.
From what I’d gathered from his social media, he was self-loathing about what he saw as his lack of accomplishments, bitter at marginalized people who excelled where he didn’t, and had failed time and time again to meet someone on various dating apps. In short, he’d looked to me like every other bitter white boy who thought someone owed him a measure of success or attention just on account of his skin color.
During the depositions, he’d been a sniveling coward who made angry faces or coughed into his hand when things weren’t going his way.
It hadn’t occurred to me that this puny child would have the guts to stand in front of my house, because if he tried anything I could crush him. But now I wasn’t sure if he intended to hurt me or if he just wanted to stare at me because he thought we had some weird connection due to being “used” by QFindr and damned to loneliness.
Cross Island Page 15