Chapter 57 Elliot
Elliot
I have that heart-palpating-jittery feeling I usually get when looking forward to something.
I’ve had it all day. It started the second Stuart walked down the stairs this morning, and it hasn’t left yet.
When I concentrate on something else, it quiets down, but it’s still lurking around, homing in on me, alerting me to the fact that something is headed my way.
Something big. Something good.
Or something bad.
Because, let’s face it, I’m well out of my depth here.
Feeling out of my depth is kind of my wheelhouse, but this situation is a little out there, even for me.
I have no idea what I’m getting myself into.
I could hardly believe it when I heard myself telling Stuart I wanted what he was offering.
I’ve spent my whole life going to great lengths to hide the fact I want things like this.
I was fully under the impression I didn’t have the balls to admit it.
He looked so different this morning, and maybe that’s what threw me.
He was completely focused on me. Like nothing existed but me.
His eyes were on me the whole time. I could tell how closely he was watching my every move.
I was nervous as fuck, but weirdly, I also felt kind of—I don’t know, contained or something.
And fuck, what he said nearly blew my mind.
Stuart Wiseman is a Daddy, and I don’t mean a run-of-the-mill oooh, please fuck me harder, Daddy kind of Daddy.
You could find a Daddy like that on an app in three seconds flat in a city like LA.
Stuart’s the real McCoy. The real deal. I mean, the way he was talking about rules and shit, I could tell he was completely serious. Dead serious.
Being a Daddy isn’t something I do. It’s something I am.
Oooof.
That hit me hard.
My dick went so stiff that my thoughts ran in twenty different directions at once. At least half of them focused solely on how the hell I was going to get up from the table sporting a rock-hard dick without Stuart noticing.
Even now, hours later, just the thought of what he said makes my cock twitch.
It gives me that feeling you get when you’re doing something mundane, something every day and normal, but you know that later, something you’ve really been looking forward to is going to happen.
I used to get that feeling all the time when I was a kid, especially when I managed to convince myself that my dad would be coming to see me.
It wasn’t just my dad. It also happened when I was expecting a call from a girl or a guy I liked or something like that.
Ultimately, as I got older, I learned to ignore it. It took a long time, but eventually, I got there. That’s what happens when you get let down one too many times.
Now the feeling is back, and it’s stronger than ever before.
The fact that what I’m looking forward to is essentially a damn good hiding from a man who gets on my last nerve isn’t lost on me.
I’m not at all pleased about it. I know it’s insane.
It’s probably one of the stupider things I’ve done in my life, and that’s saying something.
I’d love to stop it or find some way to come to my senses.
It’s just that the jitters and rushes are considerably overpowering rational thought, which puts me at a really big fucking disadvantage.
You’d think I’d be more concerned about this glaring lack of reason.
You’d think I’d be panicking or doing something practical like calling Luke or Wyn and telling them what’s happening and trying to get them to talk some sense into me.
The thing is, I have two speeds in my life: overthinking everything in existence or not thinking things through in the slightest.
There’s no in-between.
I’d love it if there was, but there isn’t.
It’s all right. I’m used to it, I guess.
Stuart is waiting for me when I get home.
He stands on the porch with his arms crossed over his chest, squinting into the late afternoon sun.
He holds the door open for me and leads me into the study.
The excitement that’s been with me all day curdles, cooling and thickening, rapidly spiraling into nerves.
I sit beside him on the dining chair he’s placed next to his big leather swivel chair.
The study is like the rest of the house, well-finished with timber floors and high-quality joinery.
Unlike the rest of the house, which feels homey and inviting, the study is somber.
The walls are painted a dusty sage-green and the desk is imposing.
A gallery of photographs on the wall behind the desk hangs with such symmetry and precision that I can’t imagine how the effect was achieved without the extensive use of AI.
My eye immediately lands on a picture of Stuart and my dad sitting side-by-side on the beach.
They look to be in their early twenties.
They both have over-long hair and are tanned so dark their teeth seem artificially white.
My dad has a huge, shit-eating grin on his face and Stuart is eyeing the camera warily.
There are a few pictures of Stuart and a blonde woman who bears a strong resemblance to him, two of an older couple—possibly his parents—and one of a dark-haired man holding Sadie and laughing as she tries to lick his face.
Stuart lays two pieces of paper out on the desk in front of me and says, “This is a rough idea. Nothing is set in stone until you’re completely sure you’re happy with it.”
Excitement, nerves, fear, and a strong sense of what the fuck is going on with my life mash together and make forming a coherent sentence not an option for me at present.
I read the words before me and then watch as they swim on the page.
Be respectful
Be considerate
Be obedient
All of them offend me in equal measure. The implication that I’m none of these things is painfully clear.
The thought of it makes my skin feel prickly, and I’m suddenly unsure whether arousal or annoyance is my dominant reaction.
I want to argue. I can feel the words rising in my throat, but I can tell that the tone I’d use would be a clear breach of rules one, two, and possibly three.
I manage to bite them back, but it takes a concerted effort.
I scan through the second page. The rules listed are things like:
Take your shoes off when you enter the home
Hang your work bag at the door
Eat a good breakfast
Watch the attitude at all times
Do not feed Sadie treats (I’ve seen you)
Prepare dinner twice per week
Load and unload the dishwasher every other day (Don’t forget to use a tablet)
Help with the laundry
Don’t leave your clothes on the floor
Do not roll your eyes at me
Get to bed at a reasonable hour from Monday through Thursday
The rules seem almost insultingly basic.
They seem obvious, like best practice when adulting or something.
Hardly the sort of thing someone should need to write down.
It’s hard to find fault with any of them individually.
It’s just that when I view them as an ensemble, it strikes me that there seems to be a hell of a lot of them.
I look down at the page and feel a mild flutter of concern.
Actually, you know what? No.
I’m not worried.
I’ve got this.
All these little rules are things other people do with no problem.
Wyn’s been doing most of these things for me since we moved in together during our sophomore year of college, and he hardly ever complained.
Hardly even seemed to notice. Just went about his day getting shit like this done without making a song and dance about it.
How hard can it be?
I’m just going to have to apply myself. I’ll do a few things around the house now and then and then kick back and chill like normal. Big fucking deal.
When you think about it, the joke’s on Stuart for taking this shit way too seriously. The only reason I don’t do this stuff is because I’ve never had to.
Hang your bag at the door. Please. Give me a break. I can do that in my sleep.
Stuart’s voice more or less maintains the same note the entire time he reads through the list. He pauses after each rule, waiting until I nod before moving on.
He’s patient and earnest. I can hardly describe how seriously he’s taking this whole thing.
When he’s done, he looks at me expectantly.
His eyes are so intensely blue that I find it hard to look away from him.
When I look into them, I get the same feeling I get back home on the beach, standing at the edge of the water, about to dive in.
The weirdness of this whole situation is starting to get to me, and I feel a terrible tightness in my lungs. The familiar twinges send a warning: severe giggling fit rapidly approaching. In a desperate attempt to stave it off, I start poking fun at the rules.
“So, I guess this means I’m golden as long as I have a smoothie for breakfast, huh?
‘Cause those are full of leafy greens, and you’re all about that, right?
” Stuart looks at me without answering, so I up the ante.
“And sure, let’s lock in a reasonable bedtime.
I’m all for it. Twelve-thirty is totally reasonable for a twenty-four-year-old dude at the height of his slut era, isn’t it? ”
Shit. Not sure why I said that.
Stuart’s never done a damn thing to give me the impression he has a sense of humor.
I’m on the edge of hysterical laughter, and knowing that being like this makes me a loose cannon makes me panic even more.
His lips stiffen, and before I have time to reconsider, I roll my eyes so hard the left one feels a little strained when I recenter them.
“Elliot, did you just roll your eyes at me?”
Oh crap!
“Yeah, b-but I haven’t technically agreed on the rules yet, so there’s nothing you can do about it. Boom! Lawyered!”
Stuart doesn’t answer. His top lip quirks up, and I can’t tell if he’s trying not to smile or suppressing the urge to bite me. He leans over, moves the first piece of paper closer to him, and scrawls something on it. When he hands it back to me, it reads:
Be respectful
Be considerate
Be obedient
AND NO SILLY BUGGERS!
I don’t know what that means exactly. It seems like a broad and vague category at best, but my lungs scream with the effort it takes to contain the giggle that’s bubbling up inside me.
Stuart Wiseman just used the word bugger.
What’s next, casually using the word ream in reference to widening the opening of a hole in a non-sexual manner? Dropping sodomy into the dinner conversation in a puritanical way?
The worst of it is, I have a feeling he’d probably think it’s perfectly acceptable—as long as we’re using the right fucking placemats and I’m eating my greens.
“…yellow to pause and discuss things and red to stop instantly…”
Hmm, Stuart seems to be schooling me on safe words.
Safe words! The thought of it makes me overly aware of the fact that I should be using every ounce of my strength to let out my breath very, very slowly.
I am completely positive that failure to do so will see that breath expelled from my body in the form of a very loud snort.
It takes so much effort that my eyes feel too big for their sockets.
“And, Elliot, you should know you were wrong about me when you said I over-promise and under-deliver. As long as you’re under my roof and subject to this arrangement, you can set your clock by me.
You can count on me as sure as you can count on the fact the sun rises in the morning and sets in the evening.
You can bet everything you own on the fact that if I say I’ll do something, I’ll do it.
Actions have consequences, and mark my words, I’ll deliver them. ”
Like that, the laughter that’s been threatening to overtake me evaporates, and I’m left reeling.