Oh, Tommy.“You can find out if you want.”
Before he can respond, my laptop chimes. My meeting is starting. I make sure the camera is turned off before logging on.
“Is everyone here?” I ask right away, and I’m startled by how flat and lifeless my tone is when I’m not talking to Tommy. I’ve never noticed that before.
I get a round of affirmatives, then I pass the meeting off to the accounting team to get us started. My attention never leaves Tommy as he watches me, but I keep him in my peripheral. Thatchasing, catching feeling–that hunting, seeking feeling–swells inside me as he narrows his eyes and stomps to his table.
By the way he practically throws himself into his chair, I can tell he’s working himself up to a fit of temper. My mouth waters, my fingers almost tremble, and I struggle to name this feeling. Impatience, yes. Excitement, almost definitely.
But why? Do I want him to misbehave? Do I crave discipline? No, I don’t think that’s it at all.
I’d be happy to wait until after my meetings. I’d be glad to give him my attention and care in the privacy of our home tonight, praising him for waiting so patiently.
But, I realize now, that what Ireallywant is to give him what he needswhenhe needs it. And if he needs me to pass another test right here, right now, then I will. Gladly, eagerly, with a thirst for success.
He’d better be ready, because I’m coming for him.
I’m paying as little attention as possible to the meeting, just barely enough to know what’s being said. Every other part of me is focused on Tommy, but I keep my eyes on my computer. I’m not looking directly at him, even though I know he’s come to enjoy my stare. It’s not a punishment, but a sort of dare. I’m daring him to act out for my attention, or to be good. He gets to choose. Either way, I’ll give him what he needs, what he’s asking for, and it will be a rush that I’m coming to crave.
He picks up his pencil and opens his book. He scribbles idly for a few seconds, but his mouth is turned down and he can’t sit still in his chair.
Riiip, the sound of paper tearing almost makes me look, but I wait. I wait.
Until a small ball of crumpled up paper taps the side of my head and hits the desk. Only then do I look at him.
He smirks at me smugly, twisting back and forth in his chair and tapping his pencil against the tabletop. He’s all movement,all motion, all noise; he’s a mess. I really like that about him. He’s more interesting than any other person I’ve ever met.
“Sir?” a voice asks from my computer.
“I agree,” I say calmly. Tommy’s smirk drops into a scowl as I prove that I’ve still been paying attention to my meeting. “And what about the reports from development?”
That launches a whole other department into their speech, and I calmly pick up the paper Tommy threw at me, and drop it in the wastebasket by my desk.
He wants a chance to act out? I’ll give him one. I go back to watching my screen.
Tommy huffs, annoyed, and his tapping gets louder, his fidgeting gets faster. His leg bounces under the table and I wish, not for the first time, that I was better at reading emotions. I want to trace his misbehavior to the source. I want to see where all his issues begin, what his anger is plugged into in his psyche; I want to understand him.
But, then again, his mystery and his complexity, paired with his oh-so-obvious needs and blatant attempts to drive me away, are what make him so interesting.
A pencil sails through the air next, skittering across my desk and onto the floor. I raise an eyebrow at him. And, like he was waiting for my glance, he stands.
His face is an angry storm cloud, all his teasing gone. A mood swing blasted him straight into actual rage, his temper getting the better of him.
“I’m fucking bored,” he growls, keeping his voice down, showing without meaning to that he is still a good boy. “I’m leaving.”
I mute my microphone. “You can try. But there’s only one word that will get you out of here, and you haven’t said it yet.”
“Ugh!” He throws his arms up. “Not everything is a game, Young-gi! Maybe I’m just bored!”
“Then use your safe word, and I’ll let you wait in the lobby with Yosef.”
“Fuck you!” he snaps. “I’m not using my safe word.”
“Then you’re not asking to leave,” I counter, my heart picking up speed, my blood thrumming. “You’re asking me to stop you.”
“I-I–Fuck you!” he says again, louder this time, angrier. He shoves his sketchbook off the desk as he storms toward the door. This is a test; it couldn’t be more clear.
So I go after him.
