Chapter Twelve
“Why so serious?”
T he first time I followed someone, I was sixteen.
I was coming home from school after staying late for detention, traveling as slowly as humanly possible because I knew the kind of horrible berating I was about to endure from my father.
He did not tolerate his children slacking off in school, let alone receiving detention for smoking a cigarette in the bathroom.
Man, you’d think he was Buddha him-fucking-self the way he acts like he’s never made a single mistake.
Anyway, it was getting dark, and I was just entering the park when I saw this girl. I could tell right away she’d been crying based on the way she was wiping her eyes and sniffling as she shuffled ahead of me, clutching a backpack over her shoulder.
Naturally, she didn’t see me. People rarely did, unless I was directly in their eye-line.
It was just this quality I had; this uncanny ability to fall into the background.
Call it a symptom of my quietness, or maybe a coping mechanism formed around my desire to be alone and not have to deal with people’s constant, nagging questions.
“What’s wrong??”
“Why are you so quiet?”
“Is everything okay?”
“Why so serious? Cheer up, kid! It’s not all bad!”
Um, yes. Actually, it is.
I swear to God, if one more person told me to smile, I was gonna go all Heath Ledger in The Dark Knight on them. Let’s put a smile on that face… You know the line.
Because of how over it I was—the constant, nattering vocal spewage—I had somehow manifested myself into an actual shadow. A lurker who could effortlessly fade into the background and just watch.
I didn’t mind. In fact, I liked it. Most of the time…
It could get lonely, or isolating, but I told myself if and when someone came along worth stepping out of the shadows for, I’d do it. And hopefully, they wouldn’t look right through me like I was made of cellophane.
The sad girl couldn’t have been more than eighteen.
She had auburn hair with this cool streak of blonde running down the front.
I liked it. It made her look unique . So I kept walking behind her, keeping my steps light, so she wouldn’t hear me, leaving just enough space between us that if she did , she wouldn’t think I was some creeper.
And it worked. It worked so well, in fact, that once we got to the exit of the park, I wound up going right, following her, instead of left, toward my house.
There was just something I related to in her energy. She was lonely too, I could tell. Maybe that was why she’d been crying…
I felt a connection to her. Like a kinship… A need to protect. For some reason, I needed to keep following her to wherever she was going, just to make sure she was alright.
I followed her for a while, and not once did she notice me. But it was okay. I didn’t mind being her shadow, if it meant neither of us was alone .
She eventually went into a building, which I sincerely hoped was her home, but you never know. I remember going back there a few times after that and just waiting outside. Hoping to see her again, maybe happier than last time. But I never did.
It didn’t necessarily mean anything… That was just life in New York. It’s not a small town where everyone knows each other’s business. You can’t know what’s going on with someone unless you’re directly involved in their life. And even then… we all have secrets.
After that day, I started following people who interested me; people I wanted to know, or observe, or keep an eye on. It was my secret hobby, and I loved that no one knew about it. Keeping the secret was half the fun. Maybe more.
Pair sneaking around with keeping a secret, and you’ve got a recipe for a pure, wicked thrill.
For that reason, I was blissed out beyond all rationale in the weeks leading up to my arrest. Because I’d been keeping a deliciously sneaky secret.
The kind that’s so good you want to bury it within the deepest crevices of yourself to prevent it from ever being discovered, while also fighting the desire to shout it from the rooftops.
Since that first life-obliterating night, I’d been back to Michelangelo’s place four more times. Each visit under the guise of breaking in and assaulting him . Of course, we both knew that wasn’t really what was happening. But we did a pretty damn good job of acting like it was.
I wasn’t sure what was wrong with Michelangelo Russo; if there had been something from his past that made him crave the rape fantasies, or if it was just his secret kink.
Regardless, I was all the way on board. No shade whatsoever.
His need to be tied up and degraded by a sexy stranger worked perfectly with my need to be that character.
The only slightly confusing part was that we were both straight —at least as far as the rest of the world was concerned.
Due to the nature of our weird little arrangement, we didn’t talk much, outside of the pure filth that would exit my mouth sometimes when I had him zip-tied to his headboard.
Other than this one , we weren’t exactly swapping secrets, and that meant I hadn’t the slightest clue what Michelangelo’s deal was.
But based on the way he behaved sometimes—and the quick, boring sex I’d seen him have with women—I was willing to bet he was gay.
It was none of my business. But I couldn’t stop wondering if maybe his father, Governor Russo, was the reason for him keeping his sexuality under wraps. If it were true, I hated that for him… Just like I hated it for myself.
I still wasn’t sure if I was really bisexual, or just experimenting. All I knew was that every day since Michelangelo had come into my life, I’d been feeling more and more human . I finally felt alive and real .
Something was working. And that something was sneaking into the home of our governor in the middle of the night and having dirty, sweaty, morally ambiguous sex with his son.
I was in no rush to confront my sexuality hang-ups anyway. It wasn’t like I could ever come out to my family. They wouldn’t get it, especially my father. I refused to think about his reaction, but I knew it wouldn’t be acceptance and proudly displayed rainbow garb.
I was better off keeping the secret. For now, it was just good, and I didn’t want to ruin it by overthinking. I’d much rather enjoy the best orgasms of my life, thank you very much.
That said, I often think back to this time and wonder if it was inevitable…
It was a crisp Friday evening in May, and I was at the gym. Hands and feet taped, punching and kicking the bags while my mind flickered through memories of the night before…
When I’d crept into his townhouse and up the stairs to find him in the shower…
We’d both sort of come into our own with the act .
He’d gotten better at fighting and pretending he didn’t want it, and I’d become better at playing the sadistic monster he wanted me to be.
It was enticing, albeit a bit more difficult to subdue him.
But I pulled it off, and the next thing I knew, I was in him up to my nuts and he was clenching that hot, quivering pressure around me.
Pausing my blows to catch my breath, I had to peek down and check my pants to make sure I didn’t have a visible hard-on from the memories. Sure, I was the only one in the kickboxing studio, but still. I didn’t wanna be that guy.
I could barely help it, though. I never knew just how fucking awesome it’d feel to fuck a guy in the ass.
I’d been nervous about it at first, but judging by how he fell apart in my arms, I’d say he was just as into it.
If he came in two minutes, then I was convulsing into him approximately twenty seconds later.
I was just so curious to know if this was really all about Michelangelo, or if it had been in me all along—lying dormant and waiting to erupt.
I wondered if it had been his first time with a guy too…
But I didn’t have the stomach to ask. Mainly because I didn’t like how violent it made me to think about him saying it wasn’t.
Practicing my spin-kick, I got lost in the memories of gushy wet tightness and skin slapping…
“Fuck, you feel so good…”
“Unngghh… please. P-please… s-stop.”
“I don’t think you mean that, spoiled little slut… Your pretty cock is leaking everywhere. That means you like it…”
“N-no…”
“Yes…”
“No…”
“ Yes …”
“Oh fuck, oh Jesus… Ghost… Rider… I’m gonna c-come.”
“Come for me, you greedy bitch. Open that hole up and swallow—”
“Excuse me?” A sudden voice burst into my reverie, startling me into almost toppling over.
It was instantly familiar… And when I whipped around, I came face-to-face with the exact scrumptious specimen whose ass I was just remembering coming in.
Michelangelo was there. In the gym. In my gym, standing in front of me, blue eyes sparkling, dimples deepening as he grinned at me.
I blinked heavily.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.” The grin grew. So did the dimples.
Fuck me, he’s so pretty , I thought. Then scolded myself to act straighter.
“It’s fine…” I cleared my throat, fidgeting in place.
Did he recognize me? He’d still never seen my face without the mask on. But we’d been fooling around for weeks…
Couldn’t he tell? Would I??
“I was just wondering if you could show me how to do that.” He pointed to my knuckles wrapped in tape.
It took another generous moment for me to break out of the awkwardness of seeing him in a real-world setting—outside of my stalking, or our secret rendezvous. This was really him … Michelangelo Russo, standing in front of me , Byron Kang.
I had nowhere to hide, and it had me feeling all kinds of vulnerable.
“Uh… sure,” I croaked. He was giving me an intensely curious look, so I spun away and went for the tape. “This your first time?” I balked at my question, stammering, “I mean, um… boxing? Or kicking… kickboxing .” Jesus, man, get it together.
He chuckled. I loved the sound when I heard it in secret, but it turned out it was even better when he was knowingly giving it to me .