“Right now, he’s a Dom and you’re his client. He wishes to leave and you’re following him against his will.” Tom’s gruff voice was calm, and that pissed Finley off even more. “I can’t let you go. You’d do the same in my place.”
“Fuck.” Finley spat and the urge to punch something returned.
He looked at Tom, but the man shook his head. He’d seen this before.
Was Finley that desperate?Pathetic.He’d turned into one of those rabid Subs who stalk their Doms.
With a growl, he turned towards the changing rooms, grabbed his bag and marched outside. The chill of the evening wind didn’t help to clear his brain. Hopefully, punching the bag at home would.
Within a week of moving to London, he’d begun missing the exertion working at the distillery had brought him. Sure, he’d been the boss there but whenever energy, anger, or a culmination of too much of everything had tried bursting out of him, he’d do physical labour. He would roll barrels, lift bags of grain—whatever had to be done, while calming his mind and body in the process. His employees saw it as him putting his money where his mouth was and leading by example, when all he wanted to do was exorcise the demons in his head.
Entering the house, he stripped naked and taped his hands. The Everlast bag hanging in the living room mocked him with its presence.
Finley released a growl from deep within his chest and punched it. Once. Twice. Then kicked it. He’d repeat the process until his arms hurt and his legs gave out.
For seventeen years on the island his life revolved around the distillery and Max, so between running a business and being a single parent, his head was always busy. The work never ended when he returned home, with invoices left to sort, a late delivery, or a number of other issues. And being a dad was keeping him busy 24/7 on top of that. From Max getting into fights in primary school to smuggling his dad’s whiskey to his friends at his posh secondary school. The bottles he’d stolen right from under Finley’s nose. He didn’t even need the money—Finley had made sure the kid never wanted for anything. Max had given the alcohol away to get in the good graces of his peers. As punishment, he had started helping Finley with business paperwork. His inclination towards maths and ability to think on his feet had turned years of messy spreadsheets into the beginning of an organisational structure. He’d never finished his project, though. And Finley was still waiting for his son’s killers to be brought to justice. Hopefully, soon.
“Aaaaagghhhh!”
The anguished cry left Finley’s lungs until no air was left and he collapsed on the rug.
Would Max be ashamed of him and his newfound queerness, the place he worked at, and how he sat buck-ass naked and tied up for everyone to see?
Did it matter now?
It did to Finley.
Max had never been judgemental. In fact, he'd fought actively against hatred and prejudice. Finley recalled with pride the way he'd beaten up some little shit who had been bullying a trans friend of his.
Yes. Finley was sure Max would accept the new him. Or rather, the man who’d finally opened to what had been dormant inside him. Maybe he’d even be proud of his dad getting more from life than his work—he’d always encouraged Finley to date or go to a bigger city for a wild night. Max would have helped him navigate all the sexuality-related wording and phrases Finley had to look up online or ask Lucy about. Max would have rolled his eyes and roasted him.
Finley smiled at the thought. He’d give anything for Max to call him an old man one more time.
With a groan, he dragged his sorry ass to take a shower. The water washed away his sweat, but his mind was still whirring. Dressed in joggers and a t-shirt, he stood in front of the boxes piled in the corner of the living room.
Even after weeks in this flat, he still lived on the few necessary items he’d unpacked initially. They were enough. Or so he’d told himself. He was supposed to live day by day and wait for information about Max’s killers from Don Murphy. Once he knew that had been handled, he wouldn’t have had anything left to stay alive for. But a lot had changed since then. It hadn’t been any one person or event that had made the difference; it had been everything and everyone. Since coming to London, the people he’d met and the experiences he’d had, convinced him there was still life in him. There was so much left that he needed to taste, feel, and touch.
He’d donated most of Max’s clothes, but there were some things he’d been unable to part with. With trembling fingers, he tore off the tape of the first box labelled ‘Memories’, revealing picture frames and photo albums. He picked the one from the top and sat cross-legged on the floor.
His heart swelled as he remembered how happy he’d been when the first snap was taken. It was a semi-blurry photo of him holding a newborn Alice at the hospital. He’d bought the usedNikon at a charity shop when Maggie was showing, with the idea to document every important moment of his daughter’s life. Unfortunately, the album was half-empty.
He closed it when he reached the pictures of a smiling six-month-old Alice sitting in a hospital cot. Hugging the album to his chest, he let the tears fall. With blurry vision, he pulled out the next book that started with a picture of Max swaddled in a blanket in his infant car seat. He had been three days old when Finley got the text from Maggie informing him that she’d given birth and didn’t want the child. With zero hesitation, Finley had sped to the hospital to pick up his son, not knowing that soon they’d be in so much financial trouble, they’d make a deal with the Mafia.
The album was brimming with snaps of his and Max’s life on the island. Their tiny spartan flat; Max running around the distillery as a baby. Then came pics of the house Finley had built with his own hands, Max’s first day of primary school, his surfing lessons and him conquering the waves of Porthcurno beach in Cornwall—all big and small but equally important moments. The thing about pictures was that no one took them at the difficult times, so Finley could relive the best snaps of his life by turning page after page.
The last one was of Max with his drivers’ licence. Taken a month before he died. Before he was killed.
The Mafia had helped him and given him and his son a chance. They had believed in Finley after first his parents, then his wife, had abandoned him. But Finley’s deal with the mafia had inadvertently killed his son.
Those first months after Max had died, Finley had cried so much his tear ducts turned dryer than a desert. He’d allowed himself to mourn long enough, then had put an expiry date on his pain. The day he’d learn that Max’s killers met their justice, he could join his son. Now, he needed to not only survive, butto live again. Being confronted with the myriad of memories tonight had been a rude awakening: the hurt was here to stay, and all he could do was try and make friends with it.
Among the albums, Finley found the ancient, battered copy of ‘Alice in Wonderland’ he’d carted from one foster home to another. Just like in the only book he'd owned as a child, Finley had now stepped into a new and unknown world. The Golden Handcuffs had given him a great job and friends who accepted him quicker than anyone ever had, but he was still lost.
Had he latched onto Kage? Had he merely been seduced by the younger man's expertise in the world of BDSM Wonderland?
Maybe. Despite not being certain if Kage was his White Rabbit or Queen of Hearts, Finley was not ready to ignore their last interaction. Kage would have to face him so they could clear the air at least. Or better yet—
“You want a session. Fine.” Finley rolled on the floor like a whiskey barrel then dragged himself to the laptop and opened Kage’s submission page. Filling it out again was quick this time as he knew what to expect and his previous information was already there. He changed his limits significantly, as they were a lot different now.
