Chapter 14. Liam #2
"Three days ago."
Oof. Three days. Christ. I remember three days in.
Ethan had already spanked me by then, and I’d gotten in all sorts of trouble.
I was pretty scared, and missing my dad like crazy, my weed, my old friends, even if they weren’t that great.
It all sounds so distant now, like I’m remembering a past life.
"What happened?" Ethan asks, crouching down on his other side now, his khaki pants pulling tight across his thighs. Mmm.
Mason's chin trembles. "My leader. He… he hit me. With his belt." His voice cracks. "I didn't even do anything wrong. I was late for something, hell, I don't even know what exactly. He said he was going to initiate me properly in the Academy ways."
I look at Ethan, and I can barely hold back the laughter.
Not because it's funny that Mason got it, that's not funny at all, but because Ethan's face does that thing where he's trying so hard to stay composed, and I know exactly what's running through his head.
The irony is thick enough to choke on. He wants to stop me from saying it, and I know he's embarrassed to fucking death. But he deserves this.
"Yeah," I say. "Same thing happened to me."
Mason's wet eyes snap to mine. "What? Really?"
"My first week here. My leader," I jerk my thumb at Ethan without looking at him, "spanked the hell out of me."
I can feel Ethan's gaze burning into the side of my face. Good. Let him sit with that.
"It's..." Mason's voice is barely a whisper. "It's allowed?"
"Technically, no. But it seems leaders do that. Part of the system."
“You fucking deserved it, Liam,” Ethan says, quietly. He seems like he's going to kill me later. Can't wait.
“Yeah, I did deserve it,” I say. "Doesn't mean it doesn't suck.
The point is that you aren't alone, man. It's tough being a rookie. But soon you’ll get used to it, and it’s not even that bad here, I promise.
And maybe you guys can even get along down the road.
I know we did." I say, and look at Ethan, smiling. His eyes soften a little.
Mason nods, still looking miserable but the tiniest bit less panicky. Poor kid.
"So how'd you end up here?" I ask, settling more comfortably on the floor. Ethan will hate that I'm extending this, that we're losing gym time, but I don't care. Some things matter more than bicep curls.
Mason is looking at the floor. "Shoplifting. A bunch of times. And then..." He swallows. "I stole a car. It was my stepdad's, technically, and I just wanted to take it for a spin, but he pressed charges anyway. My mom didn't… she couldn't stop him."
The way he says it, she couldn't stop him, tells me everything.
"Yeah," I say. "I get it. I'm sorry, man. You'll be alright."
Mason looks at me, his bottom lip quivering. God, I feel bad for the kid.
"Hey," I say, standing up and offering him my hand. He takes it, and I pull him to his feet. He's lighter than I imagined he’d be. "When you see me around, meals, courtyard, whatever, come say hi. I mean it. Don't sit alone and be miserable."
He almost smiles, but I guess he’s too sad for that. "Okay."
"Go back to your dorm for now," Ethan says in what I bet he imagines is his kind voice. It still sounds like an order.
Mason nods. At least he's not crying anymore. He walks away down the hallway, his sneakers barely making a sound against the linoleum. He looks back once before turning the corner. I lift my chin at him, smiling, and then he's gone.
Ethan and I stand there in the empty corridor. I imagine he wants to murder me, but he says:
"You're surprisingly good at that."
"At what? Being charming? I'm always charming, you should know that. Aren't you mad at me?"
“I guess I deserved it,” he says, and smiles. “Doesn't mean you won't pay for it.”
■
We get to his office. It's just a chair, a desk, a shelf, and a file cabinet, but it even has a window that's not barred. So fucking official and special.
I sit on his chair. It’s old and creaky, but it spins, so I spin around in it, and he shoots me an amused look. I thought he’d tell me to stop, but, instead, he’s focused on something else. He goes to the filing cabinet.
“Every leader gets a copy of every new kid's folder. It's classified.” He pulls out a specific beige folder. I raise an eyebrow.
"Are you allowed to show me this?" I ask, already knowing the answer.
"No. So don't tell anyone."
"Breaking rules, Mr. Leader? I'm a terrible influence on you."
He ignores me, but he's smirking, full of mischief. He flips the folder open. I lean forward, craning my neck to read over his arm. Mason's intake photo stares up at us, same red hair, same green eyes, but he looks three times more scared.
I scan the basics. Mason Riley. Eighteen. Prior offenses: petty theft, grand theft auto. That's a badass crime, I should have gone for that. Mental health assessment pending. Education: eleventh grade, incomplete.
Then Ethan turns to the assignment page, and I watch his face change.
It's subtle; Ethan's not the kind of person who shows his emotions. But I've been watching this particular face for weeks now, and I see the shift in his microexpression. His jaw sets. The muscle at the hinge of it flexes. His eyes go flat and hard.
"Who is it?" I ask.
He closes the folder.
"Ethan. Who's his leader?"
"Don't worry about it." He slides the folder back into the cabinet and pushes the drawer shut with more force than necessary. “You don't know him.”
"That's not an answer."
"It's the answer you're getting."
I stand up. "Come on. We just found that kid crying in a hallway because his leader spanked him, and you're not going to tell me who did it?"
"His name is Reed. I don't like him. Case over." He turns to face me, arms crossed over his chest.
“Reed? From our MMA class?! Why don't you like him?”
Reed is one of the best fighters in the Academy, maybe the best. Maybe that’s why Ethan doesn’t like him. He’s always being praised by Griff.
“It doesn't matter.”
“Tell me!”
“No, or you won't get off my fucking back.”
"I would never."
"Liam."
"I would maybe."
"My point exactly."
I try a different approach. I lean against the desk. "Fine. Don't tell me. I'll just ask around. It's not like this place is big. I'll figure it out in about twelve minutes."
"You won't."
"Maybe ten. Jack knows everyone. He probably knows the story."
His eye twitches. Progress.
"Or," I say, sliding along the desk toward the filing cabinet, "I could just look for information myself. I know which drawer you pulled it from."
His hand shoots out and catches my wrist. "Sit down, Marsal."
"Make me."
The words come out before my brain can ponder if it's a good idea.
"Liam," Ethan warns.
"Ethan," I mimic, pitching my voice lower in a terrible impression of his authoritative tone.
"Sit down, Marsal. Don't worry about it, Marsal.
I'll handle it, Marsal." I'm waving my free hand in the air now, the ADHD spinning up.
"You know what, while we're at it, let me just do everything and tell you nothing because I'm Ethan and I know best and… "
He spins me around so fast I can barely process it, and when I'm back to myself, I'm over his knees, his hand landing on my ass over my sweatpants.
It's not hard. Not even close to the walloping he gave me my first week. But it still packs a sting. A delicious sting that sends my cock hardening at the same moment.
"Ow! What the…!" I squirm, trying to twist off his lap, but his left leg swings over the back of both mine, pinning them down, and he keeps spanking me. His thigh is a steel beam. I'm not going anywhere. "What is that for?!"
"For being a relentless pain in my ass," he says. SMACK, SMACK, SMACK. "For telling the kid that I spank you."
"You do spank me!" Harder swats. “You're doing it right now!” He pulls my sweatpants down, now spanking my white briefs. “Ouch! Ouch, ouch! Hey!” I grab at his ankle for leverage, trying to pull myself forward, but he just shifts his weight, and I slide back into place. "This is abuse of power!"
"This is barely a love tap." It's starting to burn now. But not enough. My masochistic ass never has enough. I wish he'd do much more. "You want to feel abuse of power, keep trying to get into my filing cabinet."
"I wasn't going to…" Swat, harder. "Okay, I was absolutely going to, but that's not the point…" Swat, even harder. "Ethan!"
"Liam," he says, mimicking me, in that stupid calm voice, and I can hear the smile in it even though I can't see his face from this angle.
He spanks me some more, hitting my thighs as well, which makes me squirm.
But then, he stops. His hand rests on my lower back now, warm and heavy, holding me in place while his leg keeps mine locked down.
I wriggle like a fish. Nothing. The man is a goddamn anchor.
"Are you done?" I huff, blowing hair out of my eyes. My cheek is pressed against his thigh.
"Are you done?"
"I was never doing anything!"
"You were doing approximately seventeen things, all of them annoying.
" He gives me some more swats, each one making me jump in place a little.
Then, he unlocks his leg from mine, and I scramble off his lap.
I stumble upright, turning to face him, and he's sitting there with his arms crossed over his chest, looking smug as hell, those green eyes bright with something I don't see enough of. Joy, maybe.
"Fucker," I mumble, rubbing my ass for effect. It's pretty warm, but it barely hurts. "Stop looking at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you're proud of yourself."
"I am proud of myself. That was excellent technique. Quick wrist, good control."
"Oh my God." I press my hands over my face. "You're critiquing your own spanking form. You're genuinely sick."
"Years of practice." He stands, straightening his uniform shirt where my flailing apparently wrinkled it. "Now. Are you done interrogating me, or do you need to come over my knee again?"
"I'm done," I say quickly, holding up both hands.
"Good." He grabs whatever folder he originally came in here for, not Mason's, and tucks it under his arm. "Gym. Let's go. We've already lost fifteen minutes."
I follow him out of the office, still rubbing my ass theatrically. He holds the door for me, which he always does, like the gentleman psychopath he is.
"For the record," I say as we fall into step, "it didn't actually hurt."
"I wasn't trying to make it hurt. If I were, it would hurt."
“Okay, Daddy,” I say, playing with him again. I always notice how he gets when I say that. He chuckles, satisfied with himself, and he looks so happy.
And that's when it hits me.
We haven't kissed.
All of this, the million things we've done together already, the games, the stories, the bandaged hand, the rain, the fight, the apology, the meals where he watches me with those green eyes that see too much, the way my name sounds different in his mouth than in anyone else's, all of it, and we haven't kissed. Not once.
I stare at his mouth. It's right there. Eight inches away.
He notices me staring. We stop walking. His eyes drop to my lips as well, just for a second, and then back up. Something shifts in his expression. The humor drains away, replaced by something else.
My heart is doing something medically concerning.
"We should go," he says. "Gym."
"Yeah," I say. "Gym."
We start walking out into the hallway again, my ass still tingling, my lips still unkissed, my frustration through the roof. He's fucking edging me, that's it.
We haven't kissed yet.
Yet.