Then I’m going to drag him into his building and spank his gorgeous little ass for not paying better attention before I make love to him.
If he’ll let me.
But as I follow him and I realize we’re taking his usual shortcut across campus on a trajectory that likely leads to his apartment…
I once again chicken out.
I stay close enough to keep an eye on him and intercede should it be needed, my heart aching that I can’t protect him all the time. As we approach his apartment building nearly twenty minutes later, all courage once again flees me.
I remember too much.
The tears rolling down his cheeks that horrible afternoon.
The choked sound of his last words to me before he left.
“I love you, and you are the man of my dreams, but there isn’t enough room for me between the two of you. Elliot needs you.”
My steps slow and I hang back until I watch him safely disappear into his building.
I can’t keep doing this. This isn’t just masochism, it’s thebadkind of masochism—emotional masochism.
I’m becoming addicted to this dark, nasty feeling sloshing around in my gut.
It’d be easy for pain and resentment to compound and blossom until I can’t stand the sight of Elliot and I nuke us and am left with absolutely nothing.
This isn’t healthy. The psychologist is sick and tired of my goddamned shit.
Leaning against an oak tree, I stare at the entrance to Jordan’s building as my hand slips into my pocket to finger his bracelet. Jordan has a tiny studio loft, lives by himself.
Yeah, I talked my way into the building on an earlier trip. The super was easy to con. Didn’t even have to lie too much. Flashed my White House ID badge at him, said I work for the White House, implied I was Secret Service, and that there were security issues I had to investigate to make sure Jordan was safe. That it would only take me a moment, and I needed the man’s discretion, because we didn’t want to worry Jordan needlessly.
I even asked him to come inside the apartment with me and stand in the doorway while I walked around the tiny place with my tablet held up, like I was scanning for electronic bugs.
Fucking idiot.
The super, I mean.
What I was doing was taking pictures and video, because I’m that damned sick and twisted, I suppose.
My poor boy.
That was last month. Jordan had been living here nearly five months at that point, and he had barely any furniture, not even anything on the walls, the bed still on the floor.
Nothing.
Bleak.
Much the way my own soul feels right now.
My sweet, innocent boy’s living in pain. If I drag him back to DC…
That would make me a shitty, selfish person, wouldn’t it? Hurting the two men I love so goddamned much? Killing Elliot inside a day at time, him knowing I’m with Jordan, and yet leaving Jordan stuck in an emotional limbo I can’t promise him will ever change.
Because if I did bring Jordan back, I know damn well if Elliot ever demanded I permanently end things with Jordan.…
I would.
The dream I had of us being a triad will never come true. Rationally, Iknowthis.
