No Way Out

by Julie Lynn Hayes

  Wyatt breathed a sigh of relief when Shy nodded. That was a start. They took the farthest table in the back and set the cart out of the way. Shy slid into the bench seat. Once he was fairly sure the blond wasn’t about to bolt, Wyatt went to the counter, bought their snacks and drinks, then carried the tray back, setting the contents on the table. He took the seat across from Shy, resisting the urge to sit beside him. That would not be a good idea, he realized.

  Besides, he could watch Shy’s expressions better this way. Wyatt had a feeling he really needed to pay attention to those. He was feeling his way through unfamiliar territory, and he needed to see Shy’s reactions to know when he was keeping to the right path and when he was making a misstep.

  He instinctively unscrewed the cap on the water bottle and handed it to Shy.

  “Thanks.” Shy took it and drank, peering at Wyatt over the bottle. Such beautiful blue eyes. Wyatt ached to get them on canvas.

  Where to begin? Wyatt wanted to know everything, but what subjects were safe? The last thing he wanted was to make Shy uncomfortable. Or, worst-case scenario, cause him to run.

  “Have you lived in the neighborhood long?”

  “Fifteen years.”

  The response surprised Wyatt. And unsettled him. He did the mental math. Assuming Shy to be maybe twenty or twenty-one, that meant… he’d been just a little boy? What the hell. He swallowed his next words, rather than blurt out something harsh about Randy. He needed facts, not conjecture.

  “Oh.” He kept his voice deliberately noncommittal. “Long time.”

  Shy nodded. He reached for the bag of popcorn, popped a swollen kernel between his lips with careful deliberation. Wyatt watched, fascinated by the grace in his motion. His cock gave a twitch.

  “Where did you and Randy live before that?” Wyatt ripped open his bag of barbecue chips, releasing a spicy fragrance he could fairly taste. Shy’s eyes flickered briefly to the chips and away.

  “Nowhere.” The reply was sharp and succinct. “That’s when we moved in with him. Fifteen years ago.”

  Tread lightly… lightly….

  “Hey, I’ll trade you some of my chips for some of your popcorn?” Not waiting for an answer, he placed a few of the crisp red treats in his hand and held it out to Shy, counting on instinct and desire to override whatever held him in check. “Go ahead,” he encouraged him. You know you want to….

  A moment passed that felt like a lifetime before Shy’s hand shot out and claimed the chips, and he practically inhaled them. After he chewed and swallowed, Shy tentatively licked his lips—whether to savor the flavor or remove a telltale trace of spice, Wyatt couldn’t be sure.

  Shy stiffened and his cheeks flamed as he cast his eyes down on the table. Wyatt got the feeling he was waiting for something… but what? And then it hit him. Shy expected to be punished for what he’d done. Was Randy that strict about his diet?

  Or was there more to the story than met the eye? Surely this wasn’t just because of a few grams of polyunsaturated fat?

  Shy’s lower lip trembled. Wyatt had to resist the urge to brush his thumb over it, to reassure him that everything was all right. How could he when he didn’t know what was wrong?

  He could barely hear the words that forced themselves out. He had to lean in, in spite of himself.

  “Please… don’t tell… Randy….”

  The agony in Shy’s eyes tugged at his heart.

  SHY FELT each and every beat of his heart. As though the organ had slowed to an agonizing crawl, each reverberation echoing in his ears.

  Don’t… tell… Randy….

  But they were so good, his taste buds protested.

  It won’t happen again. It can’t happen again.

  “I won’t,” Wyatt promised, and everything fell back into place, the world spun back onto its axis, and Shy remembered how to breathe again.

  “So, who else lives with you?” Wyatt asked. He nibbled at his chips, careful not to talk through his food, which Shy appreciated. He could still smell them, and that was okay. He liked the spicy scent and wondered if Wyatt’s breath smelled of it, or tasted…. He yanked his mind back to the conversation.

  “Who… what? Oh, no one. Just us.” He turned quizzical eyes to Wyatt.

  “Just you? But you said we a minute ago. We moved in fifteen years ago. I assumed—”

  “My mother.” Shy’s voice dropped a decibel or three. His eyes fell to the table.

  “I’m sorry.” Shy felt the warmth of Wyatt’s hand as it encompassed his on the table between them.

  “Sorry? For what?”

  “I didn’t realize… I mean… she died, right?”

  “Died? Not that I know of. Actually, I have no idea where she is.” He didn’t dare look at Wyatt, face the contempt that was undoubtedly written there. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all. His stomach churned. He suddenly felt sick. Bile rose up his throat, into his mouth.

  He hastily stood, shaking off the hand that tried to cling. “I… I….”

  “What’s wrong?” The voice sounded concerned, but that was an act, all an act, to lull Shy into a false sense of security.

  “I… gotta go….” He knew where the restroom was. He should. He’d been coming to this store long enough. Without a backward glance, he raced toward it, pushed through the door of the small men’s room, which was happily unoccupied, and into the first stall, where he heaved the contents of his stomach.

  WYATT DIDN’T know what the hell to do. He wanted to run after him, see that Shy was all right. Judging by the speed with which he raced toward the back of the store, he must be sick.

  He’s a grown man, his inner voice argued. He doesn’t need you to babysit him.

  Doesn’t he?

  Wyatt drummed his fingers across the Formica tabletop, counting the moments since Shy disappeared. Two minutes, three, four…. At five, he’d go after him, leave the groceries where they were and be damned. Who’d bother them, anyway?

  At four and a half minutes, he rose from his seat. At four minutes and forty-five seconds, he scooted out. But before he had a chance to act on his gut instinct, Shy headed toward him. He waited until Shy reached their table and kept waiting until Shy sat before resuming his own seat.

  “Are you okay?” he demanded to know, his voice fraught with concern.

  Shy nodded. He reached for his water and took several very short sips.

  “Yes, I’m fine.” His attention was riveted on the water bottle, as if it was the most fascinating object in the world. His voice sounded so… mechanical. So… lifeless. So… hopeless.

  What in the hell was going on? Wyatt wanted to ask Shy so many questions about so many things. About Shy’s mother. About his relationship with Randy. When did it begin, and what did it consist of? Did Shy love the older man, even though he was an ass? Did Randy love Shy? Did he ever hurt him? Why was he so fucking strict with him?

  What happened between them when no one else was around?

  But Wyatt didn’t have the right to ask him these things and he knew it. And something told him that if he said any of the things he was thinking, he’d push Shy away, and whatever fragile connection they might have forged there would be irretrievably broken.

  Shy was like a delicate flower. A pale, delicate blossom that was being allowed to languish in darkness and neglect. Wyatt yearned to bring him into the light. To nurture him and allow him to bloom. To ease his tortured soul.

  But he just didn’t know how.

  “Something I ate,” Shy added, and the subject closed between them. At least for now. Wyatt was determined to find a way in later. If he could only figure out how.

  “So, I guess you went to high school here?” That seemed a safe topic. The local high school was a good one. Certainly nothing to be ashamed of.

  Shy’s response wasn’t what he expected.

  “No.” He shook his head. “I’m homeschooled.”

  By whom? Wyatt didn’t dare ask. Was it the now-absent mother? Or perhaps Rand
y had overseen little Shy’s education. And wasn’t that a disturbing image? Yet, somehow, Wyatt could imagine him doing it, if for no other reason than to keep control over Shylor.

  That seemed to be the crux of the matter. It all came down to control. Randy had it, and he exercised it with an iron fist. And Shy seemed helpless to do other than obey.

  “Are you in… do you go to college?” Wyatt wasn’t surprised when Shy shook his head.

  He started to ask another question, but whatever it was left his mind as soon as a cell phone went off. He knew, without thinking hard, that it wasn’t his phone, or his ringtone. His own ringtone was E.S. Posthumus’s “Nara.” This was something generic and ordinary.

  And it was Shylor’s phone, apparently.

  Shy raised the instrument to his lips. “I’m here.”

  A moment of silence, followed by, “At the store.”

  Another moment. “Almost.”

  A longer pause. “I’ll be waiting.” And then, “Yes, Sir.” He hung up, slid the phone into his pocket, and began to rise.

  Yes, Sir? What the fucking hell?

  “I HAVE to go.” Shy could not meet Wyatt’s eyes. Shame burned brightly in his heated cheeks. Randy was coming home for lunch and had told him in no uncertain terms to be there. Which meant he was hungry. Or horny. Or both. And looking for a little afternoon delight from Shylor.

  Shy didn’t want Wyatt’s questions. He wasn’t sure he could answer them, or even handle hearing them. He was grateful Randy had detected nothing amiss in his own responses to his questions. If Randy ever suspected that he and Wyatt…. He left the thought unfinished.

  Besides, there was no him and Wyatt. That was a delusion, nothing more.

  A pipe dream. He’d read about pipe dreams once, in a play. The Iceman Cometh. Shy enjoyed reading plays. Luckily, Randy didn’t object, and he owned an impressive collection of them, along with novels and assorted volumes of nonfiction. Most of it was for show. Randy read little fiction, mostly Tom Clancy or W.E.B. Griffin. Or books on chess. He played the game through email, and had an expensive chess set in his study. Woe betide Shy if he should ever—God forbid—knock a piece off the board, even accidentally.

  That had happened only once. Shy had been about ten at the time. He hadn’t meant to. He’d simply lost his balance, tripped over his own feet, and fallen into it. But his protests had fallen on deaf ears. Both Randy’s and hers. Shy had worn the resulting welts for many days afterward. They were a badge of shame, and a reminder to do better in the future.

  “Let me come with you.”

  Shy finally raised his eyes, panic-stricken at the very idea. His mouth dropped open, but he couldn’t seem to speak. Consternation crossed Wyatt’s face.

  “Just to the checkout,” he hastily added. “That’s all, that’s all.”

  Shy’s relief was palpable. Even so, it wasn’t a good idea and he knew it. “I can manage.” He always had before.

  He moved toward the shopping cart. To his dismay, Wyatt moved in tandem with him. “Noooooo.” His command came out as an anguished moan.

  “I just want to help,” Wyatt tried again.

  “You can’t help. No one can help. I have to go.” He turned resolutely away. This had been a mistake, and he’d known it before he even came. But at least it would be a memory he could hold on to, something to think about at times when reality was too much and he needed mental relief from… things.

  “I want to see you again.”

  Shy’s eyes went wide and he turned back to Wyatt. “You don’t understand! I can’t!”

  “Then make me understand,” Wyatt challenged him. He reached for Shy, his hand ringing Shy’s wrist. Shy looked from Wyatt’s grip to the other man’s intense gaze.

  “I can’t,” he said dully. “I’m not yours to touch. I’m his.” He yanked himself forcefully out of Wyatt’s grasp and began to push the cart toward the front of the store as if all the demons of Hell were hot on his heels.

  WYATT DIDN’T move. He wanted to. God, how badly he wanted to. But he was afraid he’d only make matters worse, even if he didn’t understand what matters there were to make worse. But there was something wrong, something seriously wrong here.

  Wyatt was in over his head and he knew it.

  Despair filled him as he stared helplessly after Shy’s retreating figure until he turned a corner, lost to his sight. Shy needed him, he knew it. But he was deliberately keeping Wyatt at arm’s length. Why?

  And why did he make himself sound like he was someone’s possession? Something to be owned, not loved. What was going on, and how long had it been going on? Wyatt ached to know.

  He resisted the impulse to follow Shy to the checkout, afraid he’d push the frail young man over the edge of some awful abyss. Before he made another move, he needed to talk to someone, explain the situation and get another take on it. And he knew just the man to call.

  He slid back into the cheap plastic bench seat, pulled out his phone, and punched in Lukas’s number.

  HALF OF Shy was afraid Wyatt had followed him to the checkout lanes. The other half was afraid he hadn’t. He told the second half to shut up. As the checker scanned each item, Shy kept his attention riveted on the terminal in front of him. He punched in the PIN of the card he used for purchases made on Randy’s behalf. He gave Randy each receipt so he could tally it against his bank statement. As the checker finished his order, Shy held his breath and turned his head. He scanned the aisles, panning along the length of them. From his vantage point, he could see most everything, but his field of vision didn’t extend to the back and he saw no sign of Wyatt. Shy breathed a mixed sigh of relief. He finished his transaction and pushed his cart to the long counter beneath the plate-glass windows that overlooked the parking lot, where he carefully loaded everything into the bags he’d brought from home—Randy’s mandate. And something Shy agreed was a good idea. Not that Randy had asked him what he thought.

  He forced himself to focus on Randy, on his detailed instructions, what he’d told Shylor to have ready when he got there. Once the groceries were in the car and the cart pushed into the closest corral, he slid into the driver’s seat. A twinge of regret pierced his heart, one he could not properly define.

  Wyatt would quickly forget him. Shy would just be an odd tale to tell his friends, someone to laugh about. A joke. A nobody.

  Shy couldn’t stop thinking about Wyatt.

  So not good.

  Chapter Four

  SHY THOUGHT that Randy was a confusing mass of contradictions. He didn’t even pretend to understand the man, despite having lived in his home for fifteen years, and in his bed for five. He demanded Shy stick to the healthy diet prescribed for him, yet he was not above indulging when the mood struck. He drank far more than his dietician suspected and worked it off with his trainer.

  Shy never questioned, he simply obeyed. To question any command was to invite trouble. That he did not need.

  Today was obviously going to be a day of indulgence, although Shy never asked why. He just did as he was told, like the obedient robot he was.

  Today Randy’s requests required Shy to make extra stops. In and out, no time to think, no time to question why. Shy ignored the Masterson house as he passed it on his way home. He pulled the car around back and schlepped everything inside, careful not to drop the expensive vintage he’d been instructed to pick up. On occasions such as this, since Shy was underage, Randy sent him to a particular liquor store, owned by one of his cronies. The man waited for him in the parking lot and slipped Shy whatever Randy wanted so that no money changed hands and no questions were asked. He’d settle with Randy later for providing this service.

  Shy didn’t care about that. His main concern was not to lose focus. Thoughts of Wyatt would have to wait, perhaps forever.

  Shy busted a gut to make sure the house was cleaned according to specifications. There was actually a printed manual, one that Randy updated when he made new acquisitions. Shy had been doing this so long he
no longer needed to refer to the pages, but he kept them handy, as a reminder to live up to Randy’s standards.

  He hadn’t been able to gauge Randy’s mood from their brief phone call. Nor did the demands he’d made give Shy any clue as to what to expect. That was not unusual. Randy thought of no one but Randy. No one else deserved or received consideration.

  Randy arrived five minutes early. Either traffic had been exceptionally good, or he thought he might catch Shy doing something he shouldn’t. Shy was careful that there was nothing to be caught at. Lunch was ready. Two thick and juicy hamburgers, cooked to rare perfection, the same way Randy preferred all his meat. Shy had a recipe that included his own special rub and contained spicy peppers that he chopped and worked into the meat. Randy said the heat of the peppers helped burn calories. Shy accepted what he was told without comment.

  The bottle of expensive champagne chilled in the ice bucket. The bedsheets had been lightly spritzed with Randy’s favorite scent, a custom-blended aroma that combined musk with citrus, with just a hint of mint.

  Shy wore nothing, per Randy’s instructions. He’d taken a shower and carefully cleansed every orifice. As Randy bounced through the door, Shy felt a measure of relief—Randy wore a smile. Whatever had prompted this spur-of-the-moment luncheon must be a good thing. That should help.

  Randy handed Shy his briefcase and headed up the stairs without a backward glance. Shy obediently trailed him up, into the bedroom. Everything was at the ready. The heavy drapes were closed against the sunlight. Lit tea light candles dotted the room. A handblown pink vase sat on the bedside table, filled with stalks of fresh-cut iris. Beside it were laid out what Randy had requested: lube, cock ring, nipple clamps, paddle. Shy gave no thought to how any of these would be used. His not to reason why….

  Shy stood beside the bed, eyes cast to the floor, waiting. It was Randy’s habit on such occasions to take every last item from his pocket and lay them neatly across the top of his dresser, everything in its proper place. One time an ill-placed coin had rolled off the edge and Shy had scooped it up. He’d earned a rap on the knuckles for his pains.