Cameron
WORK WAS EXHAUSTING TODAY. On the plus side, I got to see the Mustang Uncle Danny said I could fix up, and I’m fairly certain I can do it.
Sure, it needs some work, and it’s not cosmetically the greatest car around, but it’ll be reliable. I won’t have to take the Toyota and deal with Mom’s pestering me about it. If I weren’t giving her cash, I genuinely think she’d make me walk to work.
As I pull into the driveway of our house, I take in a deep breath. The chances that one of her drinking buddies picked her up before I got off are high, but it’s never a guarantee.
Right now, all I want to do is change out of my work clothes—newly issued—and head to the gym.
And for the fifteenth time today, just as I do every time I think of the gym lately, I think of Atticus. I think of him putting me on my back.
Which is immediately accompanied by the embarrassment of how hard I came while riding his fingers. By the thrill of remembering his touch, and the constant conflict I feel surrounding it.
Listen, I’ve never directly faced homophobia in Port Orford. In fact, Kim is very queer. The difference is, I’ve heard plenty of times in the men’s locker room how hot it is to imagine two women together, yet how gross it is to see two guys kissing on TV.
The double standards go hard, but no one’s casually thrown around any slurs or made it clear I’d be disowned. And Mom already dislikes me on a good day while she assumes I’m straight, so it’s not like I would be devastated if she hated that I’m not.
My fear of being queer has nothing to do with acceptance and everything to do with how I view myself. I already struggle with my inability to make decisions or take charge of my own life, and adding a sexuality crisis? It just makes me feel like less of a man.
I’m supposed to take after Dad. He was hard-working, manly, and everything young boys aspire to be. My entire life, I have primed myself to take after his image, and I’m pretty sure getting fucked in the ass isn’t something he’d partaken in before his untimely death.
I just want to be a simple guy. I want to be able to decide what I want for dinner without the anxiety of choice, and to marry a kind girl and settle down in our shitty little fishing town.
I can’t very well be that man if I’m constantly fantasizing about getting fucked by the rich guy who lives just outside of town.
Only, when he called the other day, I crumbled. As if just the sound of his voice is enough to force me into submission. And I was right—hanging out with him did make this predicament a bit easier to stomach.
You see, if Atticus is a great guy, someone who makes life easier for me, then maybe it’s not so bad? Maybe I can come to terms with not being the man I’ve been modeling myself after since birth?
If someone as wonderful as he thinks this is okay, surely it can’t be that bad, right?
For the hundredth time, I consider calling him. It’s been a few days since I saw him, since I promised to call. But every time I move to pick up the phone, I panic.
Either I spend all of my time in his presence, so that I can forget about my own fears and concerns, or I cut him off completely—that is what I keep telling myself.
Atticus isn’t going to let me crash at his place, right?
That only leaves one option. Cutting him off.
So, again, I resist the urge to call. He can find better, anyway.
I grab my lunchbox from the passenger seat and head inside, the weight of my fucked up reality weighing on my shoulders as I unlock the front door.
As I step inside, I’m hit with the overwhelming smell of alcohol and cigarette smoke.
Mom is lounging on the couch, a man sitting at her side as he smokes. I think his name is James. I’ve seen him around a bit, but I’m unsure if that’s correct.
“Cameron,” she greets me coldly.
“Hey, Mom,” I reply, glancing between the two of them. “I’m just going to head to my room and—”
“Not so fast,” she interrupts. “You got paid today, right? It’s Friday.”
Oh, shit. I did get paid today, and I totally forgot to pull out cash.
“Ah, yes. When the bank opens in the morning, I’ll grab you some cash; don’t worry.” My tone is placating and slightly panicked.
Her gray eyes narrow. “Are you a fucking idiot?”
James—I think—snickers.
“N-no?” I stutter out.
“Then why don’t you have my cash? This isn’t a new arrangement, Cameron. Where is your head at?”
On Atticus, on coming all over myself while he whispered filthy things in my ear. But I can’t very well say that, so instead, I duck my head and swallow my pride.
“Sorry, Mom. I’ll get it first thing—”
I don’t register it when she stands. I don’t even notice her approaching until her hand cuts off my words with a harsh slap.
“Don’t talk back to me, son,” she sneers.
“Listen to your mother,” James cuts in, standing to his feet.
Oh, shit. I don’t trust this guy, and my fight-or-flight is immediately triggered. Why is he standing? What does he intend to do?
As I say nothing, only staring back at him with wide, concerned eyes, he takes offense.
“Not gonna respond?” he slurs, stumbling toward us. “Sher, your boy is very d-disrespectful.”
Mom scoffs. “You’re telling me. Maybe he needs a strong man to guide him.”
Her frown turns into a nasty smile, and she gives James her puppy dog eyes, as if begging him to guide me.
And don’t get me wrong, I do crave guidance. Protection. Safety. But whatever it is James is offering is not the kind of guidance I desire.
“I’m just gonna…” I back toward the door, my hand reaching blindly for the handle. To run. Because the look in this man’s eyes is terrifying, and I may be strong and muscled, but he’s unhinged-looking.
Plus, whenever I’m faced with my mother’s presence, I’m a little boy again—regressing into the small, terrified kid I was when my dad died.
“Don’t you dare,” Mom sneers.
My hand falls from the handle.
James appears in front of me, panting out Fireball breath and grinning widely. “Let’s tango, boy.”
“No, thank you,” I reply quickly. “I’ll just leave, and you guys can—”
James doesn’t like this response, either. His fist crashes into my stomach, sending me doubling over. A choked groan leaves my mouth, and James laughs.
Definitely unhinged.
The next punch is delivered to my left cheek, whipping my head to the side.
“Enough,” Mom calls, extending me some rare grace. “Now get out of my sight, Cameron.”
As I lift my head, catching her turning away, some semblance of regret flashes over her features.
I don’t stick around to see how she really feels; instead, I turn and rush out the door, still fighting for the breath James stole from me.
I don’t take the Toyota. There is no guarantee Mom won’t freak out on me when I return home if I do. So I walk. I walk for what feels like an hour, just barely making it past the diner where Cassie and I met Atticus a few days ago.
My cheek hurts and my stomach is cramping, but I stand under a lamppost in the foggy, fading afternoon light anyway.
I guess I won’t be making it to the gym.
And just like that, Atticus returns to my thoughts. His small smiles, guiding hands, and easy words.
“Let me show you what it feels like to surrender, sweetheart,” he had said.
As if it’s that easy to fall apart for someone. To be weak and thoughtless. And when I’m with him, surprisingly, it is. It’s so fucking easy to block out the world and let him handle everything inside of it.
Could I… could I do that now?
With no hesitation, I reach for my phone, where it’s still nestled in my pocket. I don’t meander over his contact; instead, I hit call before I can chicken out.
Atticus answers on the second ring.
“Cameron,” he greets, his voice calm and collected as always.
“H-hey,” I reply.
It’s silent for a moment, as if he’s waiting for something, before he finally speaks again. “What’s going on?”
Oh shit. Can he hear it in my voice? Can he sense from miles away that I’m a coward who lets his mother’s boy toy beat on him?
I’m nauseous once again.
“N-nothing,” I insist.
Before I can continue, Atticus interrupts me.
“Don’t lie to me, Cameron,” he commands. “You know I hate it.”
“Sorry,” I whisper, feeling my eyes grow wet.
I’ve already fucked up at home, and now I’m angering Atticus. I simply can’t win.
“What’s happened?” he presses.
I could lie again. I could try to make it convincing. But I’m tired, and the way he offered me surrender—though I’m certain he originally meant sexually—sits so heavily on my chest, begging me to take the out.
“I just… I ran into some trouble. I got… I’m a little hurt. And I’m on Fifth Avenue alone, just… I feel a little lost, is all,” I admit, my voice cracking slightly as I speak.
Weak. Pathetic. I’m certain that Dad is rolling in his grave on the other side of town.
“I’m coming to get you. Don’t move,” Atticus says steadily, and the line goes dead.
Part of me lights up, so relieved not to be alone right now that I could scream. But the rest of me? I feel like the idiot Mom insists I am.
I should have just called Cassie. She would have put me up for the night, soothed me, listened. But instead, I called the one person I’ve been trying to resist, only to probably embarrass myself when he arrives.
And when he does arrive? I will certainly crack. I will crumble in his hands just as he wants me to, and I’ll let him do whatever he wants with me. Because I want it; because it’s so dangerously beautiful to be weak with him.
I sit on the curb, cradling my stomach with my arm as I consider any out I could possibly have. If I want to continue as I have been, I need to stay away from Atticus Chastain. Continue to watch him from afar and—what did he say?
Pine, and long, and daydream.
But do I want to continue as I have been? Slaving away for a mother who doesn’t appreciate me, withering away slowly?
As I ponder this, sitting on these thoughts while nursing my undoubtedly bruised stomach, time passes.
Slow, yet far too quickly.
Then, Atticus’s BMW is pulling up to the curb a few feet away and he’s jumping out of the driver’s seat in his signature black slacks and white button-up.