Chapter 3
Max Jensen
Even though I remembered those days, it never ceased to amaze me how much a fifteen-year-old boy could eat. This was his third or fourth serving. And we’d had Sunday lunch at my folks’ today, where he’d scarfed down half a chicken casserole.
“So when are you coming back?” he asked.
“Thursday morning,” I replied. “Are you gonna be able to finish all that, son?”
It was the last of the meatloaf and a mountain of mashed potatoes and gravy.
He adjusted his glasses and smirked. “Have you learned nothing?”
I laughed and leaned back in my chair.
I loved having him here. He brought life and color to the place. Sometimes literally. The other week, he’d come home with painted pots from a pottery class. A birthday gift he’d given Monica. Back in June, he’d come over with an actual gerbil, which was thankfully at his moms’ place now.
Alex chowed down, and I just sat there, soaking up the last moments. We usually made the switch after school on Monday, but since Reid and I were flying to Florida first thing in the morning, I’d rather not wake Alex up at three AM.
If it weren’t for Alex being here this week, I wasn’t sure I would’ve survived with my sanity intact. Old Town was officially closed, with the last members having dropped by the attic today to clear the rest of the inventory of rope and toys.
The whole situation felt like…having lost the map to a treasure that may or may not exist. I’d lived on the hope that maybe… Maybe I’d eventually discover what role felt like more than a role. I mean, I fucking loved kink—why was it so hard? Why was it so exhausting?
I’d felt things click into place perfectly three times in my life.
The first one—well, it was a series of small clicks, rather.
When my big brother brought his buddy home.
Meeting Reid. Befriending him. Little moments of getting to know him.
A party here and there, getting stoned once or twice, discovering we were both into running and biking in rough terrain…
He had this devilish grin that promised a good ride to hell, and I’d been four years younger and impressionable.
Man, did I become his personal stalker. I’d wanted to be him, and I’d wanted to be with him.
Back then, just a flash of that grin or a calculating look in his warm green eyes, and I’d been cooked and done.
The second time was obviously when my other best friend announced she wanted to be a mom, and she and her girlfriend stammered their way through their wish to have me as the father.
I hadn’t even hesitated, and the first time I’d held Alex in my arms—I couldn’t describe that feeling.
Lastly, when Reid and I decided to start Old Town.
It’d felt so damn perfect, like I was finally on the right path to figuring things out.
With him by my side, the world had looked like a place of opportunities.
And we’d had so much fun together over the years.
I’d learned so much. I’d had experiences I never could’ve dreamed of if it weren’t for Reid.
Because he was a traveler, a late-night reader, and he had that mindfucky brain of his.
He’d always known things. Two days could pass, and the next time we saw each other, he’d read up on psychological warfare and signed us up for a seminar at a kink community in Chicago the following month.
Shit like that.
It was how we’d eventually become a part of a group of friends from all corners of the country, and we met up once a year down in Florida for some primal fun.
After I’d dropped Alex off at his moms’ place, I came home to an empty condo that’d started suffocating me. My son wasn’t here to keep the darkness at bay anymore, so I aimed for the living room and the liquor cabinet.
I didn’t bother turning on the lights. The walls were too empty, not counting the space the entertainment unit occupied. That was where my mother had put all the family pictures. Alex had his video games there too.
I went to get ice, and then I sat down on the couch with a bottle of vodka and a glass.
I contemplated putting on a movie, but in the end, I texted Reid.
Did you pack?
I was gonna do that before bed. Or in the morning. I hadn’t decided.
Rather than texting back, he called me.
“I packed yesterday,” he yawned.
Well, good for him.
I inserted my earbuds, not liking the sound of someone on speaker.
“Did you drop off Alex?”
“Yeah.” I poured a glass and took that first burning swig. “Did you get the final head count for the trip?”
He hummed, and I heard him rummaging around for something in the background.
“Printed the list and everythin’.” That was so him.
He’d never liked to keep things on his phone.
Instead, he had an impressive collection of Post-its and printouts.
“Uh, let’s see… We got the Chicago crew, the Clara Hill triad, Sam, Carl, Garrick, and…
right, LC and Joey—they confirmed this mornin’.
Eight Tops, including you and me, and six bottoms.”
Good mix.
It was too easy to fall down a rabbit hole of memories with Reid.
This would be our seventh trip with our buddies, and a lot had happened.
Some had left when relationships had ended; some had joined when new ones had formed.
I’d say we were closest with Sam, who was flying out from Portland, and Rome, Trey, and Cas from Clara Hill, a community in Pennsylvania.
By my third drink, life looked all right again, and Reid and I were chuckling our way through a memory from two years ago.
When that sadistic bastard had demonstrated how kinksters could safely use zip ties—otherwise, a restraint we didn’t recommend.
They cut off the blood flow. But if you were a rough player who knew the risks and eliminated most of them, yeah, that’d been a hot night.
A painful, hot night. Reid, Sam, me, and two subs who’d recently moved to Germany with their Owner.
“How come we always end up in an orgy down there?” I mused.
Reid chuckled. “Because you get drunk and very affectionate.”
Fuck.
I swallowed a mouthful of vodka and felt the heat of embarrassment rise within me.
Maybe half the blame was placed with me, but not fucking all of it. Reid changed when we traveled together too. For some reason, he thought our annual trips were an invitation for him to direct his sadism at me.
Not that he ever got sexual with me. At most, at best, we’d co-topped together—perhaps gotten a little grabby with each other, but I couldn’t recall us ever crossing a line. No kissing or anything. Plenty of hot moments, just…always with someone between us.
I kept convincing myself that was for the best. Because, aside from my son, Reid was…
fuck, my whole world. And the thought of making shit awkward when things didn’t work out…
? No. No way. Not happening. We wouldn’t be a good fit.
He was into vanilla people on the submissive side of things, or straight-up bottoms, and I didn’t know what the fuck I wanted. Definitely not a sadistic Top.
No.
I refilled my drink and let out a breath.
My only frustration with this whole thing—with full-blown Sadists and primal Tops—was that I had a curiosity or two, and it bothered me to be drawn to a flame that would burn me too much.
Considering I couldn’t actually call myself a masochist. Sadomasochist, possibly.
When I was fighting my prey, I wanted him to fight back.
I wanted to feel his resistance for days.
Marks, bruises, cuts, and scrapes. I wanted all that.
But in the end, I’d seen so many of the men Reid played with.
Eventually, they surrendered and submitted. I couldn’t do that.
There wasn’t a submissive bone in my body.
“You okay, Max? Honestly.”
Honestly?
I laughed under my breath.
Leaning back against the cushions, I undid my jeans and pushed them down.
“I’m fine—just lost as usual.” I hauled my tee over my head too, then leaned back once more with my drink in hand.
“Even though I never figured shit out in our community, it felt like killing the possibility altogether when we closed.”
“I get it.”
I liked having his warm voice in my ears. Way better than the speaker function.
I took another sip and closed my eyes.
I’d officially hit the sweet spot, where I was warm and halfway to drowsy. Life was good, I was chill, and I was ready for a few days in the sun with Reid.
“I don’t need to give you my two cents on the matter again, do I?”
Two cents on what? “On my inability to connect with a kink? And someone else, for that matter? I’m not sure you ever gave me your two cents.”
“Or you just tuned it out,” he chuckled lazily. He drank from something too. Probably whiskey. He was a whiskey guy. “You were always overthinkin’ shit.”
He was wrong.
“Easy for you to say,” I muttered. “You knew who you were in kink the moment you discovered it.”
“Not true. It took me over six months.”
Christ. Jackass.
He laughed a little. At least someone laughed at his sense of humor…
“That’s not what I was talkin’ about,” he said. “I mean… We always tell newbies not to box themselves in. Don’t worry about labels, ’cause chances are you’ll find several that’ll fit you to some extent.”
He had a point. We’d given hundreds of those speeches.
“Some obviously do identify strongly with a certain label,” he went on. “Whether it’s a Sadist, a high-protocol Master, a Little—whatever. But you don’t, and you seem to wanna force somethin’ that ain’t there. I never understood why.”
I scowled at nothing. “So I could meet someone like-minded, of course. So I could feel at home in my core kink—so I could have a core kink.”
He blew out a breath. “This is what I’m talkin’ ’bout. You’re overthinking. You act like a life without fittin’ inside one of these boxes makes you incomplete or somethin’, and unless you find a core kink, you’re not gonna click with someone. It’s horseshit.”
Fuck you.
He didn’t get it.