Chapter 15 Dax
DAX
Reed looks angelic unconscious.
Without that pouty, bratty mouth going a mile a minute, he’s every bit the picture of innocence he was the day I met him in Buck Shot Bar out in Laramie earlier this year.
The first thing I saw when I walked through the door of that hole-in-the-wall honkytonk full of truckers and farmers was the mounted head of a massive elk bull on the wall. I’ll admit, it stopped me in my tracks. Not much does these days.
Reed’s photos had already had me questioning whether he was a catfish.
Men in Wyoming didn’t tend to look like they walked straight out of a Gap ad.
The grimy, peanut shell-dusted floors and hunting trophies had threatened to confirm my suspicion that I was being set up.
There was no way a self-proclaimed “submissive slut” college senior frequented an establishment like that.
I’d reached into my Wranglers for my pocketknife, worried I was going to have to fight my way out of a situation I should’ve never put myself in to begin with.
When I stopped hunting with my dad, I promised myself I’d never hurt another living thing.
But then I got sent to Rawlins and needs must when it comes to protecting yourself in a place like that.
I never outright killed a man, but I came pretty damn close, which led me to wonder if my strength was a fatal flaw that was going to be the end of me if I made the wrong enemy or hurt the wrong guy.
Then, out of the corner of my eye, a speck of blond hair had captured my attention in a sea of red hats and bald heads.
Reed sat in the corner booth drawing pictures in the condensation on the side of his beer stein, and fuck me, I was relieved, charmed, and as into him as I had been from his pictures.
Now, I have him roped to the arms and legs of a stiff-backed chair in the primary bedroom of Wendell Blitz’s vacation home.
This sight alone should be the precursor to the hottest kink scene I’ve ever stepped into.
Defiling my enemy’s new houseboy, who also happens to be the best submissive who has ever served me.
But I’m not into sleep play, and concern clangs around in my belly the longer Reed stays passed out, though I wish it didn’t.
I used to be the kind of burglar who could shut off his brain. Put blinders on to everything but the job at hand. Reed torched that to hell. Mostly because I care about whether he lives or dies, and I wish I didn’t. Everything would be a whole lot easier if I didn’t.
Reed’s head lolls to the right. A speck of drool escapes the side of his mouth. I slip off a single glove and hold it beneath his nose. He’s still breathing. Thank fuck.
When he collapsed into my arms, the villain inside me cheered, That’s it, boy. Comply. Give in.
But now I’m worried he had some sort of cardiac episode, even though he’s young and fit. We talked sexual—and general—health status before we played last to ensure no binds or impact play would lead to any serious injury, but that was weeks ago now. A lot can change in that time.
There’s a whole mansion waiting to be pillaged, and instead of making off with the goods, I’m standing here watching for signs of life from the hot house sitter.
While I know Reed has nothing worth stealing, I decide to snoop through his suitcase.
Crouching, I sort through T-shirts, rolled-up socks, and more pairs of those skimpy briefs he paraded around in earlier.
I’m loath to admit how I’d love for these to keep company with my boxer briefs in a shared hamper in a house somewhere sunny and tropical.
A bungalow, even. We wouldn’t need much.
Just the sun, our health, and each other.
I flick that fantasy straight out of my overactive head.
Among Reed’s clothes, I discover Wendell Blitz’s bestselling book: Activate Your Inner Entrepreneur.
Fuck, is Reed a fan of Arrow Mart?
While I know he studied business, I hadn’t pegged him for a capitalist crony.
I chuck the book aside and keep digging. From what I recall, Reed wanted to start his own business, not become a house sitter for an e-commerce CEO on the opposite side of the state. I have a strong suspicion there’s another reason he’s here, another angle I’m not yet seeing.
Reed strikes me as smart, passionate, and more than a bit nerdy with his Nova Ranger fixation.
From the way he spoke at Buck Shot, it seemed he was really going places.
That’s half the reason I ghosted him. You can’t become a business superstar with an ex-con on your arm.
It’s all “everybody makes mistakes” until it’s me, then it’s “you’re too damaged to be any good. ”
Screw that noise. I’d rather be damaged than cookie-cutter any day.
I push aside chargers and ChapSticks and a small swatch of peach-colored spandex that could barely be called a swimsuit even at the most liberal of beaches.
The silky feel of the fabric has my dick doing rhythmic gymnastics in my underwear.
I have a packed bag full of supplies, yet I seem to have forgotten my goddamn chill.
Beneath the swimsuit, I discover two items out of the ordinary.
One is a receipt from a transportation company for same-day shipping with yesterday’s date on it.
The total makes my eyes bulge. The Reed I met seven months ago couldn’t have afforded a price tag like that.
This gig must be paying more than I expected.
The second strange item is a collection of specimen bags.
They’re the same kind of bags the flirtatious male nurse at the clinic gives me when I go for my STI testing every three months.
What does Reed Thompson need with specimen sample bags?
I’m reminded of Reed’s phone in my pocket. The screen is a spiderweb of cracks, and the on-button seems jammed. I find the right charger for it in his suitcase and hook it up to the nearest outlet, hoping for an ounce of life left in the device.
A few minutes later, it boots up, but it’s locked.
As carefully as possible, I scoot Reed’s chair toward the wall. The charging cord barely reaches as I tilt his dozing head up by the scruff of his neck. It does the trick to bypass the facial recognition feature and let me access his home page.
I take my time scrolling through his apps.
My finger moves without thought right to the photo album, where I tap through the pictures I spied Reed taking outside earlier.
The ones I touched myself to. They’re even better with a view from the front.
His blue eyes take on a devilish glint as the images go from tame—his hands or thigh covering his crotch—to full-frontal. On display. Proud exposure.
As I swipe through the shots, Reed’s girthy dick with its light pink tip and neat patch of darker blond pubes at the base grows fuller.
Such an impressive, perfect erection. I grope at the front of my stretchy pants where my own erection takes shape for the zillionth time.
I ditched the ghillie suit when I got inside for a more traditional burglar look—all skin-tight black everything—and it’s doing nothing to hide my present arousal.
A text pops up on the screen with a loud ding. I nearly drop the phone from surprise.
The results are in, babe. Should I call you?
The message is from someone named Carson. His contact photo is a selfie in what looks to be a lab. He’s white with light-brown eyes and a skinny black mustache. He wears what the kids might call “slutty little glasses” and a white lab coat as he shoots the camera a thumbs-up.
My eyes skitter back over the word babe.
My brain supplies its own four-letter word, kick.
As in, I’ll kick this punk’s teeth in if he calls Reed babe one more time.
The idea of another man claiming Reed as his own makes me want to go apeshit.
My sudden swell of protectiveness doubles when a phone call from Carson comes in.
The screen fills up with the same selfie, and I have to admit he’s a handsome guy.
I could see why Reed might be into him, but damn if I’m not imagining what this guy’s bones breaking would sound like if he even so much as laid a finger on Reed’s skin, brushed a hair on Reed’s head.
Reed stirs as the relentless, high-pitched ringing continues. His dry lips smack together. I silence the phone and respond with a text after scrolling up in the thread to ensure I sound enough like Reed as not to prompt suspicion.
Sorry, can’t talk rn. Text me?
The response is immediate.
Why can’t you talk? I thought you said you were alone in the house.
I wrack my brain for something clever to say.
Doing an expensive face mask. If I move my mouth, it’ll crack.
Just tell me already!!!
The next message is a PDF with a jumbled series of numbers and letters as the file name. When I open it, lab results expand on the screen. I’ve already broken many laws tonight. I might as well violate HIPAA too.
Right away, I assume these are Reed’s STI results. Maybe he had a chlamydia scare. Maybe this Carson prick gave it to him.
It takes my brain a second to catch up with what I’m actually seeing.
DNA Paternity Report. Personal Use Only.
Name: Reed Thompson
Relationship: Alleged Father Child
Sample type: Mouth swab
Race: Caucasian
I use my fingers to zoom in. I was never good at science, so I don’t know what an allele is or what Penta D means. The results, however, are as clear as day.
Conclusion: The alleged father cannot be excluded as the biological father of the tested child. Based on the analysis of the STR loci listed above, the probability of paternity is 99%.
I scroll down, hoping for more context, but the document ends.
There’s no mention of who provided the other DNA sample used in this test, but I can make an educated guess based on the fact that Reed Thompson traveled six-plus hours to take a menial job in a billionaire’s vacation home.
In the bathroom, to confirm my suspicions, I inspect the double vanity.
Most of the products scattered on it are likely Reed’s: travel-sized toothpaste, an electric razor, tweezers.
But in between the two sinks is a charging port for two electric toothbrushes.
Upon closer inspection, one of the heads has pristine, unused bristles.
Holy hell. Wendell Blitz must be Reed Thompson’s father.
I don’t have a moment to digest that shocking revelation because a loud thud bursts from the bedroom, and my night goes from rough to rougher.