Chapter 6
So my parole officer is a fucking jackass.
I already knew that from our previous meetings, but now that I’m talking to him on the phone, the fact is clearer than ever.
He speaks to me like I’m an unruly child, all condescending about how I don’t apply for enough jobs. He goes on and on about integration back into society, as if I was locked up for two decades rather than eighteen months.
I pace my room while I let him run his mouth, fantasizing about what I would do if I were in the same room as the fucker.
Calm down, Mason. This is the kind of fucked-up, explosive anger that landed me in lockup to begin with.
My fingers flex at my sides as I keep pacing back and forth. I need to throw myself into the gym after this shit. No amount of tinkering with my Transformers will be enough to calm me down.
He relays my parole rules again, as if I didn’t already know:
Curfew between 6 PM and 6 AM.
No contact with the victim (as if I wanted to contact that fucker.)
No bars.
No alcohol.
No drugs.
No fun.
I already know all this shit, but I keep silent, stewing in my anger. As soon as the call is over, I pull my gym shorts on and storm down to the garage.
I’d do anything to go out tonight. The fact that I’m not allowed to makes me want it even more.
Speaking of things I want but can’t have…
As soon as the memory of Lane in my room a few days ago pops up in my mind, my cock twitches in my shorts.
It’s time.
I can’t go out and look for other hookups—and who the fuck would meet up for a hookup before 6 PM? I have to make do with the options I have, even if Oliver would disapprove, even if shit could get real awkward if I’ve misjudged the whole situation.
I sincerely doubt it, though. Anytime Lane looks at me, he gets that startled, deer-in-the-headlights expression, and his cheeks flush as his gaze darts down my body. He wants it, but I don’t think he’ll come to me unless I tell him exactly what to do. He needs some guidance, and that’s fine by me.
After the gym, I mix a protein shake and enjoy it by the kitchen island while scrolling on my phone.
As expected, no recruiters have jumped on my job applications yet.
I scowl and scroll social media instead, intent on sticking my head in the sand.
I distract myself with whatever I can find until Lane and Oliver come downstairs for their daily Xbox session.
Oliver pops off to the bathroom while Lane opens the freezer to get himself a popsicle.
He’s not meeting my gaze, but that’s alright.
I watch him quietly as he leans his elbows on the opposite side of the kitchen island and sucks the popsicle into his mouth.
Like me, he scrolls on his phone, popsicle in one hand.
He licks at the underside, savoring it, and the sweet juice trickles down the plastic handle.
I trace his collar with my gaze—the black velvet band and the silver ring at the front—contemplating which spot would be nice to tug on while I fuck him. I settle for the strip at the side of his Adam’s apple, and as if he can read my thoughts, he squirms and changes position slightly.
He keeps slurping around the popsicle and scrolling on his phone, pretending I’m not even here. Can’t have that.
I lean over the kitchen island and say in a low voice, “You look good, puppy, enjoying yourself like that.”
Lane flicks his gaze up at me. The popsicle slips out of his mouth, and he turns away, trying to ignore me, but he should know by now that I’m not so easy to ignore.
“Come to my room tonight,” I tell him. “I’ll give you something else to suck on.”
That gets his attention at last. His jaw drops, and he stares at me with wide eyes, then back at the popsicle. His cheeks turn a cute pink, like the color of his ice cream.
Oliver returns from the bathroom, and he and Lane proceed to load up an Xbox game.
I smirk and trot up the stairs, fairly sure that I’ve accomplished exactly what I needed to. Hook, line, and sinker. Now it’s just a matter of waiting.
Just a matter of waiting, huh? The thing is, I fucking hate waiting.
When midnight comes around, I try to listen for signs that Lane and Oliver are going to sleep.
Nothing. Just their enthusiastic chatter as they keep gaming until well after two o’clock.
Not much of a nightly routine with those two—they tend to just lie back and pass out whenever they’re tired, without even brushing their teeth.
3 AM now. Early for them but late for me. I try to keep myself awake and alert by fucking around on social media, but to be honest, the prospect of what might happen tonight is enough to keep me up.
It’s enough to keep my dick up as well. I usually jerk off before bed, and now my dick’s swelling between my legs, complaining about the interrupted routine. I palm my crotch absentmindedly. By three-thirty, I start to wonder if Lane’s even going to show up tonight.
I can’t deny my pride would be a bit wounded if he doesn’t.
Maybe I’ve misread the whole situation. Maybe he’s not interested at all and thinks I’m a total creep. Or maybe he’s just scared. Repressed. Inexperienced. I can deal with that. I can teach him, as long as he wants to be taught.
I grunt quietly as I keep palming my crotch. Where the fuck is he?
I glance at my phone. 4 AM already.
Groaning, I turn to my side. Fine. If he’s not going to show up, I might as well go to sleep. If he doesn’t want to admit to himself that he’s just as horny as I am, fine. His loss.
I consider watching some porn and jerking off to get rid of the ache in my balls, but instead I set my phone aside, sighing into the darkness, feeling sullen and defeated.
I didn’t think it would affect me this much.
He’s just some brat I want to bend over; it’s not like I care if I’ve misread his lingering looks or those please-hurt-me vibes that are written all over him. It’s a little awkward, sure, but I’ve been through worse.
I stare up at the ceiling, and I’ve just about accepted my defeat when I hear something in the hallway.
Soft footsteps, and then… knocking. Two hesitant taps on my door.
My heart beats hard and fast, and a delicious thrill of anticipation runs through me.
He’s here.