Angel
For weeks after the crazy bullshit at the courthouse, I couldn’t feel happy. Dad went to jail—real jail, not lockup—in a place called Trident Falls Correctional, and it was far away from New Gothenburg. He wouldn’t talk to me on the phone, either. Now that I knew what Dad had done to Casey bear, I also didn’t feel right asking him to drive me out there, even though I knew he would do it.
No way.
It was weird to feel so down because every day with Casey was good. He made sure I was safe and secure, and half the time I felt like a sex god because he looked at me as if I was better than ten thousand cupcakes on a silver platter.
The care he took to make sure there was food in the house I liked, games I wanted to play, and new comics on the shelf in his den was all so thoughtful.
And I just felt terrible every time he did some new nice thing.
I started to worry Casey wouldn’t want me around anymore because each evening after he played with me—he always had something fun for us to do together—all I wanted to do was cuddle. He didn’t push things. He would snuggle me on his lap, and his hard-on would dig in against my ass, but he didn’t pressure me. More than once I asked him to put the plug in me because it made me feel safe in a weird way, just to be so full.
But we didn’t fuck.
“Do you want me to get you off?” he always gently asked, while he teased the plug into me.
The last time I’d asked him to plug me, I wasn’t hard, and he hadn’t questioned me about what was going on with that. He’d probably realized I was in a big, gnarly rut. How could he not?
I’d only shaken my head, and he’d gently tapped the plug into my hole. When he was done, he’d kissed my back, right near the base of my spine, and worked my boxers up my hips.
Casey took a deep breath. “There’s a man who works with Creed. I’d like you to talk to him.”
“Psychologist?” I glared over my shoulder. “What’s he going to do?”
“Go talk to him. I’ll ask Creed to get you an appointment.”
“I’m fine.”
“Grown-up.” Casey lowered his eyebrows.
“Fuck, fine. Just be my Casey bear and snuggle me.” He’d done as I’d asked, no questions.
So I’d listened to him because it was only fair. He dropped me off at Creed’s office one afternoon after work, and Creed introduced me to his coworker Dr. Griffin, like it was fucking nothing to go blab about your shitty life to someone else. Their easy acceptance that I might need help was nice.
Like Creed, Dr. Griffin wore glasses, only his were thick dark rims that made him seem smart-nerdy. His short, dark curly hair reminded me of hobbits and made me want to ask him about Gandalf. It was weird that he was only a bit older than me. I’d been expecting a gray-haired man and hadn’t been very comfortable.
He’d chuckled when I stared too long. “You’re Gaffin and I’m Griffin, this was meant to happen.”
I hadn’t laughed because I didn’t want to be there.
Talking helped—a little. I had nothing to tell Dr. Griffin, except I felt guilty to be walking around free while my dad was in jail, and it was all insane because if anyone belonged in prison, Dad did. And I was still freaked out by the fact that Casey, Merit, and Creed had hurt my dad.
I could almost imagine it happening. And I hated it. And craved it.
The worst part was, I could also imagine everything Dad had done to them first.
The inside of my head was a detailed sketch of a nightmare where Dad had hurt Casey.
“So why don’t you draw it?” Dr. Griffin had asked during one visit where I was able to bring myself to tell him what was bothering me that day. I’d blinked at him, and he’d quirked a grin. “If you have that talent to bring the inside of your head to life, maybe getting it out of there would help.”
I’d picked at the edge of my cast and then made myself stop. “I can’t do that at home. It would upset Casey.”
“Do it here.” He’d gestured at his office. So I’d started using my weekly appointments to draw my pain. Casey didn’t push to go in with me, and I was glad because I didn’t want to tell him no.
And drawing things helped, too. It scared me sometimes, and the day I drew Casey, Merit, and Creed beating my dad—the story had stuck in my head and grown vivid—Dr. Griffin had excused himself from the room for a few minutes.
When he came back he told me I was doing a good job with therapy, but his eyes were rimmed red.
