Chapter 6. Liam
Ethan turns to me, grabs the collar of my shirt, and slams my back against the wall, just like he did with Garrett just now.
He towers over me, pinning me in a way that is, I have to admit, incredibly fucking sexy but mostly terrifying.
My heart pounds so hard I think it will stop.
His hand is around the front of my shirt, twisting it into my throat, not tight enough to cut off air but enough to lock me in place, immobile, forced to stare up at him.
I raise my eyes to him, and I’m completely aware of the fact that I look like a hurt puppy eyeing his owner.
Ethan’s face is inches from mine, and I can see the raw anger in his eyes, the kind that only comes after holding yourself together for far too long.
Every muscle in my body is lit with that animal panic.
Some part of me can’t help but register how good it fucking feels.
I’m sure Ethan is about to deck me right there, but all he says is: "Have you lost your damn mind? On your first day, right in front of Griff, do you have a death wish or something? What's your fucking problem?" His green eyes are blazing.
"Sorry, Ethan. It won’t happen again, I promise. I’ll be good," I say, sounding way more desperate than I intend.
There goes my pride, again, as if I have any left.
He holds me there a few more seconds, staring at me with those shimmering eyes. I stare back at him, swallowing hard, shivering, and I don’t even remember my own name. When I think he’s going to slap my face, he finally lets go.
"Just so you know, I’m only letting this slide because Griff said so.
If it were up to me, I’d drag you back to the room and give you another spanking.
But Griff says we need to be patient with you since you’re new here.
I disagree. I think we need to show you right away that you’re not just some street thug.
You’re here for a reason, and you’re going to learn one way or another.
If this happens again, God help your soul, because I won’t have any mercy," he says, dead serious.
I'm unable to even think of something to say.
He stares at me for a few more seconds before stepping back and barking another order.
"Get the rags. They're in that wooden cabinet over there." He points to a cabinet in the corner of the room. My heart is still racing.
I do what he tells me. I go to the cabinet and find several clean, folded rags.
"How many should I take?" I ask, and once again, Ethan looks at me like I’m an idiot.
"How many people are here, genius?" he shoots back. I roll my eyes and grab two rags. He has already filled a bucket with water from the small bathroom next to the room. Then, he just stands there, waiting for me to get moving.
I really have no clue what I’m doing.
Again, he looks at me, out of patience.
"You really don’t know how to fucking clean? Didn’t your mom teach you anything?" Ethan barks, the words sharp and ugly. Even after so many years, the dead mom comment always feels like a low blow. I keep my face neutral, refusing to let him see the way it lands.
"She didn’t have much time," I say, not trusting myself to look at him. I try to keep my voice even, but it comes out all weird. "She died before she could," I finish, and I can feel the little tremor in my lips. It’s stupid. Usually I wouldn’t even say anything, but I kinda want to hurt him. I want to make him feel sorry. I keep my eyes on the tiles in front of me. I wonder if he knows what it’s like to grow up learning domestic skills from social workers and then, later, from internet strangers.
Probably not. Dad is a great guy but also clueless.
When he speaks again, his voice is different, lower and rough, like he’s chewing on his own words. Good, I think. Finally caught him off guard.
"I’m sorry," he says. "That was inappropriate of me." Even his apologies sound formal. What’s up with this guy?
"It’s okay, it’s not like I shouldn’t know how to use a rag, mom or no mom," I say, trying to make it sound funny, but he looks completely taken aback, even now.
He shows me how it’s done, and we start wiping down the mats in silence. We have to be on our hands and knees, which is ridiculously humiliating already.
I can tell he’s really embarrassed by what he said too. At first, I feel good about it because he deserves it, but then I kind of miss the other Ethan. As we work, he keeps his head down, all serious. And I start to feel a bit bad.
“Hey, man. It's really okay. Really, really,” I tell him, trying to make the other sex-God-scary-as-fuck-Mr. I'll-teach-you-to-behave Ethan come back.
"What did she die from?" he asks quietly, still not looking at me.
My favorite question.
"She killed herself," I say, shrugging. I’ve told this to enough people that I’m used to saying it, but I see his eyes widen, and he gets even quieter.
We finish cleaning in absolute silence. My hands are raw from the bleach water, my face still burning with the memory of his hands around my shirt.
I keep my head down, obsessed with not looking like I’m trying to impress him, but somewhere between the second and third bucket, I catch myself glancing over at him, and, fuck, he’s watching me too.
He looks away instantly, though, but I know he sees that I catch him staring.
He hangs the rags on a small metal rack outside the bathroom to dry and then, still not looking directly at me, gestures for me to follow with his chin.
We leave the gym together, walking side-by-side.
Ethan keeps his mouth shut the whole time, his jaw flexing, as if he’s holding himself back from either apologizing again or from calling me a dumbass and resuming our regularly scheduled hostilities.
I half-expect him to break the silence with another round of ‘you’re here for a reason,’ but instead, as we approach the stairwell, he slows, then stops altogether.
I’m just about to keep walking, determined not to let the moment get more awkward, but Ethan speaks.
“Hey. Wait up.”
I stop, turning halfway, and catch him staring at the floor. He’s chewing his lip, trying to decide if what he wants to say is worth saying. “About before,” he starts, but I cut him off, needing to break the tension before it gets too bad.
“Hey, relax, okay?” I say. “It happened a long time ago. I’ve gotten used to it.”
He shakes his head, still not looking up. “Still, it sucks. And I was an ass for saying that. If you want to report this to Griff, I deserve it.”
I’m so caught off guard by his sincerity that I almost start laughing, but he looks so miserable that I can’t.
“As if,” I say. “I’m no snitch.” I try to sound dismissive, but my voice gets stuck between a laugh and a cough. Ethan’s eyes finally meet mine, and I can see he’s genuinely confused. Either he doesn’t understand why I won’t rat, or he doesn’t expect it from someone like me.
“I thought you were itching for revenge after the spanking I gave you,” he says, the words coming out awkwardly. This time, I do laugh.
“It wasn’t the first time I’ve been hit. It’s all good,” I say, even though the memory sends a weird shudder through me. “I deserved it anyway.” And I’d do it again in a heartbeat, but I don’t tell him that.
He raises an eyebrow, just a flicker of the old sarcastic Ethan returning.
“You got a thing for it or something?” The way he says it is half-joke, half-accusation, and it makes me crack up. That catches me off guard. He knows I do; it was pretty obvious by how hard I got. He wants to hear it coming from me.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” I shoot back, winking, daring him. He just shakes his head, a little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. We walk the rest of the way without talking, and when we finally get to our room, I really want to lie down.
But this beast of a man says:
"Come here, I’m putting some ointment on your bruises. It’ll help with the pain."
Is he really asking me to show my butt so he can rub ointment on it? I look at him, puzzled, and he, bossy as ever, points at my bed. "Come on. Fast. Lie down here. Now."
"Sure, whatever," I say, and I can tell he is pleased I’m doing what I’m told.
He doesn't ask whether I want it or not, doesn't give me any choice, but deep down, I really want it, and he probably knows. So, I do what he tells me. He pulls down my shorts and underwear, and I bury my face in the mattress, hoping he won't see how red I’m turning or notice the awkward way I’m getting turned on again. It’s like my body has a mind of its own.
"Man, you bruise easily," he says, and I swear I hear a chuckle escape him. I shift awkwardly, shivering a bit from the cold touch of the ointment on my butt. He starts to spread the ointment, and I am frozen in place, fighting my own body’s reactions.
“I don’t bruise easily. You just went too hard, motherfucker,” I say, making a joke, and, for the first time ever, I hear him snorting. Score.
“You have no idea what too hard is if you think that’s it. I can go much harder,” he says, and now my ass is all numbed out and slick with ointment, and it feels like a dream under his strong hands.
I’m honestly almost falling asleep with this massage, then he talks again, softer now. "Look, I didn’t do this to be a jerk. I’m gonna help you stay in line. This way, you might get out of here sooner, maybe even for good behavior," he adds, and my heart clenches a bit.
"But why do you care?" I ask. Fucking weirdo.
He hesitates before answering, "It's my job to help others turn their lives around. That’s what I like to do. And when I get out of here and graduate, I want to work in the system, just like Griff does, even if it’s very fucked up."
Wow. I almost never think about anyone but myself. I feel kind of embarrassed about that. I furrow my brows and look up at him. "That's really weird," I say, but I mean no harm, and he knows it. And I realize something: “You do like me.”