Chapter Twelve Christmas Is Going to the Dogs #3
Aaron turned to her, momentary stilled by quiet truth of that. The weight packed inside. And because of that honesty, Aaron decided to give a little of his own.
“I was in care, too.” He met her gaze. “Got dumped into the system at eight. Had the worst parents.” He glossed over that bit.
“Foster homes were a bit…hit and miss.” More hit, but he parked that too.
“Ran away from a couple. Ended up in some halfway house at fourteen. Care home thing where it’s more a business than a home.
” He cocked his head. “You in one of those?”
Skye bit her lip where her piercing cut through. She nodded.
“Hard being different in those, right?”
She drew in a breath.
“Gay,” he said, with a crooked smile. “In case the aggressively queer jumper didn’t give it away.
” He rolled his eyes at himself, and it earned the first real smile from her since the puppy had left.
Small. But real. “It gets better. You’ll find your people.
The ones who accept you, and see you. Love you. Exactly as you are.”
Skye glanced up at him. “You got that?”
Aaron smiled. Genuinely, this time. “Yeah. Somehow. Still not sure how I haven’t scared him off, to be honest. I’ve got…
baggage. Doesn’t stay zipped, if you know what I mean.
Explodes at inconvenient moments. Childhood trauma, moodiness, sharp tongue that gets me in trouble.
React first, regret later. You know, the greatest hits.
” He shrugged. “But Kenny’s stubborn. Likes a challenge.
” He leaned in closer to speak out the side of his mouth.
“Might also help that I have him handcuffed to the bed.”
Skye let out a laugh. Brief, unexpected, and bright enough to sting.
Then everything he’d described sparked to life when a hand landed on his shoulder and Aaron’s reflex hit faster than thought. He flinched hard, whole body snapping tight, breath catching mid-sentence. Instinct before recognition.
He looked up, jaw clenched.
Blackwell. And unlike the ever-intuitive Kenny, Blackwell didn’t cotton on to Aaron’s reaction and didn’t remove his hand.
“We’re finished here,” he said, all smooth efficiency. “I’ll see you in the car.”
Aaron stood, the moment breaking like ice underfoot. He waited a moment, then held out a fist to Skye. She bumped it. “You watch out, yeah?”
“I can look after myself.”
“Yeah. I see that.” He went to move away, then turned back in afterthought.
Sure, she could look after herself. But plenty of others thought that too.
People who thought thick skin and sharper edges made them untouchable.
He’d been one of them. And he knew all too well how predators didn’t care about armour and knew how to slip beneath it. So he said, “You got a phone?”
Skye blinked, wary.
Aaron circled his face. “Gay, remember. Very into men. Older ones specifically.”
“Like him.” Skye nodded towards Blackwell making his way out of the shelter.
Aaron shuddered. “God, no. Less pompous predator energy, more… hot, dominant, mind-reading perfection.”
Skye chuckled, then fished into her hoodie pocket and pulled out a scuffed, half-cracked smartphone. Aaron took it. Typed in his number. Put the contact as Aaron (pride flag emoji) Gay Jumper.
He handed it back. “You need anything. Any time. Call me.”
Skye gave the faintest smile, then Aaron clucked his tongue to Chaos and headed out to the car.
The drive back was quieter. As if Blackwell had used up all his words.
And Jonathon was back wearing his headphones.
So Aaron sent a text to Kenny to ask him to come get him.
By the time they pulled into the shelter’s drive, the place had emptied out.
The frost was creeping in, edging the concrete, and Kenny wasn’t there yet.
No headlights. No coat wrapped around a lean, tall frame to pull him back into orbit.
Blackwell disappeared inside.
Thank fuck.
“You want me to take the pup back?” Aaron asked Jonathon. “I’m gonna go check on the lurcher anyway.”
“Uh, yeah, okay. Thanks.” Jonathon handed him the puppy’s lead. “I gotta get changed for my next shift, anyway.”
“Do you ever go home?”
Jonathon chuckled. “Mum makes sure I do.”
Aaron blinked. Mum. He’d have put money on Jonathon being in his thirties.
Maybe older. The idea of him still under his mother’s roof snagged at the truth of how it was impossible to get a house these days, especially if only a volunteer.
Then he shuddered, the thought of still being tied to his mum sliding across his spine.
He shoved it away. Better to thank the authorities for giving him Howell blood money or he’d have been stuck in a whole different way.
He crouched, tied Chaos to the front post, rubbed her head. The retriever leaned into his palm with a sigh. “Good girl.”
The puppy went back easy, padding into her kennel with her tongue lolling, blanket and water waiting. Aaron lingered long enough to make sure she settled, then let the quiet pull him deeper into the darkened row. Toward Lucky’s pen.
The lurcher was curled in the corner like a wire coil wrapped in fur.
He crouched. Waited.
“Hey, girl.” He held out a few treats in his palm.
She sniffed, flinched, wouldn’t take them.
So he placed them on the ground. Waited.
She inched forward. Ate one. Shook the whole time.
Then Aaron extended the back of his hand.
Palm tucked in. Harmless. Open. Let her choose him.
And after a moment of stillness, she did.
A tiny nose rub to the back of Aaron’s hand.
Aaron smiled. “That’s it, girl. I’m here. You’re safe. I got you.”
“You’re good with her.”
That voice landed wrong in his spine. Made the hairs on the back of his neck lift.
He looked up. Snapped up, actually. Instinct sharpening.
Blackwell stood at the kennel bars. Arms folded.
No jacket. Tie loosened. Sleeves rolled and a glass of whisky dangling from his hand like some smug, off-duty country lord.
His eyes weren’t on Lucky. They were on Aaron.
And Lucky, sensing it too, slipped back into the shadows.
Aaron stood. Closed the kennel gate behind him. “I’ll lock up. Then head home.”
Blackwell leaned back, the wall behind him soaking up his shadow. “Or you could stay. Have a drink. Bit of Christmas cheer. Celebrate how we might’ve saved the place today.”
Aaron buzzed his ID card to the lock sensor. Clicked it into place. Took a step sideways.
“You do look rather cute in that jumper.” Blackwell took a sip of his drink. “Very…festive.”
Aaron tightened his hand around the keycard. “Heard of sexual harassment?”
Blackwell smiled through a tsk. “Compliments are not harassment.”
“Depends whose mouth they come out of.”
Blackwell chuckled, pushing away from the wall and taking another lingering sip of whisky. “Got told you were a handful.”
“More than a handful.”
“Really?” Blackwell raised his brows as he leered his gaze southward.
“I am way more than you can handle.”
“I’ve handled boys like you before.” Blackwell hummed.
Fucking hummed. And as he dragged his gaze lazily down Aaron’s body, he crossed the space between them and laid a hand on Aaron’s back, trailing his fingertips down the length of his spine.
“And you did so very good today. Pushed you straight to the top of the pile of those outreach applications. Let’s see if we can keep you there, shall we? ”
Aaron wriggled away. “Fuck you.”
Blackwell chuckled. “Ah, I see.” Then he lowered his voice to a seductive baritone that did nothing but make Aaron shudder. “You need the right hand. A firm touch. A bit of discipline.”
Everything slammed back then. All of it. All at once.
Eight years old, dragged from the cupboard he’d learned to be silent in. Handed over to a man who hated him for existing and never let him forget it.
Twelve, cornered behind the school kitchens, spat at, called queer like it was rot leaking from his skin.
Fifteen, thinking he’d finally grown teeth. Built armour. Flirted with danger because it gave him control. Only to wake up in someone else’s bed. Groggy. Undressed. Uncertain. The memory blurred, except for one: the locked door. The sound of it clicking shut.
Twenty, being drugged at a party to make him easier.
His body knew before his mind caught up. And his muscles locked, pulse roaring in his ears, the scent of Blackwell’s aftershave clawing at the back of his throat like poison.
He slapped Blackwell’s arm away.
Hard.
Then drove his knee into his groin.
A sharp, instinctive strike fuelled by a thousand buried nights.
Blackwell folded with a strangled sound, gasping. Aaron stepped back, breath ragged, keycard still clenched in his fist. Knuckles white. He wanted to do more. Felt the urge burning through him. To tear the man apart for even thinking he could touch him.
His teeth ground together. His whole body ready to ignite.
But the monster inside him, the one born from blood and survival, had been softened.
Tamed by gentler hands.
Meaning he was cornered.