It’s not just the T-shirts he wears either. Lately, I’ve noticed that his pants stretch across his buttocks so tightly that I can’t imagine any possible way they’d be comfortable. Every time I notice things like this, I remind myself he’s Jeff’s son. I’m pretty sure there’s a law that prohibits me from even thinking about the palm of my hand—or anything else—anywhere near his ass.
Despite the fact Jeff isn’t the most dedicated father, I can’t imagine a scenario in which he’d be happy with me interfering with his son. I honestly can’t. Even though we don’t see each other nearly as often as we used to, we’re still close. In all the time we’ve known each other, neither of us has ever purposefully done something to upset the other.
Don’t even get me started on the fact Elliot is twenty-four and I’m forty.
I’m exhausted. Overtired, that’s what I am. I must be to even be thinking such things. What Elliot looks like is neither here nor there. The fact that he’s impossible, insolent, and all but begging for someone to relieve him of his too-tight pants and spank his ass raw is also neither here nor there.
The very thought of it is preposterous.
No, it’s more than preposterous. It’s whatever you’d call something that’s beyond preposterous. That’s what it is.
I need to pull myself together. Maybe I’m the one who needs a good breakfast. Yeah, that’s probably what I need. A good high-protein meal, a calm day at work, and a nice early night. That’s exactly what I need. It’s nonnegotiable. I pride myself on the fact that I’m steady, dependable, and largely unshakable, but I know damn well those attributes are highly dependent on me being well-rested. The only time I’m even remotely at risk of losing control is when I’m exhausted.
I need a good eight hours tonight, and I’ll be right as rain tomorrow.
I’m relieved to have a plan, especially one simple and easy to follow.
I concentrate on releasing the tension in my jaw and wait in the study until I’ve composed myself and it’s well past the time Elliot leaves for work.
I sigh loudly as I walk toward the kitchen. I’m about to say, “Thank fuck for that,” but thankfully, I don’t because as I head down the hall, I nearly run into Elliot as he comes out of the guest bathroom. We both startle, doing that awkward little dance where you move this way and that in a fumbled attempt to get past each other.
Hmm, come to think of it, he’s been in the bathroom a lot this week.
Wonder if his stomach is okay?
Perhaps a gluten or dairy intolerance might explain his behavior. I think I remember reading that intolerances can cause irritability and sleeplessness, among a plethora of other ailments.
Might call Beth later and ask her what she thinks.
5
Elliot
I’mnotentirelysurewhy I feel the need to ask Stuart for permission to go out, but I do, and it really, really pisses me off. Not only am I an adult who doesn’t need permission to do shit, I’ve been doing more or less as I please since I was fourteen, when our housekeeper, Joyce, retired. My mom is super cool, and she’s never minded what I get up to as long as I don’t get into trouble.
Stuart is the polar opposite. He watches everything I do, just waiting for me to fuck up so he can get the last word in.
Dinner tonight is a stilted affair. We have lasagna with a green salad and use the black-and-white checked placemats. We both have a glass of ice water with our meals. Stuart is rambling on about my dad, even worse than usual.
“…and even though we don’t see each other all that much these days, we’re still close. It wouldn’t matter if we lost touch completely. We’d still never do anything that would upset the other. Neither of us would.”
Ugh. God. Make it stop.
I try to tune him out by focusing all my attention on the way his lips move and ignoring the sound coming out of them. That proves to be a bad decision. His lips move slowly, carefully forming each word, pouting as they press together and then abruptly parting as he expels sound.
Something about it takes me back to the way he looked this morning. He stormed out of the living room after our habitual smoothie debate. It looked like he was in a race to get away from me, which made me furious. He muttered as he walked. I followed him, thinking I would give him a piece of my mind, but now I’m not sure that was my intention. When I got close to the study door, I started tiptoeing and hid out of sight, listening in to see if he’d say something about me again.
“Someone needs to spank the skin off this boy before I do it myself.”
The words have been ringing in my ears since the second I heard them. Part of me feels shocked every time I think of it. Deeply shocked. The kind of shock that makes you feel hot and cold at the same time. The kind of shock that makes you question your sanity and wonder if you really heard what you heard.
The rest of me is a hot mess of confusion and a bunch of other things I’m trying really hard not to think about.
Does he know what I’m into?
How the hell would he know?
I’ve always been kinked. It’s something I’ve always been aware of on some level. It’s something I’ve always known, even when I didn’t really know what it was that I knew. I have no idea what made me this way. I’ve spent years wondering what happened to kink me like this. I wish I knew, but suffice it to say, a quick scroll through my internet search history would be more than enough to convince anyone that my preferred flavor isn’t vanilla.
