by J. A. Rock
provided a foundation for Aiden’s and Hera’s friendship,
but now they argued constantly.
He knew he needed to make other living
arrangements, but he wasn’t sure how to go about it. The
idea of living alone terrified him. Being alone meant
being alone with memories of Scott. He wasn’t sure how
keen he was on living with strangers, but it might be
better than this. Strangers, at least, wouldn’t badger him
to eat or tell him he should consider counseling.
He’d had an excuse to avoid food the first few days
—the damage to his rectum made going to the bathroom
painful, and it had been easy to refuse meals. But now
Hera wanted him to eat three meals a day. Not going to
happen. He was already panicked over what the missed
gym time was doing to his body. No way was he going
to lie around here getting fat. Even the idea of food made
him sick.
He could sometimes eat meals Kim prepared. Her
vegan cooking wasn’t too heavy or greasy, and it tasted
good. He liked the evenings when Hera and Sloane both
worked and he could help Kim cook. They’d eat in
silence or watch a movie, and Aiden would forget about
Scott for a while.
He tried to go out in the evenings. His plan was
always to go to bars and meet guys he could spend the
night with so that Hera and her fiancées could have some
privacy. But he never made it to the bars. Something in
him balked at the idea of spending the night at a
stranger’s—at having sex. He spent a lot of time at the
library or the coffee shop, trying to muster up the
concentration to read a book, or else staring in frozen
terror at his grad school applications.
Auditions for the next community theater
production had come and gone. He’d received a couple
of texts from his Twelfth Night cast mates, reminding him
to audition, but he’d never answered. He didn’t answer
Scott’s calls, either. Please leave me alone, he begged
silently whenever his phone buzzed and Scott’s number
appeared.
One evening he was walking downtown when he
passed a two-story house with light blue siding and a
ROOM FOR RENT sign out front. He knocked on the
door and was given a grand tour by a short, heavy
woman in a tank top and pajama pants. The house
seemed to harbor far more people than there were
rooms. The kitchen was messy and full of tarnished
coffee cans that served as communal ashtrays. Still, the
room was only three hundred a month, and living here
would get him out of Hera’s way until he could reclaim
his old apartment. He told the woman he’d think it over
and call her tomorrow.
Hera was outraged when he told her. “No way are
you going to live in some slimy, overcrowded boarding
house when you have a perfectly good couch right here.”
“You know you don’t want me here,” Aiden
protested. “I’m in the way, I’m not paying rent, and I
know I’m not much fun to be around these days… ”
“You’re perfectly fun. I love having you here.
You’re pissy a lot, but who wouldn’t be after an
experience like yours. Just relax.”
Aiden tried, but it was hard. Especially once Sloane
let it slip that he was keeping her up at night.
He and Sloane were arguing about something
stupid—which set of knives could go in the dishwasher
and which had to be done by hand—when Sloane
suddenly stopped and apologized. “I don’t mean to be
so grouchy,” she said. “I’m just a lighter sleeper than the
other two, and you make it really hard to get a good
night’s sleep.”
“What do you mean?” Aiden asked.
Sloane shrugged. “We’ve all tried to be cool about
it.”
“Cool about what?”
“Come on. Are you telling me you don’t wake
yourself up, yelling like that?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Every fucking night, you scream in your sleep! It
wakes us all up. Or it used to wake us all up. Now it just
wakes me up. Kimmie and Hera are used to it.”
Aiden’s throat tightened, and he flushed. Was he
really shouting in his sleep each night? Why hadn’t
anyone said anything before now?
“Look,” Sloane said wearily. “I know you’ve had it
rough—”
“What do you know about how rough I’ve had it?”
Aiden demanded.
“I know your boyfriend beat you up and raped
you.”
Aiden slammed down the plate he was drying, too
angry to speak.
“Look… ” Sloane frowned. “Maybe you should
think about seeing a psychologist or something. I know
someone who—”
Aiden walked out of the room. He barely spoke to
Hera when she came home that evening, and he stayed
awake all night, afraid he’d fall asleep and scream.
Chapter Ten
Keaton was packing up his office for the day when
someone knocked on his door. “Come in,” he called,
hoping whoever it was wouldn’t keep him long. His
afternoon ceramics class had been fun. He’d had the
students do “picture rants”—illustrations, in a medium
of their choice, of something that had been bugging them
lately. He enjoyed teaching, but it would be a relief to
get home and spend some time alone in his studio.
He looked up as Hera Bennings, one of his ceramics
students, entered.
“Hi,” Hera said.
“Have a seat.” Keaton gestured to the chair in front
of his desk. Hera sat down. “What can I help you with?”
“I don’t know if you can help me or not. But I
thought I’d ask.”
Her seriousness alarmed Keaton. Usually Hera was
in high spirits, laughing, joking. He’d noticed she
seemed down today in class. “I’ll try my best.”
“When we did our picture rants today—” She
“When we did our picture rants today—” She
hesitated. “Your rant was about how you spent all that
money last year to have your guest room redecorated,
but you haven’t had a single guest.”
Keaton smiled. “It’s true. I painted those walls by
hand— and have yet to host overnight company.”
Hera picked at the chair’s upholstery. “I know it’s
completely out of line for me to even suggest this. I’m
presuming something about you that’s unfair and
inappropriate, and I’m sorry. But I was thinking about
the de Sade illustrations you showed us the other day,
and—”
The smile slipped from Keaton’s face. There’s no way
she could know…could she?
“I have a friend who’s involved in the BDSM
lifestyle.”
She looked him in the eye, and he struggled to keep
his expression neutral.
“I thought—My friend thought maybe he’d seen
you at a leather club. Obey?”
Keaton didn’t answer.
Letting the wrong people
know about his interest could cost him his job. Hera
didn’t seem like she was here to accuse him of anything.
He waited.
Hera sighed. “I’m making a mess of this. He—my
friend recently had a bad experience with his top. He
was injured, and now he’s… it’s bad. He gave up his job
was injured, and now he’s… it’s bad. He gave up his job
and his apartment for this guy, and he’s got nowhere to
go. I just thought… if you were part of the BDSM
community, maybe you understand more about these
things than I do. Maybe you could talk to him. I’m not
trying to like, pawn him off on you. I was just—Even if
you could just meet him sometime and—if you had any
ideas for—Shit.”
Keaton held up his hand. “Slow down.”
Hera stood up. “I don’t know what I was thinking.
This is so inappropriate of me. I just don’t know what to
do anymore. I’m so worried about him. And when you
said you had a guest room available… But this so isn’t
your problem. I’m an idiot.” She tried to smile, her
cheeks bright red. “I’ll go now.”
“Hold on. Your friend—is he—I mean, is he
physically okay?”
Hera nodded. “He’s healing. Or his body is. He’s
still pretty jumpy. I mean, his top beat the shit out of him
and practically raped him—well, I think he did rape him,
but Aiden won’t—”
“Aiden? Aiden Cole?”
“You know him? Aiden said he only saw you at the
club once, and you guys didn’t talk.”
It was Keaton’s turn to blush. “I—talked to
someone who knew him.” Keaton cleared his throat. “I
also saw him a few weeks ago at Jackson Pier. He didn’t
look so good.”
Hera shook her head. “He’s not eating, not
sleeping. Scott really messed with him. The man is
fucking evil—sorry. I keep forgetting you’re my teacher.”
“I think this conversation is already past the
bounds of appropriate student-teacher interaction.”
Keaton half smiled. “Where is Aiden living now?”
“He’s crashing with me. But it’s a little, uh—
crowded. I have—roommates.”
Keaton wrote his cell number on a piece of paper.
“I’d like to meet with Aiden. Tell him to call me and
we’ll set up lunch or coffee or something. If he needs a
place to stay, I’m more than happy to provide it. But he
and I need to talk things through first.”
“Talk things through?” Hera bit her lip. “You’re a
top, right?”
Keaton tried not to blush. “Yes.”
“He’s not—I don’t want you to think… I don’t think
Aiden’s looking for anyone right now. You know what I
mean?”
Keaton felt a rush of warmth toward Hera. She’d
done a risky thing, coming here to talk to him about this.
It was clear that she really cared about Aiden. “I know
exactly what you mean,” he assured her. “If Aiden comes
to stay with me, I won’t expect anything from him. I’ll
give him a place to rest and heal and figure things out,
and offer what guidance I can. As a friend.”
Hera looked relieved. “Thank you.” She slipped
Keaton’s number into her pocket. “I’ll have him call you
this weekend. Well, assuming he doesn’t freak out when
I tell him I talked to you.”
“He doesn’t know you’re here?”
Hera shook her head. “He’s not very good at asking
for help.”
Keaton smiled. “Well, luckily I’m good at giving it.
Even when it’s not asked for.”
Chapter Eleven
Aiden reached the doors of the Corner Café and
almost kept walking—it would have been so much
easier than going inside. But he made himself stop, heart
thumping, stomach clenched. He was still pissed at Hera
for making him do this. He wasn’t interested in Keaton
Hughes—or any top, anywhere, ever, for that matter.
And no fucking way was he going to go stay in Keaton’s
house and mooch off him.
A vain part of him was ashamed that Keaton would
see him like this. He’d dressed nicely, but there were still
bruises fading on one side of his face, and he hadn’t been
to the gym since the day of the cast party, almost two
weeks ago.
Oh well. It was either this or the fucking boarding
house—or continuing to inconvenience Hera and her
girlfriends. He took a deep breath and opened the door.
He saw Keaton right away, sitting at a high table in
the corner with his notebook out. Aiden watched him for
a moment, amazed that he could feel the sense of calm,
of peace radiating from the man even across a crowded
café. Keaton looked up and spotted Aiden. He smiled.
For just a second, Aiden felt wonderfully happy, as
though nothing would ever go wrong for him again.
Then he remembered why he was here.
He made his way to the table, head down, wincing
as a waitress bumped him. He’d come to hate crowded
places—people brushing against him, bumping him. He
slipped into the chair across from Keaton. “Hey.”
“Hello, Aiden.” Keaton’s voice was so warm Aiden
couldn’t help but release the breath he’d been holding.
Keaton passed him a menu. Aiden opened it, hoping
Keaton wasn’t as fanatic about clean plates as he was
about wearing coats. Aiden didn’t feel the least bit
hungry.
“How has your morning been?” Keaton asked.
“Okay.” The pictures of soup and sandwiches on
the menu made Aiden queasy. He slipped off his jacket
and hung it on the back of his chair. “I wore a coat,” he
tried to joke. The words came out a sullen mutter.
Keaton laughed. “I am happy to see that.”
The waiter came, and Keaton ordered a lemonade.
Aiden asked for coffee.
“Do you know what you’re getting?” Aiden tried to
be polite. He felt angry for some reason he couldn’t
pinpoint. He wished he was back at Hera’s lying on the
couch instead of here trying to make small talk with this
man.
“I’m thinking seriously about a turkey club,”
Keaton replied. “You?”
“I might get that too.”
“You look like you could use three or four,”
Keaton teased.
“I’m fine,” Aiden snapped. What the hell is wrong
with you? he asked himself. When did Keaton imply you
weren’t fine? “Sorry,” he mumbled.
When Keaton didn’t reply, Aiden looked up to find
the blue-gray eyes watching him with—not pity, not
amusement. Just a steadiness, a quiet understanding.
Aiden blushed and looked back at his menu.
They ordered, and Keaton tucked his journal back
in his bag.
“What do you write in there?” Aiden asked.
“Oh. Thoughts. Anecdotes. Ideas for projects.”
“You’re an art teacher?”
“A professor of v
isual arts. At Florence Community
College.”
“Hera’s in your class.”
“Yes.”
“She hates school. But she wanted to work in a real
studio. She likes your class.” Aiden felt like he was
babbling but didn’t know how to stop.
“I’m glad she’s enjoying it.” Keaton took a long
drink of lemonade. “She says you’re in a bit of a situation
with your apartment.”
Aiden’s head shot up.
“Your tenant won’t move out for another month
and a half.”
Aiden nodded.
“Did she tell you I’ve got a guest room in need of
appreciation?”
“Um… ”
“Last year I spent an embarrassing amount of time
redecorating my spare bedroom. I hand-painted the
walls, got a new queen-size bed, new carpet, new
curtains, the works. And I haven’t had a single guest. I
have family and friends who keep promising they’ll
visit, but they get too caught up with work or school, and
so far nobody’s made it.”
“Oh.”
“So if you’re willing to do a poor art teacher a favor
and occupy it for a little while, I’d be most grateful. It’s
rent-free. All I ask is that you help me cook dinner
occasionally.”
Aiden shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t know if I
can… ” Keaton waited. “It just—doesn’t seem fair. To
you.”
“It’s perfectly fair. You need a place to stay, and I
need someone who can appreciate my decorating.”
Aiden managed a half smile.
Keaton grew serious. “Hera told me a little bit
about your experience with Scott. I don’t know the
details, and I’m not asking you to share unless you want
to. In which case I’m happy to listen. But I imagine an
experience like that is difficult to recover from, both
psychologically and physically. I can offer you a place
that’s private, quiet, and safe. I won’t pressure you, but
the offer is on the table. All you have to do is say the
word.”
Aiden picked a hangnail under the table and stared
at the menu cover. Say the word and he’d belong to a top
whose rules and expectations were unfamiliar. Sure,
Keaton seemed friendly and patient, but who was to say
the moment Aiden arrived at Keaton’s house, that
wouldn’t change? That Keaton wouldn’t be just as
demanding and brutal as Scott?
“No, thanks.” He forced himself to meet Keaton’s