“Everything,” Jag said softly. “But I don’t know where—or how—to start.” He tucked his chin against his chest, jaw becoming a hard line. “I’m a coward.”
Michael wanted to tell him he wasn’t, but the truth was he didn’t know that for sure. He had no clue what was going on with Jag. He opted for patient silence. If Jag really was about to open up to him, pushing or cajoling him was unlikely to help.
Jag puffed his cheeks out. “Earlier, I realised I hadn’t tried to confront my problems. I’d just run away from them. So I tried to stand up to them, but I couldn’t even speak.” He hung his head. “I’m a coward.” There was so much venom in his voice that it made Michael’s skin crawl. “Which is why a need a new SIM,” Jag went on. “I didn’t want them tracking me through my number. I don’t even know if that’s possible, but I can’t take the chance.” He smiled thinly. “I guess you could say I’m paranoid.”
It was hard to stay silent, to not ask questions. On top of that, Michael had an overwhelming desire to move to the other sofa and envelop Jag in his arms. The young man was clearly struggling, every word an obvious effort to get out. He didn’t know if offering comfort would make it easier or constitute pressure. He didn’t want to take the risk of it being the latter. He stayed put, even though it about killed him to do so.
“I’ve been so selfish,” Jag bit out. “The way I’ve treated you is unforgivable.”
Every muscle in Michael’s body twitched, aching to reach out to Jag. It took all his self-control not to. He owed it to Jag to hear the young man out in full—as much as he was willing to tell him anyway—before reacting.
Jag wiped his hands over his face, his palms dragging his fine features down momentarily.
“I shouldn’t have got involved with you,” Jag said softly. “I knew you were going to end up getting hurt, but I wanted to feel wanted for all the right reasons, just once.” He stared into Michael’s eyes. “And I shouldn’t have told you I didn’t trust you.”
Michael swallowed down the words that rose to the tip of his tongue. Jag tugged at the blanket, dragging it from covering the sofa to pull it around his own shoulders like a shield. Or maybe as a replacement for Michael’s arms. Michael stared at the blanket, wanting to be where it was. He stayed put, not wanting to pile confusion on top of pain.
“I…” Jag faltered and pulled the blanket tighter around himself. “Trusting guys got me into a lot of trouble, when I first started running.”
Michael’s stomach flip-flopped. He grabbed a scatter cushion so he could clench his fists beneath it.
“I needed a place to stay and was stupid enough to accept the first offer I was given.”
“Naive, perhaps,” Michael muttered under his breath. “Not stupid.”
“But you don’t get anything free, do you?” Jag asked. “Everyone wantssomethingin return.”
Michael could imagine what.
“I had so little self-respect back then that I thought I deserved it,” Jag said, his voice quivering slightly. “I gave them what they wanted because it was better than being on the streets and dealing with all the dangers there.” He shuddered.
Michael clenched his fists tighter.
“But I realised that letting guys screw me in exchange for a place to stay was wrong, that it was just another form of prostitution, and I didn’t hate myselfthatmuch.”
Michael understood why Jag had looked so reluctant that first day, before he’d told him he’d need to pay rent for the bedsit.
“Not everyone was like that,” Jag said, smiling slightly. “Some of the people I met were genuine. They wanted to help or just be a friend. But then I realisedtheywere searching for me and that I’d have to keep moving to outrun them. I started putting together my rules because I needed to create a blueprint for survival.” He shook his head. “That probably doesn’t make any sense to you, but I was a kid, and I was terrified.” He sighed. “Having to leave the people who genuinely want to help me hurt. I couldn’t keep doing it to myself. Making friends, only to have to leave them behind.”
“Rule number four,” Michael recalled.
“Exactly.” Jag threaded his finger through a hole in the blanket, making it wider for a few seconds before continuing. “Then I met Ian.” His lips stretched into a tight line. “I thought he really cared about me.” He squeezed his eyes shut and sighed heavily. “He told me he’d protect me, that he could save me from them.”
Michael’s skin turned cold.
“Maybe that was his intention, at first.” Jag huffed out a breath and stared at the ceiling. “Until my father opened his cheque book and paid him off.”
Father? Michael kept his shock and confusion to himself.
“The next thing I knew, he turned up with my parents and a PI, and everyone expected me to go with them. I barely got away and swore I wouldn’t fall for that kind of shit again.” He clenched his fists. When he spoke again, his words were a low mutter, probably not meant for Michael’s ears. “I knew I’d never survive if I went backthere.” Jag lowered his gaze to meet Michael’s stare. “I promised myself I wouldn’t tell anyone my secrets ever again.”
“So…” Michael cleared his throat. “Why are you telling me?”
Jag’s expression became pained. “Because I love you, and because you’re different.” He licked his lips. “At least, I hope you are.” He blinked back tears. “Because I’m tired of running and keeping these secrets. Because I want to stay here, with you, but I don’t know how to make it happen or if it could ever be possible. Because I can’t keep doing this on my own. Because after I pushed you away yesterday, I realised what a huge fucking mistake I’d made.” He hunched his shoulders and whispered, “I’m so fucking tired, Michael. Tired of it all. You took some of that away from me without even realising it, and I treated you like shit in return.”
“It sounds as if you’ve had a pretty shitty time of it,” Michael said. He didn’t need to know why Jag was running to understand how hard it had been for him since he’d started.
“That doesn’t excuse my behaviour,” Jag said gruffly. “I’m surprised you even let me in tonight. I’m not sure I would have if I were in your shoes.”
