Chapter 20. Liam
By the third day, we've developed a routine that would horrify Griff into an early grave.
We wake when we wake, which for me means ten or eleven, my body catching up on a sleep debt so massive it should have its own credit score.
Breakfast is prepared by chefs. Perfect eggs, toast with actual butter, not the yellow petroleum jelly they serve at Aspire, pancakes, fruit, chocolate.
Swiss chocolate. I eat without thinking.
The pool becomes our church. We worship there from noon until the sun drops, stretched out on lounge chairs that recline so far back they're practically beds, our skin darkening by degrees we measure against each other's arms. Jack burns on the first day because he refuses to wear sunscreen.
I'd have refused as well, but before I could complain, Ethan is already putting it all over me.
"Hey, Daddy!" I scream, without even thinking that someone in Harry's house might hear. Ethan holds my arm in place, firm as a rock, while he spreads the thick, white cream all over me. Not my favorite white cream by far. Sorry, I feel I need to make this joke.
"Look at Jack and learn your lesson," he says. I roll my eyes, but I stop protesting. Feeling his hands massaging all over my body is worth it.
Harry floats on an inflatable flamingo in expensive sunglasses instead of his regular ones. Ethan does laps, because of course he does. I watch him from behind the sunglasses Harry gave me. He looks fucking hot.
On day three, Harry orders pizza from five different restaurants because we somehow get into an argument over whether Domino’s is better than Pizza Hut, which is better than Papa John’s, which is better than Little Caesars, which is better than Cici’s.
At least, that's my ranking of pizzas. Of course no one agrees, so we have to taste them all.
We line up slices on the marble kitchen island like a forensic investigation, each one labeled with the restaurant name on a Post-it note. Jack pretends he's a pizza sommelier, sniffing, chewing slowly, holding each slice up to the light as if checking for counterfeit dough. We all laugh.
"Cici's is the best hands down," Harry says.
"Hell fucking no, nothing beats Domino's," I say. Ethan shakes his head slowly.
"Pizza Hut."
"Proof," Jack says, jabbing the air with a crust, "that money can't buy taste. You're all wrong."
For dessert, one day, the staff gets us gourmet ice cream in flavors I didn't know existed like black sesame, lavender honey, something called "burnt caramel with Himalayan sea salt."
It's all ridiculously good. I guess being rich makes everything taste good.
We can't leave Harry's house, but why would we fucking need to? He even has a theater room. It's underground, windowless, with black leather recliners and a screen the size of a wall.
We fight for at least half an hour about what we want to watch, until Harry, ever the dictator, says, "It's my theater room, I'm choosing."
"What a nice host you are," Ethan says. I'm sitting beside him on the larger leather couch, his arm around my shoulders.
"Shut up, Farley," Harry says and turns on The Godfather, which is so Harry it's almost funny. Ethan can't even complain, because it turns out that he loves this movie. I'd never seen it before, but it's brilliant, and even Jack stops fidgeting to pay attention.
Then, we start playing video games. Jack discovers a racing game and proceeds to demolish all of us. He wins twelve races in a row, then stands up and takes a bow.
"I have found my calling," he announces. "Forget tattoos. I'm going pro."
But it's the quiet moments that are the best. Harry leads us through the house on the fourth day, narrating as he goes. He stops in a small room on the second floor, empty except for a window seat and walls covered in faded pencil marks.
"My mom used to paint here," he says, and he sounds serious, for once in his life. "She'd sit right there for hours. I used to bring her tea, and she'd pretend to drink it. It was always cold by the time she remembered."
Nobody speaks.
He moves to the hallway closet, opens it, and points to a low shelf inside. "I used to hide here when they fought. I'd bring a flashlight and a book. Sometimes I'd fall asleep and the housekeeper would find me in the morning."
Ethan puts a hand on Harry's shoulder, and Harry doesn't shrug it off. He just stands there, and for a moment he looks exactly like what he is, a kid who grew up with everything except the one thing that mattered: peace.
I feel a little ridiculous for thinking this. And also moved, which is embarrassing. But I know now how much peace and love can change a life.
We go back tomorrow. And I want to die. But I can't die, or I'll never have days like this again.
It's late, and we're all in our rooms. I'm lying next to Ethan in the king-sized bed, the kind that swallows you, that makes you feel like you're floating, and it's just us, finally, with the lights off and the heavy hush of the house around us.
I curl against him, my head on his chest. He's so fucking warm.
"You awake?" I whisper.
He shifts, so I know he is. "Yeah. You?"
I laugh against his skin. "No, I'm sleep-talking."
He snorts and kisses my head.
He pulls me closer, his hands sliding down my back under the t-shirt Harry gave us.
Harry keeps giving us clothes and saying we can keep them.
I'll have a new wardrobe by the time we get back.
Ethan's palm is so big it covers half my spine.
He finds my ass, grabs it, squeezing. He knows I like that.
He kisses the top of my head, then my temple, then my mouth, slow and soft and almost sad, like he knows this is the last night for a while that we'll get to do this without alarms, without guards, without anyone watching.
He kisses me until my mouth opens for him, and then he rolls, pinning me under his weight, his thigh between mine.
I moan, breathless, and he swallows the sound.
I reach down, fumbling with the waistband of his shorts.
He's already hard, straining against the cotton, and when I free him, he grunts, low in his throat, then bites my lip.
I stroke him, slow, and his hips buck, but then he grins and pins my arms above my head with one hand, so I can't move at all.
He kisses down my neck, slow, gentle, then nips at my collarbone, my chest, the trail of his mouth setting my skin on fire.
He pulls my shirt off, then goes lower, his tongue circling my nipple, then lower still, kissing down my stomach.
I arch up, desperate, and he finally pulls my briefs down and takes me in his mouth.
It's so good I almost scream, but I bite my fist to keep from waking the others.
He's relentless. Slow at first, then fast, then deep, his tongue swirling, his hand wrapped around the base, squeezing just right.
I can't last, not with him, not when he's looking up at me like that, his green eyes dark and wild.
"Daddy, I'm gonna…!" I try to warn him, but he doesn't stop. He just hums:
"Mmm," and keeps going until I'm shaking, until I come so hard my vision whites out.
He doesn't move for a second, just breathes against my thigh, and then crawls up to kiss me, his mouth tasting like me and like him, all at once. I taste myself on his tongue, and I love it.
"My turn," I say, and flip us so I'm on top. I kiss him everywhere. I take my time. When I get to his cock, he's rock hard, leaking, and I wrap my lips around the head, swirl my tongue over the slit, and he moans so deep I feel it in my own chest.
I go slow, torture him, mouth and hand together, until he's panting, until his fingers are tangled in my hair and he's whispering my name, over and over, like a prayer. He comes with a gasp, his back arching, and I swallow, licking him clean because I know he likes it when I do that.
When he's spent, I climb back up, curl into his side, and rest my head on his shoulder. He's trembling, and I love that I can do that to him. He holds me so tight I can barely breathe, but I don't want him to let go.
We lie there, sticky and tangled, listening to the sounds of the house. I think about all the times I thought I didn't deserve this, didn't deserve him, didn't deserve anything at all.
But tonight, I do.
I can feel my pulse in places I didn't know had pulses. My lips are swollen. There's a mark on my collarbone that I'll have to hide tomorrow, and I don't care, I don't care about anything except the weight of his arm across my stomach and the sound of his breathing slowing to match mine.
The Egyptian cotton is ruined. Harry's going to kill us.
Ethan's hand traces my hip, his thumb finding the ridge of bone and circling it. My head is on his chest. I can hear his heartbeat.
"What if we didn't go back," I say.
I don't even think before saying it, but I need to. I feel his hand still on my hip.
"Liam."
"I know. I know. Just humor me. For five minutes."
He exhales and then kisses the top of my head. Then his hand resumes its circuit, and I know I've won.
"Fine," he says. "Where would we go?"
I close my eyes. "Somewhere warm but not too warm. Not Florida. Maybe Savannah. Somewhere with those big trees that hang over the streets, you know? The ones with the moss."
"Live oaks," he says, because of course he knows the name.
"Yeah. Those. We'd get a place near one. Small. Like, nothing fancy, just a one-bedroom with a kitchen I can actually cook in. If we can't afford that, we don't even need a real kitchen, just, like, a stove that works and a counter that's bigger than a cutting board."
He chuckles softly. "What would you cook?"
"Everything. Pasta from scratch. Lu's bread recipe. She wrote it down for me, on the back of an inventory form. Curry. Those dumplings Jack's always talking about. Breakfast every morning. Eggs the way you like them, over medium, with the yolks still runny."
"You'd cook me breakfast every morning?"
"Yes, Daddy," I answer. He pulls me tighter, and I feel the rumble of a laugh in his chest.
"What would I do?"
"You'd finish your degree. Nursing. You'd study at the kitchen table while I cook, and you'd complain about pharmacology, and I'd pretend to understand what you're talking about, and you'd quiz me on drug interactions, and I'd get every single one wrong."
"You'd get some right. At least Tylenol."
"None right. Zero. But I'd look hot trying."
He laughs. "You always look hot, baby."
"We'd get a dog," I say. "A big one. Something dumb and happy, like a golden retriever."
"No," he says, immediately. "You'd never clean up after the dog, I'd have to do all the work."
"Please, Daddy?" I ask, looking up at him. He has that smile on his lips.
"I'll think about it." His hand slides from my hip to my stomach, palm flat, fingers spread. "What about jobs?"
"I'd work in a restaurant. Start as a line cook, work my way up. Somewhere small, somewhere good, where the chef actually gives a shit about the food, just like Lu. You'd do something, I don't know. Something where you get to take care of people. That's your thing. You can't not do it."
"Night shifts at a clinic," he says. "Somewhere understaffed. They always need people."
"You'd come home at six in the morning smelling like antiseptic, and I'd already be up because I couldn't sleep without you, and we'd sit on the couch together and have sex."
"We'd be so tired," he chuckles.
"Yes, we'd be fucking half-asleep."
"That sounds perfect."
"It does, doesn't it."
We lie there, breathing into the dark. I know we can't. I've known since before I opened my mouth.
They'd send cops for us, we'd be wanted, which sounds badass, but actually means you won't ever be able to have a life unless you escape the country, and I have no money, and I wouldn't be able to get a job.
My program. My progress. The sessions with Dr. Herrera, the kitchen shifts with Lu, MMA with Griff, our little family in that dorm room.
Ethan knows it too, of course. He wouldn't let me do it, not in a million years, and he'd never do it himself.
"We can't," he says.
"I know."
"But after."
I look at him, maybe a little too surprised.
After. After release, after the degree and our counselors saying we're okay to go back to society, and the judge deciding we aren't menacing anymore.
"After," I say, "we find each other. No matter what."
"We won't need to find each other." His arm tightens around me. "I'm not letting you out of my sight."
"That's creepy," I say. He chuckles.
"That's a promise. Even if I get out first, I'll wait for you, I told you, and you better start believing me."
"Thank you," I whisper. He kisses my head again. I put my hand on his face and feel him lean into it.
"I've never had a home," I say. I immediately want to take the words back, but I can't. I don't want to ruin the moment being my crybaby self. But it's too late. "Not a real one. My dad tried… but he failed, that's the truth."
His hand covers mine on his face. "You will," he says. "We will."
I want to believe him. I’m terrified to believe him, because I don’t think I could take it if it never happened. I believe him anyway, because the alternative is a world without him and that world isn't one I want to survive.
I press my forehead to his. He presses back. We breathe the same air, and I think about live oaks and runny eggs and a dog with no name yet, and the apartment we'll find, and the life we'll build.
"Stay awake with me," I whisper. "I don't want to waste it sleeping."
"I'm not going anywhere," he says. "You can sleep, baby. You're safe."
So I do. And when I wake up, he's still there.