Chapter 7. Ethan
I'm so sick of cleaning mats, but I don't say anything because Liam would love to hear me complain.
He's three mats over, slowly scrubbing like he's never scrubbed anything in his life, which he probably hasn't.
He keeps pausing to blow hair out of his eyes, that black fringe flopping forward every time he leans down, and I catch myself watching longer than I should.
"You're missing the corners," I say, and it comes out harder than I mean it to.
He looks up with those ridiculous eyes, too blue, too bright. "Sorry, Daddy."
He's teasing. My nostrils flare. He keeps saying that word, and he has no idea what it does to me. Or maybe he does, and that's worse.
I wring out my rag into the bucket, the dirty water spiraling. Don't think about it. The ointment. His skin. The way he went soft under my hands.
Don't.
It's detention duty, day two.
Liam is humming something under his breath. I can't make out the melody. His lean shoulders roll with each scrubbing motion, and he's relaxed and easy, even on his hands and knees cleaning dirty mats, in a way that shouldn't be possible in a place like this.
I find it irritating. That's the word.
When I can’t take it anymore, I get up.
"I have paperwork to finish," I announce.
I need to get the fuck away from him. I stand and dry my hands on my workout shorts.
"You finish the last two rows, then go straight to the cafeteria.
I don't want you to be late for dinner today.
Straight there. No detours, no exploring, no conversations with anyone you don't need to talk to. "
He salutes me with the dirty rag, grinning. "Sir, yes sir."
"I mean it, Liam."
"I know. You think I'm some lost puppy. I'll be fine."
I leave before I say something I'll regret. Or worse, before I smile.
In my office, I settle into the chair and pull the stack of forms toward me.
Liam's intake paperwork is in the pile. I've been putting it off.
Every line, the diagnoses, the family history, the psych stays, makes it harder to keep him in the box where he belongs: just another mentee, just another file.
Suicidal mother. Alcoholic father. Two inpatient admissions before eighteen.
Fuck.
I read it, file it, and move to the merit logs.
I should have finished this earlier. Would have, if I hadn't spent Quiet Time on my bed pretending to read while actually tracking every sound Liam made. Monitoring him, I told myself. Shared accountability. If he snuck out or did something stupid, it'd come back on me.
That's what I told myself.
The way he said Daddy… more than once, with that crooked smile and reckless mouth. My left eye twitches. Three mentees before him. Not one of them cost me a minute of sleep. Not one of them made me feel anything but the usual annoyance.
Why can't I stop thinking about him?
I cap my pen, straighten the stack. This needs to stop. The dinner bell sounds through the PA, and I head for the cafeteria.
The room is already filling. Gray and black uniforms shuffling through the line, trays clattering, the usual roar. I scan the crowd. Miles is at our table, hunched over his tray. Jack is talking animatedly to Harry, who half-listens, the fucker.
No Liam.
I scan again. Serving line. Doorway. Nothing.
One instruction. I gave him one instruction.
Then the annoyance shifts into something else. It's not good to be alone here, especially for a rookie, especially after Garrett. I'm out of the cafeteria before I've fully decided to move.
The dorm room is empty. Beds made. Liam's is messy, no hospital corners, reflecting exactly how he is. He's not here. I check the courtyard. Dark, empty except for a guard on the perimeter. My stomach twists.
The gym. It doesn't make sense; he should have finished thirty minutes ago. But I don't have a better idea, and I have a bad feeling. A bad feeling.
I move fast. The corridors are dimmer after hours, half the fluorescents killed to save on the bill, pools of shadow between each buzzing tube. The main training room is dark. The mats are clean. He finished them.
Then I hear it. A muffled thud from the storage room.
I break into a run.
The door is half-open, sick yellow light leaking through. The room is crammed with junk: deflated exercise balls, a rusted weight rack against the far wall.
Garrett has Liam pinned against a stack of old crash mats, forearm across his chest. But Liam isn't folding. His lip is split, blood running a thin line down his chin, fists up, knuckles white, stance all wrong but full of fury.
"Get the fuck off me," Liam snarls, and throws a hook that catches Garrett square on the jaw. Garrett's head snaps sideways, and something shifts in his expression. Not pain. Not surprise.
Pleasure.
The recognition makes me sick. He moves his tongue across his lower lip, grip tightening on Liam. He shoves him harder into the mats, free hand coming up to cup Liam's jaw.
"There it is," Garrett breathes. "Knew you had some fight in you. The quiet ones never last, but you…"
"I said get off," Liam spits. Literally, blood and saliva hit Garrett's cheek.
Something in me snaps.
My right fist connects with the side of Garrett's face before they even realize I’m there. Not a wild swing. MMA-trained, weight from hip to shoulder to fist. I feel his nose give way through my knuckles. The satisfaction is so massive my rage stutters for a second, replaced by sheer pleasure.
Garrett goes sideways into the weight rack. He's on his hands and knees, blood pouring from his nose onto concrete. I grab the back of his shirt and haul him up before he can gather himself.
"Listen carefully," I say, and I barely recognize my own voice.
I have his collar twisted in my fist, fabric tight against his throat.
Just enough pressure to keep him conscious.
His eyes are watering, unfocused. Blood everywhere.
"I know about the pills. I know you've been buying from Harry's stash since September, and I know which guard's been looking the other way for you. "
The color leaves his face.
"You don't…" he starts.
"Try me." I pull him closer. "Harry is my dear roomie, and I've been watching him.
Every client he has in this place. You go near Liam again, you breathe in his direction, you so much as look at him across the cafeteria, and everything I have on you goes to Griff's desk before breakfast. Do you understand me? "
He nods, frantic. I release him with a shove.
He hits the floor. Before he can get up, I kick him, hard.
He makes a sound like a hurt dog. I'd have stepped on him too, but Liam grabs my arm.
I want to kill Garrett. I wouldn't mind watching the life leave his eyes right here on this concrete.
But Liam's hand is on my arm, and I stop.
Garrett bolts. Then it's just my breathing and the slow drip of Liam's blood hitting the floor.
I turn to him.
His chest rises and falls. Bruise forming on his jaw where Garrett's fingers dug in, dark against pale skin.
"What the hell are you doing here?" My voice comes out raw. I feel him shiver. Good. I grab his arm.
"I-I'm sorry, I finished the mats. Was heading back, and he came at me. So, I stayed. He had it coming, Ethan."
"So, you decided to fight him. In a storage room. Alone."
His jaw tightens. Blood on his chin has reached his collar. "I'm not a coward."
"No, you're a fucking idiot." Hotter than I intend. "You should have walked away. Screamed for help. Anything. But you chose to throw punches?"
"I hit him," Liam says, breaking into a smile. Proud of it. "Did you see? I actually hit him!"
"I saw." I pull him toward the door. He stumbles but doesn't resist. "You're coming with me."
"Where?"
"My office."
"For what?"
I don't answer.
We move through the corridor; my hand locked around his arm. His shoulder bumps mine. He tries to steer away. I don't let him. Neither of us speaks until we reach the door to my office.
I push it open, take him inside, lock it. The only door I can lock in this whole institution. My favorite door. I turn to him. He looks like a trapped puppy. I lick my bottom lip. My breathing is off.
"You know why we're here," I say.
"Because you're a control freak with a savior complex?" Delivered flat, but his hands are trembling at his sides, fingers curling and uncurling.
"Because you can't follow a single instruction. Because you're self-destructive. Because, yes, you were the victim, but you could have made better choices. You never do, do you?" He swallows hard. I watch his Adam's apple move. "Come here." I take my chair and sit.
He doesn't move. For a moment, I think he's going to bolt: go through the door, down the corridor, into the courtyard, and the whole thing becomes an incident report instead of something manageable. Something between us.
But he doesn't run. He walks to me, a little reluctance, only a little, and when I take his wrist and guide him down across my lap, he doesn't resist.
I'm hard. Rock-solid. He's going to feel it. I don't care. His smaller frame fits against mine like it belongs there. His ass is round, even through the shorts. He's sweaty and smells like testosterone and musk.
I shouldn't notice that. I notice it anyway.
"This is so stupid…" he tries.
"Quiet."
I pull down his shorts and briefs. The bruises from yesterday are still there, faded to yellowish green. He's hard. I knew he would be.
The first smack lands. His body jerks against my thighs. His hands scramble, find my ankle, grip. He hisses through his teeth. I know he's sore. I won't go too hard, but he'll remember.
Second. Third. I keep a rhythm. Heat spreading under his skin. I watch his muscles clench and release, feel his hip bones sharp against my thigh, my other hand resting on the dip of his lower back.