44. FORTY-FOUR
FORTY-FOUR
I dip the wash cloth under the running tap before bringing it to Gray’s back.
He leans forward, holding his knees, and sighs contently. It took some effort to convince him to leave the guest room and come upstairs so I could bathe him, but he eventually caved. Honestly, it was admirable how he attempted to rally and take care of me, but I wasn’t having it.
This isn’t transactional—it’s never been that for me, and as much as I would’ve liked to come, we have things that need to be discussed before I’ll let that happen.
Besides…when was the last time—if ever—that someone pampered him?
Truly cherished him?
While I rub slow circles over his shoulder blades, I take the time to admire the work of art on his left arm.
I’ve seen the tattoos covering most of the skin there, but it’s never dawned on me to look deeper into their meaning.
A hodgepodge of black and white imagery telling a tale of darkness.
I think the lighthouse resting over the top of his bicep, peaking at the point of his shoulder, symbolizes the need to be found.
The crushing waves, scarecrow, and busted ship tell me the barriers keeping him far away from that sense of belonging.
And down along his forearm, clocks with the minute and hour hands revealing a certain time lead me to assume it’s a time of death—perhaps his parents, possibly his life.
I want to ask all about them, but he whispers me out of my lazy ministrations.
“I thought that I’d be broken.”
I set the cloth aside so I can slide to the other end of the tub. He rests his chin on his bicep, tilting his head to face me. “What do you mean?” I ask.
A tiny shrug. “The guys who raped me. I thought that they’d break me. That I wouldn’t be able to…” he shrugs again, “maybe I haven’t processed it.”
My jaw tics, knowing that the monsters who did this to him are out there, potentially hurting others, and my hands are tied from doing anything about it.
With Xavier’s threats hovering over my head and the constant issues arising at work, I walk on eggshells whenever I leave my house.
Factor in the demands of my dad, my mom’s drinking getting worse, and the overall stagnance I’ve found myself in, I feel broken.
But my problems are mine. Gray needs something from me.
“I’m no expert or professional, but trauma affects everyone differently. There’s no right way to process it or…deal with the aftermath.”
That thumb of his finds its way into his mouth. Instead of tearing at the nailbed, he simply nibbles on the tip. “Tell me something good,” he rasps. “A favorite secret.”
Subject change, I see.
After a few moments to debate what to tell him, I settle on saying, “When I got my pilot’s license, I flew over Idaho and into Montana.
I didn’t tell anyone where I went or what I was doing—not even Alex.
I landed the plane out in a field, which is completely illegal, might I add, but it was the first time in my life that I considered running.
I had the means. I was in another part of the country, and the sky was blue and clear—it was both the scariest and most exhilarating feeling I’d ever had. ”
He smiles, slowly dragging his eyes up to mine. “Why didn’t you keep going?”
“I would’ve run out of fuel,” I chuckle. “But more importantly, I knew my dad needed me. So I boarded the plane and flew home.”
“You really love him, don’t you?”
“It’s a biological need to love and be loved by your parents.”
“That’s a boring answer.”
“It’s true!” I squawk. “I do love him. He…he’s been there for me when I had no one else. Sure, he has high expectations, wants, and needs that feel too unreachable, but I try. And…I hope to one day change his mind.”
“About who you are?”
I shake my head. “Who I want to be. Hiding my sexuality from my family comes at a cost, but it isn’t like I’ve gone without.
Sure, it feels like betraying who I am, and I do feel like a horrible man for approaching it so clinically, but that's only one part of what makes me… me . Does that make sense?”
“Perfect sense.”
“My dreams go far beyond that. I just want to make him proud. Make him see that I can be useful to him in different ways.”
The tub's water level is nearing the top, so I lean forward to turn off the tap.
When I recline back again, Gray takes my hand.
Slowly, he brings it to his lips and kisses my knuckles.
The feather-light brush of his skin over mine sends the butterflies in my stomach back into flight.
My thoughts veer off course, returning to earlier when I made him come three times—when I learned his taste and his sweet sounds.
I shouldn’t be continuing to rub it in that I’m still holding out hope for my dad.
If he ever found out about Gray, the consequences would be dire.
Not to mention, I would no longer have a dad.
But when Gray looks at me like he is now, when he touches me like I’m the only one who matters or gets that cute twinkle in his eye that tells me he’s happy, I feel like the truth coming out might not be so terrible.
I’ve had this mindset of pleasing my father for so long that somewhere along the way, I forgot what it was like to want someone else.
And I do want someone else.
Nuzzling my hand a bit more, Gray kisses my palm before tucking it under his cheek.
I lean over the side of the tub to capture his lips, not bothering to hide how I feel as it transfers from my kiss to him.
When we part, he stares deep into my eyes before whispering, “I think I’m falling for you, Hunter. ”
I suck in a shaky breath before pushing his hair back from his forehead. “I think I am too, sweetheart—think I have been for a while now.”
“I’ll still be your secret, but I’m not letting you go. I hope you know that.”
Both pain and crippling hope squeeze my chest. Swallowing around the lump of emotion in my throat, I steal another kiss. “I know.”
I don’t want to be at work.
I don’t want to sit here, in this meeting, and listen to Ms. Rodriguez go on and on about the debts occurring in one of our accounts. And I certainly don’t want to go to my parents’ house afterward.
Gray is taking his GED test today. I offered to call off and be there for moral support, but he told me he’d rather do it alone—that he wouldn’t be able to focus if I were present.
It’s Friday, and I’ve got about four hours left on the clock. If Gabriella knows I’m tuning her out, she doesn’t mention it. Because I simply don’t care about any of it anymore.
I’m burnt out.
All morning I’ve toyed with the idea of just calling Xavier and telling him OAT is his— fucking take it. My salary is great, but I don’t want to be here.
I scratch my beard, staring absently at the papers Alex printed out for the meeting, and listen to her explain everything that must happen.
It isn’t that I’m unaware of these things—the seemingly endless drain in funds and parts.
Not to mention the main parts supplier we are partnered with had some sort of catastrophe in one of their warehouses, putting a halt on shipments overseas.
It’s a fucking mess.
Humming so I don’t seem overly rude, I scribble down nonsense and doodle. Minutes go by when she stops talking abruptly. “Mr. Kade,” she snaps.
“Yes. Sorry. I was just making notes for—”
“My assistant sent me this and…” I meet her dark brown eyes and catch the grim expression as she holds her cell phone over the table. “You should see it.”
I take the phone. Just as I’m looking down at the screen, Alex bursts through the meeting room door, eyes wide in panic. “Mr. Kade, sir,” he rushes.
Holding up my hand, I return to my original task, my eyes widening as dread consumes me from the inside out. “What. Is. This?” The words are clipped as I force myself to remain calm.
“I’ve already sent word to Abigail with PR and—” I cut Alex off with a growl, snapping my eyes up to Gabriella again, “What is this?” I demand.
The woman folds her lips between her teeth, shakes her head, and gestures for her phone. I look to Alex; he is stiff as a board, clutching the tablet he uses to his chest. “Is it true?” Ms. Rodriguez finally asks.
My hand flies to my head as I yank on my hair and get to my feet. I pace the length of the table, freaking the fuck out. Silence descends over the room, my assistant watching me with fearful concern, Gabriella staring in morbid curiosity, and all I can think is that my dad will have seen this.
This is impossible.
On the front page of the newspaper my father reads daily is a photo of my backyard , complete with a shirtless Gray spray painting my house.
Bile rushes up my throat, cold sweat trickles down my neck, and I rush to the nearest trash can.
GOVERNOR KADE RUNS FOR SENATE MEANWHILE FELON VANDALIZES HIS SON’S HOME.
I gag and vomit into the trash can, shaking and sick.
“Sir,” Alex chirps, suddenly standing beside my doubled-over form. “It…there’s more.”
“More?” I rasp, wiping my face with my handkerchief and glancing up.
He nods grimly and angles the tablet towards me. I heave again, just barely turning my face in time.
Another photo, deeper into the article on the third page, is of Gray waving at the camera from inside my house. My knuckles blanch as I hold the trash can for dear life.
“You have a felon living with you? According to this…for weeks ?”
I can’t answer her. I can’t stop retching. Somewhere in the distance, my phone rings, and I want to crawl into a hole and die.
“We will call you,” Alex tells her. “For now, please…do not speak to the press.”
I vaguely hear a mumbled agreement, then high heels clicking as she exits. My chin trembles as I try to clean my face again. “The article doesn’t indicate any sort of romantic relationship,” Alex offers.
Nodding, I straighten, my legs wobbling under me. Alex grabs my arm to steady me, and I mumble, “Thanks.”
“We can spin this in our favor. It’s not so bad. Sure, Gray being an ex-con isn’t ideal but—”
“I’ll handle it.”
He blinks at me, dark blue eyes fluttering behind his thin glasses. “If you’ll let me finish, I was going to—”
“I said I’ll handle it!” I roar, tearing my arm away and rushing to where my phone sits on the long table.
“Hunter. You’re freaking out.”
“Don’t you think I know that?”
My hands shake as I spot the two missed calls from my dad and several texts. Wave after wave of nausea hit, but I force myself to open the texts. With one hand holding the phone, the other rips at my hair, my fractured psyche welcoming the sting.
Dad: Answer your phone.
Dad: Hunter Everett Kade, answer the phone.
Dad: Your mother is upset. The media is already contacting me for a response. What are you doing? Do you realize how bad this makes me look?
Dad: I expect you to be home no later than 5 pm.
My eyes well up, my stomach bottoms out, and I see a new one from Gray that came in about thirty minutes ago.
Sweetheart: I passed the test! I did it!
I drop my hand to the table, hang my head, and bite down on my lip to stifle the sob rushing out. Alex gently takes my phone and looks through the texts from my dad. When he blows out a rough breath, I cry harder, shattering completely.
“Hunter,” Alex says gently.
I shake my head, shoulders trembling. “I should’ve listened to you.”
“Well, yes, but it’s too late for should’ve, could’ve, would’ve.
We need to come up with a plan. Xavier got these photos and released them to the media, but the way I see it, this is a game to him.
If he was going in for the kill, he would’ve gone after Ed, not you, and certainly not Gray.
He’s playing with you, flexing his big villain dick.
Don’t let him win,” he urges and touches my shoulder.
My voice cracks as I whisper, “He already has.”
Like a switch has been flipped, I snap up, grab my phone, and march out of the meeting room.
My legs swiftly carry me down the hall and into my office.
From there, I grab my things while Alex is hot on my heels.
When I reach the elevator, pounding on the button to call the car, I growl at him to back off.
“Let me help,” he insists.
“I’ll handle it,” I repeat for what feels like the millionth time.
The car reaches the top, and the doors slide open.
I step inside, shake my head when he tries to come with me, and as they slowly close, I realize I have no idea how to handle it.
I’m not sure that I can. Leaning against the cool steel, I grab my hair repeatedly, squeezing the handle of my briefcase like it’ll keep me grounded.
What the fuck am I going to do?
When I’m outside, unlocking my car, my heart is beating so fast I’m sure it’ll explode.
I can’t get enough air into my lungs. My shaky fingers manage to spark a cigarette, but even that doesn’t seem to calm me.
Frantically searching the private parking lot, I peel out of my spot and drive.
I drive and drive, cigarette after cigarette.
My phone keeps vibrating in my pocket.
My world keeps spinning.
I’m going to crash and burn.