“C’mon, up.”
“Wanna stay here,” I mumble. He yanks on my hair, tugging at my scalp. “Ow, okay. I said,okay.” But he doesn’t release me till I’m off the ground. My lips are swollen, the shirt underneath my suit jacket’s sweat-slicked, the taste of his cum fresh across my tongue.
Throat raw—as promised.
“Where thefuckhave you been?” Father hisses when I’m faithfully by his side again. I’m standing taller, some of the confidence I used to have holding me steady.
“Getting air,” I snap.
“You forget who you’re talking to, boy.”
I duck my head. “Sorry, sir, I’m just … this is a lot.”
He frowns, not liking my excuses. My mouth—as always—will fucking cost me, but it’s hard to care, right now. Can’t put my finger on why.
“Come with me, you have several more donors to speak to.” Father drags me off, but it’s not as daunting as it was. Nothing’s changed. I’m every bit as trapped, and I’m sure it’ll all come crashing down later, but for now, I could do this all night.
Father relaxes, hand in his pocket, the faintest hint of a smile on his face by the time I’ve made my rounds. Is he actually fucking impressed?
“I forget that you’re like your mother that way. She loved the outdoors. That air did you good,” he comments.
I rub out the knot that just loosened in my chest, but when I look up, it returns. The raw ache in my throat awakens.
“Ah, Coach VanCourt,” Father says, extending a hand. “I’ve seen good things from you.”
The man smiles. A legit fucking smile. He’s all kids’-soccer-coach, and I-play-catch-with-my-son-at-the-park, and sure-I’ll-run-the-PTA-meeting vibes. It’s a fucking lie, a mask, and it pisses me off. He gives calm answers to my father’s questions about the upcoming season and even tosses in a “dad joke” for good measure.
Bet he ripped the limbs off his doll. Why’s he doing this? But it’s just as well that he’s fake like every other person here. Out there, in the wild woods, he seemed so raw and animalistic. It was refreshing. I’d rather come face-to-face with a snarling grizzly about to rip my face off than a human who plays nice to my face, while mentally figuring out how they’ll dismantle me and take me down.
I glare the whole time, which is not what Father expects of me. But there’s nothing I can do about it. Tate’s all wrong, and it makes me feel wrong.
“You must be proud of your son. He’s almost as good as my star center,” Tate says.
Ace McKinnon—that’s his star center. See? I pay a-fucking-ttention. I want to fucking kill Ace McKinnon for no reason other than Tate thinks he’s better than me. And fuck Tate for saying so, too.
“He’s going to do a lot better this year. Ryan knows the consequences of distraction.” Father uses the samecondescending voice he did with the other men, his alumni, the ones who agree with his cruel-ass methods.
I catch a flash of the man I met in the forest. His eagle-shaped brow furrows, danger glitters in his hazel eyes. The world tilts right side up again, and tingling breaks out over my flesh. I wasn’t wrong. Tate’s a predator who hides in plain sight behind a mask of alluring smiles and dad jokes.
As quickly as his sharpness came, it’s gone, replaced by one of the fakest expressions of pleasantness I’ve ever seen. I almost laugh. Father doesn’t notice. No one notices. He’s got them all fooled.
Everyone but me.
“I look forward to seeing you on the ice, Ryan. If you’ll excuse me, Henry, I gotta get to those hors d'oeuvres before they’re all gone.”
2
RYAN
Still August
“Put your arms in, Ryan,” Father says.
I’m not scared of much, but that fucking jacket … I’m willing to beg to have it far away from me. What a way to find out you’re claustrophobic—your father straps you into uncompromising canvas. Does he give a fuck that every time he locks me in that thing, the racing panic convinces me I’m gonna die? No. It’s punishment or conditioning. Either way, my terror is inconsequential.
“I-I did everything you said.”
“Mm-hmm, and it’s a good thing you did, or this would be worse than it has to be.” He slides his hands into his pockets, waiting. He’s not doing the dirty work; he would never. He’s got two armed men at the door, and two more inside—one to my right, and one holding out the straitjacket. The heavy canvas arms hang stiffly, the whole thing laden with buckles and straps, waiting to trap me.
