Breaking The Mold

by Drew Sera

  “And since Amy isn’t your soulmate, I suggest you stop pushing her to try to meet your needs. Do not break that woman.”

  He turned to leave, and I felt like shit. Blake was my chance to recoup twenty-five grand. That would have put me at $51,000.

  Depressed, I finished eating alone and drove home. The cost of the car Graves has would more than cover Johnny’s surgery. I loved my Challenger, but it was time to part with it to help my brother. Amy sold her car in a heartbeat, and she cut off Samantha from her payroll to help.

  Amy.

  She was willing to do anything to help my brother, yet I wasn’t willing to meet her in the middle with regards to our dynamic. I was pushing her to take more and more physical pain.

  I talked to Amy when I got home and said we needed to trade my car in for something cheaper. She seemed sad about it because she knew how much I loved my car. It was the one thing that I had to show my status. And now, I was losing it.

  Yet Blake had an expensive Mercedes. Colin fucking Everett had two obnoxious vehicles to show off whenever his mood dictated it. And Graves…he had that goddamn sexy BMW machine.

  Jesus Christ. My priorities were so fucked up.

  I woke up, and as I had my coffee, I tried to think of more ways to come up with the money. Amy helped me make a list of things around the house that I could sell, and she even volunteered to help me organize a garage sale.

  “Fuck, a garage sale, Amy?”

  The thought of doing a garage sale repulsed me. I never saw garage sales in my neighborhood, and I didn’t want to appear as needing money.

  “What’s wrong with a garage sale? People have them all of the time. In California—”

  “This isn’t California, Amy. People don’t have them in this neighborhood. I don’t want to look desperate for money.”

  “J.P., it’s for your brother. Who cares what others think?”

  I sat quietly and pictured myself putting out a cardboard box with poster board and “Sale” handwritten on the side.

  “I bet Everett and Graves have never had to do a fucking garage sale,” I bitched.

  “You have to stop comparing yourself to them, J.P.”

  I glared at her.

  “They have everything, Amy. I wonder what it’s like to never have to worry about money. To just say ‘I want this,’ or ‘I want that,’ and then it magically appears. They just swipe a little piece of plastic or pull out a wad of cash, and there it is. Everything.”

  Amy was quiet for the rest of the morning, and I was ready to take my car to get it appraised and sold. The fucking car place gave me $18,000 for mine, and I had to spend $11,000 of it for a five-year-old pick-up truck.

  Goodbye status car.

  We went to the bank afterward to deposit my pitiful fucking $7,000 check. When the teller handed me my receipt with my new balance, I stopped in my tracks. I asked the teller for the last few deposits because this balance was a lot higher than I thought it should be.

  “There is a $50,000 wire that came into your account this morning,” the teller said as she looked at her screen.

  “$50,000. Who is the sender?”

  “Blake Eriksson.”

  The amount was the cost of two years of Irons membership. Blake came through even after the way our meeting ended yesterday. When I got home, I called Blake.

  “Blake, thank you. I sold my car this morning and took the check to the bank. That’s when I found out about your wire.”

  “You’re welcome, Paul.”

  “I wasn’t expecting that amount. After last night I wasn’t expecting any of it.”

  “It’s for family. Brothers will go to the end of the world and back for one another. I know he means a lot to you.”

  “I don’t know how I’ll repay you anytime soon. Maybe next spring I can give you a little extra for membership.”

  “No. Just your regular dues. Not a cent more. Think of your last two years at Irons as a free pass.”

  I nodded and thanked him again before getting off the phone. As Amy and I did the math, I was pleased to see that we were more than half way to the cost for the surgery.

  Johnny was going to make it.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  October 2013

  J.P.

  We’re so close to our goal for my brother’s surgery. I liquidated some of my retirement account and had another $15,000 to put towards it. With that, I knew we were close to having enough for the surgery but on top of that would be the hospital fees.

  I was keeping that in mind when I told Amy that she could go ahead and organize the garage sale. I’d swallow my pride and permit the garage sale. Even if it only earned a few hundred dollars my brother could use it for medicine.

  I was in good spirits about the money I had pooled together and decided to call Johnny during my lunch break to tell him the good news. He answered the phone on the fourth ring, and a bad sounding cough came out after he said, “Hello.”

  “Johnny, how are you?”

  “Hey, Paul. I’m hanging in there.”

  “Good, because guess what? I have just under one hundred grand. We’re so close, man,” I exclaimed.

  I was surprised that he didn’t seem to share my enthusiasm but assumed it was because he just wasn’t feeling well.

  “Are you still there, Johnny?”

  “I’m here. I’m sorry, Paul. I know you’ve done all that you can, and I really appreciate it, but I don’t think the surgery is going to happen.”

  “What? Don’t be silly. We almost have the money.”

  “Paul, the anesthesiologist and hospital fees are estimated at $90,000.”

  What the fuck?

  I let my head lean against the headrest in my truck and shut my eyes. I hadn’t planned on another one hundred thousand. My heart sank, and I could hear it in his voice.

  “Paul…I don’t want to die yet. I’m not ready, man—”

  “Stop talking like that, Johnny. You’re not going to die until you’re a ripe old age.” I could hear his weak laughter on the other end and wiped my own eyes. “Like, ninety or something. You’re going to make it, Johnny.”

  “The money, Paul. It’s so expensive. We don’t have it.”

  “Let me worry about that. I pulled almost $100,000. I can get the rest, I just need a little time.”

  “Time isn’t something that I have, Paul.”

  I clenched my fist and slammed it on the cloth seat next to me and took a few deep breaths.

  “I will get the money as soon as I can. Do not pull yourself off that list for the surgery. Hang in there, Johnny. I love you, man.”

  “Love you too, Paul.”

  What the fuck is with these goddamn hospitals? They’re putting fucking price tags on lives.

  I went back inside, and in between filling prescriptions, I tried thinking of what else I could do for money. Every dime of the garage sale would have to go to the costs associated with the surgery, which meant no money for the prescriptions.

  As I eyed the aisles and shelves full of drugs, I knew that the drugs won’t be a problem for him. I’d just find out what was prescribed for him and would fill it myself. I’d have Amy come pick it up, and I’d “forget” to cash it out. Easy enough. On camera, it’ll appear that I’m giving the consultation and going over the medications. It’d be a lengthy conversation, and when finished, I’d just have forgotten to cash her out.

  While I was concentrating on writing down some possibilities, including a second job, one of the techs just wouldn’t stop talking about her and her husband. She fucking drove me nuts.

  “Geoffrey’s employer just started offering life insurance with their insurance policy. Do you know if we have that here, Paul?”

  “What? I don’t know, Tammie. Sorry,” I said and went back to my notebook.

  “I mean, of course, no one wants to think about that kind of stuff, but shit happens. Better off to be prepared for it than not at all. Right?”

  “Mmhmm,” I managed t
o mumble.

  “At least if something happens to him, I’d be taken care of.”

  Yeah, fucking right. She must have no clue how much shit actually costs. She’d be lucky enough for the life insurance to barely cover funeral costs.

  “I hate to burst your bubble, Tammie, but it’d most likely just cover funeral costs.”

  “No, his is really good.”

  She seemed to want to prove me wrong, and I was out of patience.

  “Really? What is ‘really good’ to you?” I asked and tossed my pen down.

  “On top of funeral costs, I get seventy-five percent of his annual salary, paid monthly until I die and then fifty percent of his salary goes to my beneficiary when I die. Hopefully, we’ll have a child.”

  Hmm. That sounded pretty good.

  “What does Geoffrey do for a living?” I asked, mildly interested in what seventy-five percent of an annual salary paid monthly would equate to.

  “He’s a pilot.”

  Fuck. He’s probably making at least one-hundred grand. What the fuck was this girl doing working as a tech when she’s got a ring from a pilot?

  “Why are you even working, Tammie?”

  “I’ve always wanted to work in a pharmacy. Geoffrey wants me to be happy. So, while he’s traveling, I work here. It gives me something to do,” she shrugged with a smile.

  I went back to my notebook, but my conversation with Tammie got me thinking. I pulled up our employee life insurance policy and read through it. Our insurance just does a quarter of our annual salary payable to our spouse or beneficiary.

  Realizing that I didn’t even have a beneficiary, I went ahead and made Johnny my beneficiary.

  My options were running out. I couldn’t go to Blake again. I already have two mortgages out on my house and barely have a car to get me from point A to point B. I’ve pulled all the money out from my retirement account that I can, drained my savings, and we’ve cut back on a lot of things.

  I had an option left that I didn’t want to use, but I was desperate. I thought about it for days before I actually followed through with it. When I saw Anthony standing alone at the bar, I approached him calmly.

  “Evening, Graves,” I said and ordered a beer from the bartender.

  As usual, the little fucking rich prince didn’t say anything. I knew Anthony had more money than he knew what to do with and if I could reach him, then I had a chance.

  I watched his throat move as he swallowed his water from the bottle at his lips. God, to feel his throat move against my hand would be unbelievable.

  “Would it kill you to acknowledge me, Graves?” I said under my breath. “Please,” I pleaded with him.

  Slowly his gray eyes moved from the bar top and met my eyes. He was listening to me; I had his attention. I glanced around the room and asked him if I could speak with him privately.

  “Talk, I’m right here.”

  “Please, Graves. Can we move to a more secluded area where our conversation can’t be heard by others?”

  He narrowed his eyes at me and glanced around us.

  “No one is around. No one is going to overhear whatever it is you feel necessary to say to me.”

  “Please, Anthony.”

  He set his empty water bottle down and motioned for me to lead the way. I led us to a high-top table that was secluded enough, and I sat down first. Seeing him sit across from me sent a chill down my spine. God, he was right fucking there.

  “Please hurry, Paul. When Colin’s ready I need to go.”

  “Of course.” I looked down at the table and then back up at him. “I know wanting something, or needing something, isn’t a feeling you’re familiar with—”

  “Stop. Don’t pretend that you know anything about me. You don’t know any struggles I may or may not have had. You don’t know what I’ve done to get here.”

  “Yes, I do Graves. You’ve done nothing.” I raised my eyebrows at him. “You simply got here by existing. Your father left you everything. You’re a silver spooner. It’s why you’ve never gotten over his death. Nothing is handed to you anymore.”

  “Fuck you, Paul.”

  Anthony stood to leave, and I reached out to grab his forearm. Oh fuck, I could feel the muscle flexing beneath his skin. He spun around and glared at me with those gray eyes of his. He looked so angry, and all I could think about was chaining him up and poking him until he burst into flames.

  “I can still help you, Anthony.”

  “Stay the fuck away from me,” he said through clenched teeth before yanking his arm away from me.

  As he stormed off in the direction of the stairs leading to the second level, Blake came into view. He had been leaning on another table a short distance away. As I walked by Blake, I directed the anger I felt with myself at him.

  “It’s not a crime for me to talk to him.”

  “Stay away from him, Paul,” Blake warned.

  I made it to my truck and then punched the headrest of the seat multiple times before I got tired and settled down. I blew it with Anthony. He gave me an inch, and I tried taking a mile.

  I made my way home to Amy to see how she did with finalizing our garage sale list.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  October 2013

  Amy

  Things with J.P. had been unpredictable lately. He’s under so much stress regarding his brother and had been needing the heavy-handed scenes. Ones that as much as I tried to handle, I couldn’t.

  I felt like I was losing him.

  Fearing that he’d leave, or kick me out, I told him that maybe until his brother has surgery that maybe it’d be wise for him to scene with some of the masochists from Irons. He was elated, and I think that disappointed me. While I wanted him to have his needs met, I wished that I could be the one to do it.

  He’s promised me that he won’t have sex with any of the masochists and he even takes me to Irons on those nights and has me watch. I think maybe it makes him feel better having me there to prove he’s being sexually faithful to me. It’s not the easiest thing to watch.

  Blake makes it bearable though. He always comes over and talks to me and pulls me out of my funk. Each time I watched J.P. scene though, it’s like he’s a stranger and wasn’t even the man I fell in love with.

  J.P. wanted to go to Irons tonight, and I told him he could go without me and that I’d stay home and work on making the solid list of items for the garage sale. He didn’t argue or beg me to go with him, so after I had a pity party for myself, I set out about the house with my notebook for the list of items.

  In the den, I found some old phones, an old printer and a few monitors in the closet. As I pulled down one of the monitors, the cord wouldn’t give. I tugged a bit harder, and a shoe box that the cord was caught on came crashing to the floor.

  “Pff,” I said as I shook the dust from my face and hair.

  I set the monitor down in the center of the room and came back to the closet to pick up everything that had fallen out of the shoe box. The floor was covered in papers and photos. I knelt down carefully since my knees were constantly bruised and began to gather the photos and a few caught my eye as I placed them back in the box.

  “What the hell?” I said under my breath as I stared at the pictures.

  They were photos of some of the people from Irons. Predominately, the pictures were of Anthony Graves. The backs of the photos had months and years written on them.

  “Oh, my God,” I said as I flipped through the pictures.

  The pictures ranged from April of 1996 all the way until just last month. My hands shook as I glanced through them. I was baffled by some of them. In some of the pictures, there were three people, and I assumed the men were Colin Everett and Anthony Graves. Anthony was easily identifiable in pictures even without his face because of the scar on his side. But the other man had J.P.’s face on it, though it clearly wasn’t him. The man’s body had some tattoos, and J.P. doesn’t have any tattoos…but it’s J.P.’s face.

  Did
he edit his face into these images?

  Oh, my God. This was unreal. Seventeen years’ worth of pictures of Anthony Graves in intimate settings and scenes with others. There were even pictures of him with the people in the after care stations…and pictures of him just sitting at the bar talking to some other guys. In many of those pictures, J.P.’s head was edited in so it appeared Anthony was casually talking with him. They looked like friends in the pictures.

  “My God, he looks so young,” I whispered as I stared at a few pictures from April and May of 1996 of Anthony.

  In addition to the date on the back of those photos, J.P. had written, “Candidate Anthony Davis Graves – 1st choice.”

  Other pictures through the summer months of 1996 had a few different phrases written on the back. One of the phrases that repeated was, “You will crave me. You’re dark and need me. We’re alike.”

  The fall months of 1996 had cruel phrases on the backs of disturbing photos. These photos had two men; one of them obviously in the submissive role, while the other was beating or hurting the submissive man. The Dom in the photos clearly was J.P., but the submissive man had Anthony’s face…but it wasn’t him. There wasn’t a scar.

  Tons of pictures surrounded me on the floor of J.P. beating, or engaged in some sexual act, with a man that appeared to be Anthony. Or at least, Anthony’s head edited onto the bodies. Many of the phrases on the backs said, “You need this,” or “You deserved this,” or “Beg me to stop,” or “I can be your new daddy, you don’t need fucking Blake.”

  I covered my mouth with my hand as my eyes danced nervously over the images spread out on the floor. I wasn’t even sure what to think, but my head was going a mile a minute.

  My hands sorted through the images quickly, trying to find the ones from last month. They had Anthony and Colin photographed in scenes with another woman, but Colin’s head was replaced by J.P.’s.

  This wasn’t healthy.

  My first thought was to call Samantha, but I decided against it. This was something J.P. and I needed to deal with; not an outsider.