No Way Out

by Julie Lynn Hayes

  Table of Contents

  Blurb

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  More from Julie Lynn Hayes

  Readers love the Rose and Thorne series by Julie Lynn Hayes

  About the Author

  By Julie Lynn Hayes

  Visit Dreamspinner Press

  Copyright

  No Way Out

  By Julie Lynn Hayes

  Wyatt Findley is an up-and-coming artist, attending a prestigious art institute in St. Louis. His mentor, Lukas Callahan, has snagged a sweet house-sitting job for him in a gorgeous home in a well-to-do part of town. Wyatt can’t help but notice two men who live just across the street. They make an odd couple, since there must be a good twenty years difference between them. And yet there is something about the younger man that calls to Wyatt.

  Shylor Lind has been living with Randy Grant for fifteen years, ever since Grant hired Shy’s mother as his live-in housekeeper. But five years ago, their relationship changed when Shy’s mother sold him to Grant and took the money and ran. Since then, Randy has been training Shy to be his submissive, dominating him in every way. There is nothing Shy can do about the situation, and he has nowhere to go, no one to turn to.

  And then Wyatt enters his life… and nothing will ever be the same, as Wyatt engages in a battle for Shy’s very soul.

  The author is donating 10% of the royalties from this book to No Kid Hungry. Visit https://www.nokidhungry.org/

  To my good friend Nicole, the true-life inspiration for my character of Nicole, a true Marilyn Manson lover.

  Chapter One

  THE SILVER rims gleamed. The afternoon sun bounced off the highly polished surface, directly into Shylor’s eyes. He never flinched, never showed his discomfort in any way. The muscles in his arms ached, and his shoulders threatened to spasm if they didn’t receive a little relief from the relentless effort he’d been expending all morning.

  But Shylor refused to give up. Failure was not an option with him. Failure came with its own consequences, and not of the pleasant variety. Was there a pleasant variety anymore? If so, that was so long ago he’d forgotten how good it might have felt. At the moment, all he could focus on was the potential for pain. The possibility of being reprimanded. And damned if he was going to let that happen. Especially over something as trivial as how he washed Randy’s expensive set of wheels.

  He wasn’t aware he’d stopped moving until a cold voice from behind prompted him. “Don’t stop until I tell you to.” Icy fingers traveled down Shylor’s spine—or what passed for one. He would have been hard put to find that anymore. Zoologically speaking, he could probably be classified as an invertebrate, something belonging to the order of cowards. Was there a special species known as weaklings? If so, he must rank somewhere pretty high among them, he figured.

  He never turned, never acknowledged the rebuke. He knew it wasn’t expected of him. He also knew what he would see, should he do so. Randy Grant. Six foot, silver hair that matched his expensive luxury sedan. Eyes of a changeable gray that reflected his mood and his pleasure. Sometimes they were tranquil seas that seemed almost an icy blue, and at those times Shylor could almost… but not quite… believe that Randy cared about him.

  It was the other times, when the gray turned into dark and turbulent clouds, that Shylor knew he was in for a world of pain, and at those times there was nothing he could do to ameliorate the situation. All he could do was grit his teeth and bear it, wait for the storm to pass.

  Randy Grant was forty years old, twice Shylor’s age. To the business world, he presented the image of a successful entrepreneur as the founder and driving force behind one of the city’s most creative marketing agencies: Granting Your Wishes. They called him the Silver Fox, because of his prematurely gray hair, but on Randy it looked good. He had a smile that charmed the pants off everyone he met—figuratively and literally. And he had a body to die for. Well, he should—he worked very hard at maintaining it. Having the money for an expensive personal gym couldn’t hurt anyone, and neither did having a personal trainer who supervised his exercise regime and a dietician who made sure he ate very well and very healthy. Shylor wasn’t fooled, though. Randy controlled every move. He knew exactly what he was doing every step of the way, and he reveled in his control.

  Inside the bedroom and out.

  Shylor’s labors were exacerbated in no small way by the presence of a foreign object nestled inside of him. He felt it whenever he moved, pressed against his channel, a constant reminder of Randy’s dominance. Purple and ridged, the butt plug was designed to remind Shylor just who he belonged to, and what purpose he served in the scheme of things, even as it prepared him to be plowed later, at Randy’s whim.

  He supposed it could have been worse. At least Randy hadn’t demanded he wear the one with the wolf tail. That one was a specialty item, particularly popular with fetishists and furries. Randy was among the latter. He’d had costumes specially made for both of them, and had devised elaborate scenarios for their use. Cosplay at its kinkiest.

  Shylor had never met anyone like Randy. He had mesmerized him from the beginning, drawn Shy into his world, and into his bed. And now he was locked there, for all eternity.

  After the things he’d done, who else could possibly want Shylor? Randy had made him untouchable as far as other men were concerned. Shy no longer had a choice in the matter. If he ever had. Randy had been the first, and if he had his way, he would be Shy’s last.

  If Randy was pleased with the way Shylor washed his car, then later he would reap a reward. Namely, by being fucked with some modicum of consideration for his own pleasure. But if not, then it would be the kowtow-to-Randy show all the way, with no regard to Shylor’s well-being or safety.

  Although Shylor had a safeword, there were times when it was simply disregarded. And sometimes he forgot to use it, thinking why bother? There was no safety—there was only Randy and what he wanted. Nothing else mattered.

  The sound of an engine drew his faltering attention to the street. Without thinking, Shy turned his head. They lived on a high-end cul-de-sac, and passing traffic was rare. Was he dreaming, or was that really a police car? Shy’s heart beat faster. For just a moment, he felt his liberation was at hand. Perhaps someone had noticed… someone had made a call… someone cared….

  He searched for a sign that the officer behind the wheel was seeking him, Shylor. The policeman never turned his head. All he could see of him was his profile. How strong he looked… how protective. Was he going to stop, pull into the driveway?

  But no, the car reached the end of the street and traversed the circular turnaround. Heading back in the other direction, it quickly disappeared from view.

  Only then did Shy realize what he’d done. He stiffened, bracing himself for the inevitable. He didn’t know what form his punishment would take—retribution came in many forms, and Shy was familiar with them all.

  His heart pounded, his breath coming in short gasps in anticipation.

  Just do it. Get it over with. Please….

  He felt Randy move closer, waited for the pain.

  An unexpected shadow fell across the sedan, coming from the wrong direction. From the street, not behind him.

  Shy looked up in confusion.

  “Is something wrong?”

  A GUY
could sure get used to living in a place like this. These weren’t just houses—they were more like mansions to Wyatt Findley. Raised in a cluster of tightly packed brick homes in south St. Louis, he’d had little exposure to the sort of life that people enjoyed in more well-to-do sections of the city. But all of that was changing, and Wyatt was meeting people now he’d only dreamed of getting to know before.

  Still, he had a long way to go before he became one of them.

  In the meantime, he’d jumped at the chance to house-sit long-term for a friend of his mentor, Lukas Callahan. He didn’t even need Lukas’s reminder that a patron of the arts was a grand thing to have. Wyatt knew that, and so did every other student at the art institute he attended. He would have leapt at the opportunity, anyway, just to have a place all to himself. One where he wasn’t crowded in with a gaggle of other up-and-coming artists, all vying for space in which to paint. He would have done it for that alone, but the homeowner had thrown in food, the use of one of his cars, and a generous stipend to boot.

  Heaven, Wyatt decided. This was heaven.

  The houses on this private cul-de-sac were widely spaced and few. He was surprised the street wasn’t gated, but then it didn’t lead anywhere and he’d come to realize that traffic was generally limited to the inhabitants. There were only five houses, two on either side and one at the end. The one he lived in was the second house on the left as you came down the street from the main thoroughfare.

  He’d caught glimpses of the couple next door. They were older, probably retired. She liked to garden and spent a lot of time tending to her flowers and shrubbery. Wyatt had no idea what he did. So far the only visitors he’d seen were of the delivery variety.

  The house at the end of the street was for sale, a magnificent Tudor, with a magnificent price tag. He’d looked up the listing online, out of curiosity, and couldn’t believe the numbers that he saw. In this economy, that might be a difficult sell unless they brought down the asking price. But then, this kind of home was way out of Wyatt’s league for quite some time to come, assuming he could ever afford it.

  The first house on the right was also empty, but not for sale. Wyatt suspected the homeowner was away, perhaps on business. A pricey landscape company arrived on a regular basis, and what appeared to be either a caretaker or housekeeper or something.

  That left the house directly across the street, the one with the two men. Two very different men.

  Granted, Wyatt had only been in the neighborhood for a couple of weeks, so he wasn’t exactly what you’d call an expert on them or anything. But he was confused about their dynamics. At first he’d assumed they were employer and employee. The younger man did all the work while the older one supervised. And then he’d decided they were father and son, considering the apparent disparity in their ages. But that illusion had been dispelled when he caught sight of the kiss. Not a fatherly kiss, by any means. Although it didn’t exactly look romantic either. Why he thought that, Wyatt couldn’t say.

  Perhaps it was a certain stiffness in the older one’s demeanor. Something that even from a distance seemed cold and forbidding.

  Wyatt thought the older man was handsome, in a slick sort of Cary Grant way, minus the warmth. But the younger one… he was very cute. He had long blond hair that he sometimes wore in a tail at the nape of his neck. Wyatt couldn’t tell eye color from a distance, but in his imagination, they were blue as a summer sky in St. Louis, and very expressive. He longed to see him closer up, to affirm his first impression. Maybe get to know him better. It didn’t seem like he went anywhere. At least Wyatt never saw him leave the house, except in the company of the older man, whom Wyatt dubbed the Keeper.

  Even if he was taken romantically, who couldn’t use a friend?

  Wyatt peeked through the living room window. There he was now. Correction, there they were. The blond was on his knees, scrubbing at the expensive sedan the Keeper drove. Come to think of it, hadn’t he been doing that same thing a few hours ago? How long did it take to wash a car? And come to think of it, couldn’t Mr. Fancy Pants afford to take it to the sort of car wash where they not only cleaned it inside and out, they detailed it to smell brand-new? Hell, they’d probably pick it up and deliver it for him if he asked.

  So why was he making this guy do it?

  Something shifted in his mind’s eye, and now Wyatt visualized the blond in a slightly different scenario—on his knees, hands bound behind his back, head bowed in silent submission. What had brought that on? Was it because he was getting the impression that this Keeper was treating the younger man like some kind of slave?

  Suddenly Wyatt had the irrational desire to release the blond from his imaginary bonds, to set him free. It was time he discovered the true state of affairs between them, if for no other reason than for his own peace of mind. Afterward, he’d laugh about the situation, and tell himself how foolish he was. And maybe work the encounter into a sketch or painting.

  He took a quick glance in the mirror. His brown curls were unruly—what else was new?—and perhaps he had a few smudges under his dark blue eyes. He had a bad habit of rubbing at them when he was drawing, and he wasn’t very good at cleaning up after himself.

  No matter.

  He quickly crossed the street, approaching the pair, frozen in their curious tableau.

  He meant to say hello and introduce himself. Explain that he was staying across the street. But something went haywire in his brain as he gazed in utter fascination at the handsome man.

  “Is something wrong?” he blurted out instead.

  SHYLOR FELT his heart stop at those magic words. It took a few moments for him to realize the question had actually been spoken aloud. It wasn’t the product of his usually overactive imagination. And once realized, he found he could not respond. The words were locked in his throat, held by five years of obedience tempered with discipline. More than five years, if you counted the years of his childhood.

  Is something wrong? Only everything. And nothing.

  Shylor quickly withdrew into his shell. He looked down at the car, focused his attention on that. Randy would deal with the newcomer. Randy would do what needed to be done. Whoever this was, he was just a passerby, a momentary intrusion into their lives. He’d get the answer to his question and be gone and that would be that. Shy had himself to think of, first and foremost. He felt the false hope die in his chest, and he scrubbed at the silver rim with renewed vigor.

  “I’m sorry, do we know you?” Randy’s voice was smooth and fluid. When he’d originally opened his marketing business, he’d done voice-overs for many of his first customers, radio and TV both, but he’d stopped doing that, as if it was beneath him.

  Randy often used the royal we, even if it might appear to an outsider that he referred to himself and Shylor. Shy knew better.

  “Probably not.” The voice was amiable enough, with a pleasant timbre. Shy caught himself glancing up, against his better judgment. But only for a second, as the stranger held out his hand to Randy. Just long enough to see the man wasn’t hard on the eyes, either.

  “I’m Wyatt Findley. I’m house-sitting right across the street. For Mr. Masterson.”

  Shy knew Randy wouldn’t shake hands with the man. He held himself aloof from most human contact. Shy almost snickered as he imagined Randy using his prissy voice. Don’t you dare touch me with that. How he managed at work, Shy couldn’t even begin to imagine. One of the perks of being the head honcho, he guessed.

  “I didn’t realize he’d left for Europe already.” Randy sounded miffed. He hated to be the last to learn things. “I’ve seen his car here, I just supposed—”

  “I’m using it,” Wyatt explained. “He left it with me.”

  And that was that.

  A hand touched Shy’s shoulder, and then that same hand appeared in front of his face, as if it was being offered to him, and he couldn’t help but see it as a lifeline. He started to reach for it but thought better of his action at the last moment and knocked an imaginary bi
t of dirt from the car’s pristine panel.

  “And you are?” Wyatt prompted.

  Shy felt his face being tilted upward, and his heart pounded madly in his chest. Oh there would be hell to pay for this, no question. “Sh-Shylor,” he managed to stammer out. He could feel Randy’s annoyance behind him, but he couldn’t make himself look away.

  “Is there something we can help you with?” Randy broke into the moment, and Wyatt released Shy’s chin. He was quivering, which made the butt plug quiver too, and fresh waves broke through him. He fought against them, stifling a moan. Not the time or place. And if he dared to come, without permission….

  “I was going to ask you the same thing. I noticed Shylor’s been working on the car for a long time, thought he might like a hand.”

  “Shylor has everything under control. He’s simply very thorough, that’s all. Mr.… Finley, did you say?”

  “No, Findley. With a d. Shylor, what do you say? I don’t mind using a little elbow grease. Between us, I’m sure we can knock this out in no time.”

  Shylor stopped in midswipe, stared up at the good-looking brunet. Would Randy punish him here, right in front of this man? Humiliate him in some way? Or would he wait until they were alone inside the house to carry out his retaliation? That there would be some form of punishment, Shylor had no doubt. Whatever it was, he’d live through it. He always did.

  To think, this guy was just across the street. Maybe they’d have to be more careful….

  “I think the car looks fine. Shylor, you can be done.”

  To an outsider, Randy’s voice was cold and emotionless, but Shy knew better. There was a rage building inside of him. One that would need to be expended in some way. But Randy would never let that be seen by anyone else. He had better self-control. He wore his mask well.

  “Wonderful! I have an idea. Why don’t you come over and I’ll make us some drinks and we can get acquainted?”