The ride back to the house was equally as silent. This time Shy rode in front, beside Lukas, while Wyatt languished in agony in the back seat. Lukas pulled in front of Grant’s house and turned to the silent Shy.
“You have the key, right? Randy gave it to you, didn’t he?”
Shy nodded.
“Is there anything you need, anything I can get you?”
Shy shook his head.
“Thank you for your help.” The voice was so faint Wyatt could barely make out the words. “I’ll return the clothes after I wash them.” He addressed all his remarks to Lukas, still ignoring Wyatt.
“You can keep them,” Wyatt said. Shy never responded. He reached for the door handle and murmured something so soft that Wyatt wasn’t sure he’d understood him correctly. Not until he left the car and walked stiffly up the front walk, quickly disappearing through the front door, did his words register in Wyatt’s brain, and he gave Lukas a look of pure horror.
I guess I’ll see you at the club….
Dear God, what was going on? And how could he rescue Shy from this atrocity when he seemed determined to remain caught in the web?
Chapter Ten
SHY DROPPED back onto his haunches and swiped his shaky hand across his damp forehead. He panted, drawing air in ragged gasps. His skin reeked of bleach and ammonia. His knees ached, and he was sure the pattern of the bathroom floor tile was permanently etched into his flesh.
He’d begun to clean the moment he entered the house. Not that the house was dirty, but that had nothing to do with anything. Fear was his motivation. Fear and conditioning. Not wanting to piss Randy off, and not wanting to be on the receiving end of his reprisals for even the hint of an infraction against his rules. Shy didn’t want to be tied up and locked in the Blue Room again… or worse.
Battling these fears was his need to forget—to stop feeling, stop caring, stop thinking… about anything. To push away the emotions and sensations he didn’t understand and didn’t know how to handle.
But every time he thought he’d brought himself under control, an image would appear in his mind’s eye and impale itself upon his heart, and he’d come undone all over again.
Wyatt’s gentle smile. The warmth and humor in his eyes. The kindness he’d displayed to a virtual stranger. The way he’d championed Shy, braving Randy’s ire.
Remembering Wyatt and the time they’d spent together, Shy’s heart ached, and tears cascaded down his cheeks. Then he pushed himself even harder, as if manual labor were a cure for what ailed him. As if he could scrub his agony away with the hard-bristled brush he used to scour the bathroom floor.
He was an idiot, that’s what he was. A fool to ever think someone like Wyatt… that Shy could ever be good enough for someone like him… that life could ever be any different than what it was now.
But then he realized that it could and would change… and all for the worse… when Randy came back.
Changes, he’d said. There would be changes. But he hadn’t elaborated, and Shy hadn’t bothered to ask. Knowing what was coming wouldn’t make any difference. It wasn’t like he could change anything. Whatever it was, he would have to endure it. Somehow.
He scoured the toilet until the porcelain shone, scrubbed the bathtub until he could see his reflection in the immaculate surface. Not that he bothered to notice how he looked. The bleach fumes made his head spin, and his common sense told him to step outside and get a little fresh air, but he was afraid to do that. Afraid that if he opened the front door and took a step in that direction, he might not be able to stop.
He lifted the bucket full of dirty water and lugged it to the kitchen, struggling to keep the contents from sloshing out with every awkward step he took. He hoisted the pail up on the edge of the sink and balanced it there for just a moment before he started to tilt it inward. At that moment the house phone rang. Shy jumped at the unexpected sound. He knocked the plastic bucket into the sink. The handle clattered against the faucet as it spilled its contents. The water swooshed out in an angry gray deluge that surged momentarily, then swirled down the drain.
His first thought was Randy—checking up on him—and a shudder ran through him. But then he realized that didn’t make sense—Randy would call his cell if he wanted to contact Shy, never the landline. So who could it be?
He grabbed a kitchen towel from the drawer and wiped his wet hands before reaching for the cordless phone on the counter. The caller ID display read Tony, and Shy breathed a sigh of relief. It was just Randy’s trainer. Oh shit, it was Friday, wasn’t it? Where’d the time gone? It was Randy’s regular workout day. Obviously that wasn’t going to happen.
“Grant residence.” Shy’s greeting was automatic, despite knowing who was on the other end of the line. Randy had trained him well. “How may I help you?”
“It’s Tony,” came the expected response. “I’m outside, but the door’s locked. What’s up? Where’s Mr. Grant?” He sounded impatient, a tone Shy knew he’d never use on Randy. With him, he was deferential, and butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. He didn’t waste manners on Shy.
“He isn’t here.” Shy knew better than to elaborate. Randy had made it clear no one was to know anything about where he was or what had happened to him. He hadn’t explained why not, and Shy hadn’t questioned him.
“What do you mean he isn’t here? He’s expecting me.” Shy could hear the growing irritation in the trainer’s voice, but it was nothing to do with him. And there was nothing he could do about it, or wanted to do.
“He said he’d call you when he wants you.” As an afterthought, Shy asked, “Is there any message for him?” The line going dead was his only response. Shy wasn’t surprised. The trainer was a veritable Neanderthal, and thinking wasn’t his strong suit. Another reason not to confront him. He had a feeling the other man would be quick with his fists, and he wasn’t about to put himself in a position where he could use them. Let Randy deal with him later.
As long as he was here, might as well clean, he thought.
He repeated his performance in the kitchen, even took a bucket of scalding hot water and thoroughly cleansed the inside of the dishwasher until it looked like it had just come from the factory, and then he tugged and yanked at the refrigerator so he could get behind it. Floor, walls, ceiling. Every cranny, nook, and corner he could easily reach and then the ones that were hard to get to. By the time he was done, he was sweating bullets, but he could say with certainty that everything was immaculate and could stand up to the rigors of any examination. Even Randy’s.
Then he started on the other rooms. In between vacuuming and dusting and sweeping, he ran loads of laundry, made sure every item of clothing Randy owned was clean. He folded everything just the way he’d been instructed before he set it carefully back into Randy’s drawers. Everything on his dresser in its rightful place—Randy would know the difference if it weren’t, and he’d do something to Shy about it. Shy would give Randy no cause for complaint—not if he could help it—and he knew that he could.
Besides which, if he focused on the Herculean tasks he set for himself, perhaps he could keep the other thoughts at bay.
He wasn’t sure what time it was when he heard the doorbell. He wasn’t really sure he’d heard it at first, ascribing it to a combination of his imagination and wishful thinking. He was running the vacuum underneath the cushions in the living room at the time. But when the ringing was repeated, and then became insistent knocking, he couldn’t ignore it, and his heart started to beat wildly, despite his best efforts to calm it.
Just a delivery, just a delivery, he assured himself. He started toward the front door but paused, irresolute. Then he darted to one of the front windows and peeked cautiously out. That’s what he’d been afraid of. No brown van sat in front of the house, no driver in crisp uniform shorts to be seen.
Wyatt, go, go go…. He dropped the edge of the curtain and leaned against the wall, shaking. Please, please, please. He closed his eyes, hugged himself, and hel
d his breath. He thought he heard Wyatt’s voice calling his name, but he ignored it and eventually the sound died away.
Shy took a deep breath, told himself it was for the best, and went on with his chores.
WYATT ANTICIPATED he’d be on the receiving end of a lecture from his mentor after Shy bolted from the car. It had taken all his willpower not to leap out and race after Shy, to find out what was wrong, what had spooked him. Lukas forestalled such a move by quickly pulling away from Grant’s house and parking in Masterson’s drive, where he hurried Wyatt inside.
Wyatt braced himself for another round of admonitions of what he could and couldn’t do, as in don’t touch Shy, be careful what you do and say, you don’t understand what’s going on, they live in a whole different world, etc. But it didn’t happen, much to Wyatt’s chagrin. He’d expected to be berated. He wanted Lukas to tell him what to do so he, in turn, could let everything bunched up inside of him out. He wanted to scream and shout, to argue, to extemporize on the evils of Randy Grant. To hear Lukas agree that Grant was a bad man and he didn’t deserve to have Shy in his life, that he was bad for him, and he didn’t even know the first thing about how to treat another human being. Most of all Wyatt wanted to brainstorm with Lukas. Between them they should be able to devise a plan to get Shy out from under that sadist’s thumb for good. They had to, for Shy’s sake. It was the only humane thing to do. How could Wyatt even consider leaving Shy in a blatantly dangerous situation?
But that didn’t happen. Lukas had stayed only long enough to down a quick cup of tea, then said he was leaving so Wyatt could get down to business. And by business he meant art. That subject Wyatt was majoring in and intended to make a career out of. The portfolio he was working on so Lukas could arrange showings for him, maybe even a one-man art exhibit. Some day. Hopefully in the not too distant future. He needed to think about the coming school year and what classes he was taking, where he intended to go from there. He was too close to graduation to screw up now. And clearly Shy didn’t fit into that game plan, at least not in Lukas’s opinion.
In other words, get on with your life. The way Lukas looked at him spoke volumes, more than his words. Wyatt read the message clearly contained in his eyes: forget about Shy, he’s beyond anything you can do to help him. Focus on your art. Some things just are. It was not meant to be unkind nor unsympathetic, simply realistic.
But Wyatt was an artist, not a realist. His world was not quite so black and white, even if Lukas seemed to have forgotten what it was all about. Maybe he was too old for love. Or too cynical. Wyatt considered himself neither one.
After saying he’d be in touch soon, Lukas saw himself out. Wyatt never stirred. Lost in reverie, he leaned over the kitchen counter, head bowed, arms pressed against the smooth surface, his own cup of tea sitting forgotten in front of him. His mind was filled with thoughts of Shy and what he must be going through. Could Lukas be right? Was he doing more harm than good by remaining in Shy’s life? That was the last thing Wyatt wanted to do.
And yet his heart argued that it wasn’t true. Shy had seemed more alive when they were alone together, more at ease. Wyatt was sure he’d gotten through to him, touched him in some way. Hadn’t he come to Wyatt’s bed of his own volition? That had to mean something, surely. Shy had seemed to be doing all right, more than all right in Wyatt’s company. Up until the time when he’d been forced to make an appearance before his tyrannous lord and master.
And that was the problem in a nutshell. Grant was obviously no good for Shy. He was a controlling asshole who thought of a sweet young man as his possession, who didn’t see him for the amazing person he was. He poisoned Shy’s world simply by being in it. And the sooner Wyatt removed Shy from Grant’s sphere of influence the better.
The question remained—how was Wyatt going to do that? More importantly, would Shy allow him to do it? When it came to Grant, Shy seemed unable to think beyond what he was told to do. Could he possibly have been brainwashed by the older man? Or was it simply that living the lifestyle Lukas had spoken of had affected his thinking and turned him into a numb automaton? There was so much Wyatt didn’t understand about their situation, he realized. He wanted to learn more, including how Shy had ended up in Grant’s clutches, but Lukas had effectively told him to leave Shy alone, so he couldn’t expect any support from that quarter. He didn’t know where else to turn.
He reached for his tea, but it had gone cold. Well, that was an easy fix. He straightened up and stretched his back. Then he placed the cup inside the microwave and set it to heat for thirty seconds. While it warmed, he stuck his head inside the refrigerator. It occurred to him he hadn’t eaten since that morning, not since he’d risen to find Shy had made fresh cinnamon rolls. And not from a can, which was generally the only kind Wyatt ever got unless his roommate went to the bakery. Shy had placed the leftover rolls into a plastic container for later. Looking at them, thinking about the time they’d spent together, made Wyatt miss him all the more.
Had Shy eaten? Was he taking care of himself? What was he doing? What kinds of things did he do when Grant wasn’t around to monitor him? Wyatt didn’t know, and not knowing was haunting him.
It wasn’t until he found himself on the other side of the street, standing at the front door, that he realized he’d acted entirely on impulse. He’d gone from wondering if Shy had eaten to deciding to invite him out for a late lunch in the blink of an eye, his feet carrying him where his mind had already gone. What could it hurt, right?
He pressed the bell and listened for the answering echo as it resounded inside, while he waited for Shy to answer the door. But he never came and the door never opened. So Wyatt resorted to knocking, and finally, in desperation, to calling Shy’s name in a voice filled with concern. No movement from inside. Although, for a moment, Wyatt thought he saw one of the curtains move. Continued silence was his only response.
Finally he gave up. Shy wasn’t speaking to him, whatever his reasons. No sense in standing there forever. If he’d been thinking more clearly, he’d have brought something to write a note, slide it beneath the door or something. But he hadn’t. Maybe later.
Returning to the house, he headed to his temporary art room. He pulled out various works in progress—some still in the sketch phase and others having been worked in either watercolors or oils—and made halfhearted attempts to continue with them. He considered himself an artist of the old school, and he related most closely to the Impressionists, particularly Monet, albeit with his own modern take on the Impressionist style. He loved landscapes the best, particularly those that possessed a surreal, almost fantasy feel to them, although he was known to work with figures as well. But today nothing looked right and nothing felt right. And every single blue was a pale imitation of—and an insult to—the crystal clarity he saw in Shy’s eyes. And they all faded into insignificance beside the original.
Even when he gave in to the desires that dominated his creative mind and tried to put the image of Shy that filled his inner eye onto paper, the results were feeble and poor in execution. He crumpled each one and tossed it to the floor, snorting at himself in derision.
Finally he gave that up too as a worthless cause and settled in front of Masterson’s huge flat-screen television, holding the game controller he’d brought with him in his lap, as he lost himself in his favorite online role-playing game. Every time he shot or bludgeoned one of his onscreen foes, he imagined it was Randy Grant, and the thought brought him a certain measure of satisfaction.
But not nearly enough, not compared with the loss of Shy.
He thought about going to the store to get something for dinner, but decided to make do with what he already had on hand, afraid that if he left, Shy might need him for something and wouldn’t be able to reach him. Futile hope that was, he knew.
He discovered a partial bottle of Moscato he’d forgotten about in the back of the fridge, and he drank it with the frozen pizza he heated up for dinner. Afterward, he turned the stereo system to a cl
assical station and curled up on the sofa in the living room with Holst and a book a friend had sent to him as a must-read. Gay men, nasty aliens, and dinosaurs—something you didn’t read about every day. For a while he lost himself in the fascinating world of Berit and Tom, but his mind kept returning to Shy.
At last he carried the book and the last of the wine to the bedroom, set them on the bedside table, undressed and went to bed, tossing and turning until at some point Morpheus claimed him and he fell asleep.
He had no idea how long he’d been lost to slumber when he felt the bed shift beneath him and realized he was no longer alone. Startled, he opened his eyes into the darkness of the room, his heart beating faster. Was he imagining things, or was it wishful thinking that caused him to see Shy where he wished he was? But when he realized it really was Shy, the knowledge floored him. He was almost afraid to breathe lest he disturb the delicately balanced figure on the far side of the bed, facing away from him.
Shy was here—he was really here.
Wyatt couldn’t believe he was actually seeing him, but there he was, there lay Shy, silhouetted in the dim moonlight that filtered through the curtains. And then Wyatt realized what had awakened him as he came more fully to awareness. Shy’s slender frame shook, as if he was crying.
“Shy….” Wyatt had to speak, had to say something, so Shy would know he wasn’t alone, that Wyatt was there for him.
The shaking ceased, and Wyatt thought he heard a stifled sob. Then Shy slowly rolled over, and Wyatt saw a shudder rack him, and his heart ached for him. He reached out one arm toward him.
“I’m here,” he whispered.
For a long, agonizing moment, he thought he’d scared him away, as Shy began to move again. But it was toward him, not away, and this time he didn’t run from Wyatt. He curled up against him, his face pressed into Wyatt’s chest, as he sobbed into Wyatt’s strength. Wyatt absorbed the tremors without complaint, cushioning them even as he gently stroked Shy’s back.
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