No Way Out

by Julie Lynn Hayes

  “Shhh,” he whispered gently, “I’m here… I’m here….”

  Wyatt held on to Shy as if he’d never let him go, waiting and listening for the sound of his even breathing, to know that he’d fallen asleep at last, before he finally closed his own eyes and joined him in slumber.

  Chapter Eleven

  SHY COULDN’T blame this time on confusion.

  He’d purposely exhausted himself, scrubbing the house from top to bottom—including the Blue Room, which held its own special brand of terror, even without Randy’s menacing presence. He tried to scour away the memory of Wyatt’s voice as he’d pounded on the front door, pleading with Shy to answer it. He hadn’t been trying to hurt Wyatt. He rationalized his actions as a necessary evil—necessary for both their sakes.

  Too tired to think, he’d finally decided to call it a day. He stripped off his sweat-stained clothes, took a quick shower, and crawled into the single bed in the guest room. Once upon a time it had been his bedroom—before Randy made other sleeping arrangements for him—but no trace of his former self remained. Nothing that hinted that a child had once slept there. Although guest room was actually a misnomer, for there were never any guests in this house. Randy would never permit that.

  Sometime in the middle of the night, Shy had awakened to the oppressive silence of the house. It threatened to engulf him, like a living tomb. He didn’t want to be there—he knew what he wanted to do, where he wanted to be. Half-asleep and acting on sheer instinct, he pulled on a pair of pants and a T-shirt, forgoing shoes, and stumbled across the street.

  To Wyatt.

  He fortuitously found the front door unlocked. He pushed it open and quietly slipped up the stairs to Wyatt’s room, stripped and slid beneath the blanket, lying on the edge of the bed.

  He lay there for a few moments, hardly daring to breathe, afraid the raspy sound might wake Wyatt. Already he began to doubt the wisdom of what he’d done. Not the reason, but the ramifications. The knowledge of what would happen to both of them if Randy found out terrified him.

  He felt more confused than he’d ever been in all his life. He was frightened, and he didn’t know what to do.

  Harsh sobs attempted to tear loose from his soul. He stifled them as well as he could, but his best was not good enough, as usual, and he felt the bed shudder in protest. And then he heard the voice of an angel—at least it sounded like one to him—and he was drawn into the most forgiving warmth he’d ever felt, and he surrendered to it, spilling his liquid fears until he’d no more to give and he fell into blessed sleep.

  Warm breath that prickled the back of his neck was the first clue Shy had that he was not alone when he awoke. Momentarily confused as to where he was, he knew he certainly wasn’t with Randy, for if he ever got this close to Randy he’d be quickly and harshly shoved to the other side of the bed. If not kicked to the floor.

  Besides which, Randy was in the hospital.

  No, this was not Randy’s breath that warmed his skin in rhythmic pulses, for Randy’s breath was icy and reeked of wintergreen, like the mints he kept in a case in his pocket. And this was not Randy’s strong arm wrapped about Shy’s torso like a protective mantle, for Randy’s limbs were lean and hard, meant to inflict pain and not to dispense tender caresses. And this certainly was not Randy’s bed. This bed already felt more welcoming to Shy in the two times he’d slept in it than Randy’s had at any time over the past five years.

  Wyatt.

  Shy hardly dared to breathe, afraid if he moved the spell would be broken. Afraid to open his eyes and truly awaken only to discover it was all a dream and none of it was true. That he was really still under Randy’s thumb, inside Randy’s house—Randy’s possession.

  But then the memory of where he was filtered into his conscious mind, and a sense of wonder filled him at his own audacity. Or was that foolishness?

  From behind him, Shy heard a soft moan and he tensed, anticipating a blow. But nothing happened and the moment passed. The bed shook beneath them. Shy felt Wyatt roll over, heard him mumble something, his words muffled by sleep.

  Shy cautiously followed Wyatt’s example and eased himself over, trying not to disturb Wyatt by the movement of the mattress. He didn’t want to signal he was awake. Wyatt lay on his back, one arm bent, his hand pressed against his forehead, eyes closed. Still very much asleep. Shy breathed a silent thanks as he studied him without fear of observation or reprisal.

  Wyatt’s hair lay in loose curls that framed his face. Such a beautiful, rich shade of brown. The color of cinnamon, Shy decided. He’d always found something comforting about that particular spice. Perhaps that’s why he’d chosen to make cinnamon rolls for Wyatt. Sometimes he sprinkled a little on his allotted coffee ration, inhaling the combined fragrances before he took a sip. But only when he was alone. Randy would have called it foolishness. And probably found an excuse to take it away. Not that he needed an excuse—Randy’s word was law.

  His own blond hair looked so lifeless in comparison to Wyatt’s. So straight. Nothing special, it hung just below his shoulders. At Randy’s insistence, he kept it tied back. His preference, not Shy’s. It had been a lot longer at one time, almost reaching down to Shy’s ass. Then one day Randy had cut it. A punishment for something he didn’t like. Shy couldn’t remember now what he’d done then. He just remembered sweeping up the little pieces of himself afterward, doing his best to hide the ache in his heart. He told himself it would grow out, but he also knew all Randy had to do was say the word and he’d be sheared again. Like a lamb to the slaughter. After that, he’d kept it shoulder-length.

  Wyatt always seemed so at ease with himself and the world around him. Even the perpetually tousled look he wore, which might have just looked messy on someone else, suited him. Shy envied such confidence. He knew he didn’t possess it and never could.

  The morning sunlight glinted off some of the strands, making them appear almost red. Shy reached out a curious hand without thinking, caught himself, then hastily withdrew it. Mustn’t touch. Not allowed.

  He never touched Randy without permission. Not that he wanted to. Even at the beginning of their—relationship—his sexual curiosity had been tempered with fear.

  He’d once looked on Randy as a father figure, probably for lack of any other male in his life who could be said to fulfill that role. He hadn’t known any better. He was just five when his mother had moved them into Randy’s house, and he honestly couldn’t remember a time when they hadn’t lived there.

  Perhaps the idea that Randy was his father had been a natural assumption to make. For as long as he could remember, Randy had been the one to discipline him, as Doreen couldn’t be bothered. Randy had been the one who taught him to read, the one who homeschooled him.

  He’d also been the one who gave Shy the rules he expected him to live by.

  Shy had learned the hard way, though, that Randy was indeed not his father. First when he’d called him that and Randy had reacted in what he came to know as typical Randy fashion. That was the first time Randy spanked him with his belt. One with a very large, very hard buckle.

  The night Randy brought him into his bed only confirmed that fact, as Randy taught him what was expected of him. These were not fatherly terms of endearment by any means.

  And the lessons just kept on coming.

  “Penny for your thoughts.”

  Shy started. He glanced up fearfully. He’d been so lost in his own head and the unpleasant memories he couldn’t repress he hadn’t noticed Wyatt was awake. Now Wyatt regarded him with those intense blue eyes, the ones that Shy thought he could happily drown in.

  In another life, of course. This one was spoken for.

  Shy didn’t know what to say. He sure wasn’t about to tell Wyatt what he’d been thinking about. No need to go there. Luckily, Wyatt didn’t seem to expect an answer. Maybe the question had been rhetorical.

  “Looks like it’s gonna be sunny today.” Wyatt squinted toward the window. Shy wondered what time it was.
He’d undoubtedly overslept, at least according to his usual schedule. But it didn’t seem to matter today. Today felt different.

  “’Course it’s St. Louis, that could change.” Wyatt chuckled. “I know I heard the weather guy give the forecast last night, but damned if I can remember what he said.” He pushed the blanket aside, bunching it up between them, and stretched out his body to its full length with a satisfied grunt. “They’re usually wrong, anyway, you know?”

  Shy couldn’t help but notice that Wyatt was very naked. And very hard. Must be morning wood, he reasoned. Certainly nothing to do with his presence in Wyatt’s bed.

  “Did you sleep okay?”

  Shy nodded, forcing his eyes away from the riveting sight of Wyatt’s erection. His stomach clenched in a knot of apprehension. If Wyatt asked why he’d come here, what would he say? How could he explain his impulsive action to Wyatt when he didn’t actually understand it himself? He’d probably just sound stupid if he tried. Better to keep busy so he wouldn’t have to answer any awkward questions.

  “I’ll go make breakfast,” he volunteered and quickly rolled over. Away from the sight of the naked Wyatt. He started to drop his feet to the floor, but Wyatt’s words arrested him.

  “No, that’s okay. There’s still some rolls left in the fridge. We can heat those up. I’ll make us some coffee. Unless you’d rather have something else?”

  “Oh, okay. No, coffee’s good. Well, then I’ll clean the house while you—”

  “You did that yesterday. House looks fine, Shy. Better than I’ve ever kept it.”

  Shy was momentarily flummoxed. If Wyatt didn’t need him to cook breakfast, and he didn’t need him to clean the house, what did he want him to do?

  Of course, what everyone wanted from Shy. What he did best. It was the least he could do considering he’d broken into Wyatt’s house in the middle of the night. A business transaction, nothing more.

  He slid deftly across the bed in one serpentine motion, his hand snaking out to encompass Wyatt’s hardness. It was warm to his touch, pulsing against his palm.

  Shy pumped Wyatt’s cock quickly a couple of times before changing positions, bending purposefully over his body, his hair veiling his face from view. He moved his hand and deftly ringed the base of Wyatt’s erection with his fingers to make room for his mouth as he swallowed as much of Wyatt as he could get in one gulp. He had no fear of gagging—he was a master of deep-throating.

  He began to bob up and down on Wyatt’s shaft, sucking hard. Moans of pleasure emanated from Wyatt, and he squirmed beneath Shy’s expert ministrations, proof he was doing a good job.

  So focused was he on what he was doing that the hand that grabbed his hair took him by surprise.

  “Stop!” Wyatt’s hoarse voice cried.

  TO SAY that Wyatt was taken by surprise by Shy’s actions would be an understatement.

  To say he didn’t enjoy what Shy was doing—the pleasurable sensations that coursed through his body as Shy sucked on his cock—would be an outright lie.

  Oh God, what a talented mouth Shy had. Wyatt could feel already feel his toes starting to curl. It had been a long time since he’d been with anyone, much less anyone so good at what he did. At first he let his second brain do all the thinking. Intelligible speech was out of the question. The only sounds he seemed capable of producing were guttural moans.

  But then his first brain actually managed to engage, and he realized just how wrong this really was. He couldn’t let it go on, no matter how much he wanted to. It took all his self-control not to simply revel in the pleasure he was being offered. But it was for all the wrong reasons, and he knew it, and he could not take advantage of Shy in that way.

  Wyatt was not Randy Grant, and he never wanted to be mistaken for that slimy bastard, in this lifetime or any other.

  He had to stop this and he had to stop it now. Before he reached the point of no return and wasn’t able to. He didn’t want Shy to think his only value lay in sexual subservience. Far from it.

  His hand reached toward Shy. He meant only to tap him on the shoulder, but at the last moment his aim was deflected and he ended up gripping his hair, another shudder of pleasure passing through his frame as he finally got out the reluctant command to stop.

  In afterthought, Wyatt realized he was lucky not to have startled Shy into biting him. As it was, Shy pulled back immediately and raised his head, bright blue eyes wide in surprise. Wyatt winced at his confused expression. He felt as though he’d just kicked an innocent puppy.

  Shy crawled backward, away from Wyatt, his stricken gaze never faltering. Acting quickly, Wyatt pressed his hand against Shy’s cheek before he moved too far away.

  “Oh God, babe, please… don’t look at me like that. It’s not that I don’t want you. I do, I swear it—”

  Words failed him, and the few he’d gotten out sounded weak, even to him. In the back of his head, he could imagine Lukas’s voice, hear the accusations, delivered in scathing tones. Didn’t I tell you to butt out? That you’d only hurt him?

  Fuck this.

  He could order Shy to stay where he was, he could tell him to move closer… to do just about any damn thing he wanted… and Wyatt knew it. He’d proven before that if he used the right tone it would work, as if Shy were conditioned to obey—which he probably was, come to think of it. But that was not how he wanted their relationship to begin. And he had no doubt in his mind that they would have a relationship. A real one. Not whatever sick, twisted idea of one Grant had brainwashed Shy into having for the past five years.

  A real, loving relationship, based on mutual trust and respect, on basic human decency, something Grant knew nothing about, obviously.

  Which only strengthened his resolve not to let Shy go back to Randy Grant—ever. Even if he didn’t know just how he would accomplish that.

  “Please,” he said softly. “Please don’t go. C’mon up here. So we can talk. Just talk.”

  Shy froze in place. Wyatt could only imagine how confused Shy must be, how conflicted.

  “I won’t stop you from going, if that’s what you really want to do. But I wish you would just give me a chance….” Give us a chance. But he was afraid to speak those words aloud, afraid he’d only scare him even more than he already was. One step at a time. One step.

  Waiting for him to decide which way to go was going to be a real test of Wyatt’s patience. But he’d do whatever he had to do in order to win Shy’s trust.

  It felt like an eternity, but was probably only a few moments later that Shy inched up the bed, maintaining his distance from Wyatt, who was trying to gather his thoughts. Before he could say anything, Shy broke the momentary silence between them.

  “Did I do something wrong?” Wyatt thought he detected a note of panic in Shy’s voice, as if he was afraid of being punished. He could only imagine why he felt that way.

  “No, of course not,” Wyatt hastily assured him.

  “Then why…?”

  “Because you don’t owe me that.”

  “But I do,” Shy protested. “I broke into your home in the middle of the night. Into your bed. I have an obligation—”

  “No!” Wyatt’s voice came out sharper than he’d intended and he quickly softened his next words. “No, Shy, no. You never owe me anything for that. I’m here for you. Remember, I told you that? I’m your friend, not….” He flailed for words before blurting out, “I’m not that fucking asshole.”

  Shy made no immediate response. Wyatt felt him tremble, and his heart ached for him. He remembered what Lukas had told him, that Shy had been living with Grant since he was just a child. This had to be hard for him, as difficult as it was for Wyatt to grasp the kind of life Shy must have been leading. Even though Lukas had tried to explain the lifestyle, he just didn’t get why someone would allow themselves to be put into that kind of situation to begin with, much less stick with it.

  Perhaps because he didn’t have a choice?

  Maybe that was the whole problem in a n
utshell. His mother had left him there, for whatever reason, with that lunatic control freak, and Shy didn’t know anyone else, had nowhere else to turn. Well, dammit, he knew someone now, and Wyatt vowed he’d keep Shy safe with him, no matter what.

  “Hey,” he said, reaching out despite his best intentions not to touch Shy and stroking his cheek. “I have an idea. You want to jump in the shower real quick while I make breakfast? Well, heat it up.” He laughed, hoping to relax Shy’s tension. It seemed to work, at least somewhat. He stopped trembling. “You can borrow some of my clothes again.” He answered the unspoken question in Shy’s eyes.

  “And then what?” At least Shy seemed interested enough to ask. That had to be a step in the right direction, surely.

  “And then we’ll just have fun.”

  Shy looked pointedly at Wyatt’s obvious erection. “Don’t you want me to—”

  Wyatt was afraid he might not be strong enough to resist a second attempt. Yes, he wanted to touch Shy, wanted to be touched by him. But not yet, it was too fast. He wanted there to be more between them than sex, even if it was right there, waiting to be had.

  He pulled Shy to him and pressed their lips together, his only intent being to still the offer before it was actually made. Occupy Shy’s mouth in some other way. But his purpose backfired as a warm current flowed between them, and he found himself reacting to the kiss more deeply than he’d expected, fueled by the taste and scent of Shy. When Shy unexpectedly breached Wyatt’s mouth with his tongue, Wyatt felt a moan travel between them, one he recognized as his own. And now it was Wyatt who trembled at Shy’s touch, Shy who seemed to be calling the shots.

  Only the fortuitous ringing of Wyatt’s cell kept the situation from progressing to the next stage. Shy pulled back, his expression unreadable. “I think I’ll take that shower now.”