Chapter 32
Young-gi
“Stand back,” I snap, ripping the incompetent grunt away from the locked door he’s been uselessly fiddling with. Time presses on my throat like a boot. Every single second that Tommy is separated from me by this locked door is unacceptable. “I don’t have time for this.”
Shoving him out of my way, I rear back and kick the door down, splintering the old wood, snapping the ancient, rusted lock.
It flies open, letting in the vivid sounds of the storm, wind gushing past me, pushing on me as I charge into the rain, prepared to find anything.
Prepared to do anything, depending on what I see.
But somehow…I’m still caught off guard.
I freeze just outside the door, taking it all in. The rain pouring around the edges of the bell tower’s shelter separates me from Tommy like a living wall. Lightning flashes, illuminating the scene and burning it into my irises, like the negative of a Polaroid.
Tommy’s chest heaves with exertion–or anger–his clenched fists gripping one of the Palmer brothers by the shirt. Rain slicks down his shoulders, his neck, as he stands in the center of the storm, at the edge of the roof. His hair is dripping, his clothes stuck to his muscled frame.
He glares at me over his shoulder; his eyes burn and spark like he’s trapping the lightning in his gaze.
Exquisite.
Achingly perfect.
Art in motion.
Just like when I saw him at the lake, just like the first time he made me understand art, I’m hit with another realization; I’ve been searching for him my entire life, without ever realizing it.
“Help!” Gregory cries weakly, gripping Tommy’s wrists for dear life, sipping shallow breaths of terror and fear. He’s right to be afraid. Tommy’s holding him over the ledge.
The other brother, Leonard, is slumped off to one side, a knife hilt sticking out of his shoulder. He’s pale and gasping, in shock and in no state to aid his brother.
“Tommy,” I say his name because it’s all I can think of to say. It’s the only word in my head right now.
“No!” he shouts back over the thunder. “Fuck off! I’m fixing it myself!”
“Tommy,” I say it again, stern this time, because it’s clear he’s burned himself up and is on the brink of a breakdown.
“No!” he shouts back, shaking Gregory over the drop. The boy screams and tries to grab onto Tommy’s clothes.
“No, please!” he weeps. “I’m sorry! Don’t drop me!”
“Shut up!” Tommy growls, sending shivers down my spine. Fuck. I want him.
“Tommy,” I stalk forward, out into the cold rain, and press against him from behind. Wrapping my arms around his, I grip Gregory’s shirt, too. It’s ripping, the weight of him proving to be too much for it. “Let my men take them. Let him go.”
“Why?” he snaps, pressing back against me despite his frustration. “They threatened me! They threatened us!”
“Are they the blackmailers?” I ask, plastering every inch of my body to his.
“No,” he denies, the word biting and angry.
“They’re fucking with me, wasting my time, causing trouble.
They know about me and they wanted to fucking, to fucking tell you and fucking bother you with it, make me even more of a burden, this fucking–these fucking–ugh!
This isn’t how I wanted this to go!” he shouts.
Thunder shakes the air around us. His arms are shaking from the strain of holding Gregory and I try to take some of the weight.
“Tommy, if you think I’m going to let you go to prison, you’re out of your fucking mind,” I warn him sternly, letting my Daddy tone slip in. “Let my men take the brothers, and I’ll handle it. But if you drop him, it will be a much bigger mess to clean up.”
He flinches in my arms, like I’ve said something painful. He pants as he debates it, clearly torn. But eventually, he concedes to me, like the perfect boy I know he is.
“Fuck!” he finally shouts with frustration and defeat. Together, we drag Gregory back onto the roof so I can throw him into the arms of my men.
“Why do I make everything worse?!” Tommy asks, scrubbing his face with his hands, hunching over in the chilling rain.
I snap my fingers at the two employees who followed me out here. “Take them,” I order, indicating the brothers. “I’ll have a chat with their parents. Get them cleaned up and get them the fuck out of here without anyone seeing. Down the stairwell, over there.”
Following my orders, my underlings pull the boys into the rain, over the roof, toward a rusty, external emergency stairwell on the other side of the building. Gregory whimpers and follows along on rubbery, shaking legs, and Leonard is white-lipped from the pain in his arm as they are dragged away.
I pant in the icy chill, hot and cold all over. With rough, rapid movements, barely even thinking coherent thoughts other than Tommy, Tommy, I go to the door and slam it shut again, closing off the light from the party. Severing us from the rest of the world.
No one will bother us.
My eyes rove over Tommy, and snag on a red stain turning pink under the onslaught of water. Pulling him under the bell tower roof and out of the rain, I yank his shirt out from his pants and lift it, then scowl at the cut I see running from his ribs to his hip.
“It’s shallow,” he mutters, petulant and sullen.
“It could’ve been a lot worse,” I say, trying to control myself.
I’m seeing red, seething. The frozen, crystalline wonder and worship of seeing him in that still frame of violence and beauty is gone, replaced by the reality of the rain and his blood.
“What the fuck were you thinking, coming up here with them alone? Why did you do that? I had men watching you inside for a reason. You were supposed to stay there!”
“They wanted to talk somewhere private, and I was hoping they were the blackmailers.” He averts his eyes, despite the way I grab his chin to direct his face to mine. Our breaths puff between us, heated and fast. “They weren’t. It made me angry.”
“I’ll take care of the blackmail, Tommy. Don’t put yourself in danger like this again.”
“You shouldn’t have to take care of it!” He squirms and shoves at me, and is wet enough still that my grip on him slips. Once free, he starts pacing the length of the belltower, throwing his hands around, putting his feelings on display for me. “It’s not your problem to deal with!”
He did not just say that.
My earlier fears surge to the forefront of my mind, and I realize this is it. This is the test I’ve been waiting for. And I’m not going to fail it.
“Not my problem?” I snap. I stalk forward and pin him to the brick wall, keeping him still, holding him so he can’t run away. “Everything about you is my problem.”
“I don’t want to be a problem!” He struggles against me, pressing his body against mine, gripping my biceps and shoving hard, but keeps his safe word locked behind his teeth. “I want you to–to fucking–to want me!”
“You think I don’t want you?” I ask, incredulous.
“Who would want this!?” he demands, struggling harder, until I have to use my entire body to hold him against the wall.
Until he’s panting as I pin him there, under my hands.
“Who the fuck would want this fucking mess?! I want you to keep me! I want you to stay! But why the fuck would you keep something so fucking–so fucking–messy!?”
“Tommy…” I breathe, pressing kisses to his forehead, his temple, his eyelids, which he closes as he tilts his head up to me, like a flower seeking the sun.
As he relaxes, I pull back slightly, just enough to get to his mouth.
The sound he makes when our tongues collide is ugly and needy and sorrowful and perfect. Perfection incarnate.
His name is a prayer between our lips, shared between our tongues. “Tommy, sweet boy.”
“What?” he asks, rough and trembling, gripping my shirt to keep me close. His wet skin is chilled but quickly warming, and I groan as I rip his wet shirt off him.
“I’ll keep you,” I swear to him, eyes and fingers roving his slick skin. “I want you. I want you the most. And I’ll pass every fucking test, show you an infinite amount of times until you believe me.”
“Young-gi, I can’t–I don’t–I’m not…” He grits his teeth, torment in every line of his expression. I sigh, pressing my forehead to his.
This is the true test. This right here. He needs reassurance. He needs proof. And a normal person would give him emotions and words for that. I can’t.
“I don’t–I don’t know how to tell you how I feel,” I admit as I roughly undo his belt and throw it aside. “I don’t know how to label this feeling, this emotion. It hits me like a bus. You have my every thought. I’m drowning in you and I never want to breathe again. Metaphor is all I have.”
His hands reach for my shirt, shoving off my suit jacket. I let him slip me out of it but immediately put my hands back on him again, running my palms along every inch of chilled skin. I undo his pants button and unzip him.
His eyes flash up to mine and he pushes me, hard enough to make it clear that he’s trying to get a reaction out of me. His challenge is expected, predictable, and just what I want.
I grab his hands and pin them on either side of his head. My next kiss is punishing, biting. “I’m sorry,” I manage between kisses. “Because you deserve better than me. But I’m not letting you go.”
He shivers hard at my words, and we both stare into each other’s eyes, waiting to see what happens next. I know his history now, and despite his deep-seated desire for words like that, I could still trigger his anxiety. I need to tread carefully.
He pants roughly, our breath intermingling, and tries to test my hold on his wrists with a sudden attempt to escape. I push his legs apart to unbalance him, slotting my knee between his thighs, against his dick, pressing him tighter against the brick behind him.
If he wants me to immobilize him, I’ll deliver.