Chapter 21 Elliot
ELLIOT
Istumble through my apartment door and collapse against it, sliding down until I hit the floor. My body aches in ways I’ve never experienced—evidence of Julian’s thorough claiming. The memory of being bent over on the dais, of everyone seeing me—
“Fuck.” I bury my face in my hands. “What have I done?”
For years, I’ve hidden who I am. Years of careful deflection, of dating women I felt nothing for, of building walls so high even I couldn’t see over them. And in the space of seventy-two hours, Julian Frost tore it all down in front of everyone who matters in Ravenwood.
I drag myself to the shower, turning the water scalding hot as if it might wash away what happened. But as the water pounds against my skin, I can still feel Julian’s hands, his mouth, his cock. I can still hear the gasps from the crowd, see their shocked faces.
“You’ve ruined everything,” I whisper to my reflection in the steamy mirror once I’ve finished washing. But my traitor of a body remembers the pleasure, the freedom, the release of finally being seen.
My phone vibrates on the counter. Mike’s name flashes across the screen.
“Hey,” I answer.
“Dude, where’ve you been? We missed you this weekend.” Mike sounds normal, cheerful.
“I had a lot of work.” The lie tastes bitter.
“Well, Derek and I are heading to Crossroads in an hour. You in?”
My heart pounds. Crossroads. Normal guys doing normal things. Drinking beer, watching the game, talking about women. The safety of my carefully constructed life.
“Yeah,” I hear myself say. “That sounds good.”
Maybe I can pretend nothing’s changed. Maybe I can slip back into the comfortable lie I’ve lived all this time. Maybe I can forget Julian Frost and the way he made me feel more alive than I’ve ever felt before. The problem is, Julian has claimed me for a year.
“Great. See you there.”
I hang up and stare at my closet, wondering which version of Elliot Chambers I should wear tonight.
Staring at the clothes I laid out on my bed, the same button-down and slacks I’ve worn a hundred times before, I realize it’s my armor—my disguise.
My fingers trace the bruises on my hips. Evidence of the truth I’ve denied my entire life.
“Stop it, Elliot. Boys don’t play with dolls,” my mother’s voice echoes from the past. “What will people think of you? Of me?”
I sink onto the edge of the bed, my body trembling. For forty years, I’ve been the son she wanted. The man she demanded to a point. Sure, I wasn’t a lawyer or banker, but I’ve dated women who looked good on my arm, laughed at jokes that made me cringe inside, and built a life on shifting sand.
“Disgusting,” she’d spat when she caught me at fourteen, looking at a magazine hidden inside my math textbook. Boys weren’t supposed to look at other boys that way.
A sob tears from my throat. When was the last time I cried? Before I learned that tears were weakness, that feeling was failure?
“What have I done?” I whisper, but the question transforms as it leaves my lips. “What have I done with my life?”
I’m forty years old. And I’ve spent so many of those years running from myself and being a shadow drifting through my own existence.
And then came Julian. Julian, who saw through everything. Julian, who pursued not what I pretended to be but who I truly am. He claimed me—body and soul—in front of everyone.
The tears come faster now, hot and relentless. I curl into myself, shoulders shaking with the force of my sobs. It hurts. God, it hurts to finally feel. To finally be.
“I’m gay,” I whisper to the empty room, testing the words I’ve never allowed myself to say. “I’m gay.”
Each repetition feels like breaking and healing simultaneously. I’m lost without the familiar weight of my lies, terrified of what comes next. But beneath the fear, something else stirs—something that feels like the first clean breath after a lifetime of drowning.
I curl tighter on my bed, sobs wracking my body as years of suppressed truth crash over me like a tidal wave. How many years have I wasted? How much of my life has been sacrificed on the altar of my mother’s approval?
“You’re disgusting,” her voice echoes in my head. “No son of mine would...”
I press my palms against my temples, trying to silence her.
Even now, her disapproval claws at me. I think of all the women I dated, the awkward kisses, the sex that left me feeling hollow.
I think of the longing glances I never allowed myself to acknowledge, the connections I severed before they could begin.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, though I’m not sure who I’m apologizing to—the men I could have loved? The authentic self I buried? The years I’ll never get back?
My shoulders shake with the force of my grief.
My phone buzzes again. Mike’s probably wondering where I am.
Something hardens inside me. No. I won’t let her win. Not again. Not anymore.
I push myself up, wiping tears from my face with shaking hands. My reflection stares back at me from the mirror—eyes red-rimmed, face blotchy, but a resolve shining brightly.
I grab my usual button-down shirt and slide my arms through the sleeves. I pull on my jeans, comforted by their familiarity. My hands move automatically, buttoning, zipping, tucking. The routine is grounding.
“She doesn’t get to break me,” I tell my reflection. “Not anymore.”
My mother spent my childhood building my prison brick by brick. Julian Frost tore down the walls. And even though I’m terrified of standing in the open, I refuse to rebuild my cage.
I grab my keys, straighten my shoulders, and head for the door.
The air hits my face as I step outside, a cool breeze offering momentary relief from the storm inside my head. Crossroads is only a couple of blocks away, and I decide to walk.
Streetlamps cast long shadows as I walk, my thoughts tumbling over each other. Julian. The Hunt. The claiming. My mother’s incessant voice grows fainter with each step, giving way to a strange sense of lightness.
When I push open the door to Crossroads, the familiar scent of beer and fried food wraps around me. Mike and Derek are already at our usual table, beers in hand.
“Well, look who decided to show up,” Mike grins, pushing a chair out with his foot.
Derek raises his glass. “The prodigal son returns.”
I slide into the chair, grateful when the waitress immediately brings a beer over.
“Where’ve you been, man?” Derek asks. “Haven’t seen you in like a week.”
“Busy,” I say, taking a long pull from my beer.
They exchange glances but don’t push it. The conversation shifts to safer topics—work, sports, the usual. Two women at the bar keep glancing our way, and Mike notices.
“Those ladies have been checking us out,” Mike nudges me. “The brunette’s cute, right up your alley.”
The old Elliot would have played along, would have forced himself to flirt with a woman he felt nothing for. But I can’t do it anymore. Julian’s words echo in my mind.
Let them see you.
“I’m not interested,” I say, my heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat.
“Come on, man. When’s the last time you got laid?” Derek laughs.
I grip my beer bottle tighter. “I’m gay.”
The words hang in the air between us. I brace myself for disgust, for rejection.
Mike breaks the silence first. “Dude, I knew it. Remember when I mentioned the bartender? The way you looked at him last week.”
Derek blinks a few times, processing. Then he shrugs. “Well, shit. That explains so much.”
“You guys aren’t... mad?” I ask, unable to believe it’s this easy.
Mike claps me on the shoulder. “Mad? For you finally being honest? Hell no. Proud of you, man.”
“About damn time,” Derek adds, raising his glass. “To Elliot finally coming out of the closet.”
Mike takes a swig of his beer, curiosity written across his face. “So why now? You’ve been doing the whole straight act for forever.”
“Yeah,” Derek chimes in, leaning forward. “What finally cracked the fortress?”
I stare into my beer, watching the bubbles rise to the surface. My mind flashes to Julian—his piercing gaze, his commanding presence, the way he saw right through all my carefully constructed walls.
“I met someone,” I admit. “Someone who wouldn’t let me hide anymore.”
“No shit?” Mike’s eyebrows shoot up. “Like a boyfriend?”
The word sends a strange thrill through me. “I don’t know what to call it yet. It’s early. Complicated.” I take another drink. “But he saw the real me—the me I’ve been denying my whole life. And now that I’ve experienced that... I can’t go back to pretending.”
“Whoever this guy is,” Derek says, “I already like him. You seem different. Good different.”
“You do,” Mike agrees. “More... I don’t know... present? Like you’re here with us instead of halfway somewhere else.”
I hadn’t realized they’d noticed. Had I been that transparent all these years?
“I’m hopeful,” I confess. “For the first time, I’m hopeful that I might have something real. Something that isn’t built on lies.”
Derek raises his glass. “Then we’re happy for you, man. Genuinely.”
“Absolutely,” Mike adds. “And I want to meet this miracle worker someday.”
I smile, warmth spreading through my chest that has nothing to do with the alcohol. “Thanks, guys. Really.”