Atticus #2
“No, you’ve been outside of my house. Once. And then technically inside a few times, but that wasn’t really you.” A deep sorrow flashes over his features, the same way it always does when he talks about the demon and how it came to him, and I hate it.
I hate it so much.
“Then let me come inside. What, are you still hesitant for people to know about us? I can pretend I’m your friend if you’d like.” The thought of it is crushing, but his comfort is my priority, and I’d hate to make him upset.
“No, it’s not that,” Cameron says, shaking his head. “After everything, if that still concerned me, I’d be a laughingstock.”
“Then what is it?”
He sighs, attempting to pull away from me, but I don’t let him. “I just… I don’t want you to see.”
Standing from the bed, I drag my hands up his body until I’ve grasped his cheeks. Normally, I’d hook a hand around the back of his neck, but ever since that night, I can’t really touch him—or anyone else—on the throat without wanting to throw up.
Well, touching with my hands. Other body parts… well, that’s fine.
I lean down, running my lips over the shell of his ear as I whisper, “Do you remember what we agreed on? What we decided the night I first took this hot mouth of yours?”
Cameron shivers, melting even further into me. “N-no?”
Running my tongue over the soft skin under his ear, I soak in his small gasp, the way he trembles.
“You told me I was the one who made decisions. I’m in charge now. I control what you do, where you go, fuck—what you wear before anyone else lays their eyes on you.”
“Oh, god,” he whimpers, rubbing his body along the length of mine desperately.
“You don’t tell me what I can and can’t do. You don’t make the decisions here,” I remind him. “You’re going to take me home. Tomorrow. And after you do, once you’ve been a good boy and listened, I’ll reward you for it. Understand?”
I reach between us and grip him through his jeans, squeezing.
“Yes, oh fuck, yes,” he moans.
“Say it correctly, Cameron.”
“I understand. I really understand,” Cameron insists.
Abruptly, I pull away. “Good. Now, get ready for bed. We’re going in the morning.”
Confused gray eyes stare up at me, his brow furrowing as a hand reaches out. “W-wait—”
“Nope. No rewards until you’ve obeyed. Got it?”
A disappointed look falls over his features, and if it weren’t so hot to boss him around, I’d feel a bit guilty. And I know it gets to him, too, by the way his jeans tighten further.
“Got it,” Cameron agrees.
“Aww, good job, sweetheart,” I purr. “Now go shower.”
The morning fog curls around our feet as we step out of my BMW in front of the small, two-bedroom house Cameron lives in.
For a moment, anxiety takes over, and all I can think of is the fog that clouded me in the altar room—how it made thinking borderline impossible and all the air in the room expand inside my lungs.
But then Cameron comes to my side of the car and takes my hand in his, his face nervous and pinched. My own fear aside, it’s time to comfort my lover.
“It’s alright,” I tell him. “Whatever is waiting for us inside is something we can handle together.”
Cameron eyes the car in the driveway wearily, nodding.
I have to basically drag him up the small concrete pathway, watching as he slowly fishes out a key and turns the lock, opening the door.
And as he does, all I smell is cigarette smoke and liquor.
He steps inside first.
“Cameron!” A shrill voice sounds, and he freezes immediately. “Where have you been? I’ve been calling! Give me some cash.”
I… what?
“Sorry, Mom. I was out. Let me go grab—”
He begins to move further into the house, and I step into the doorway, catching sight of a woman sitting on the couch next to a man.
The woman looks like Cameron. Blond hair and narrowed gray eyes. But she looks mean—unhappy. They couldn’t be more similar or more different, at the same time.
“Hurry!” she hisses. “At least a hundred this time.”
Cameron pauses, and though I can’t see it from where I stand behind him, I’m pretty sure he’s nervously wringing his fingers together.
“I don’t have that much in cash right now,” he mutters.
“What?” his mother seethes.
“He need to be taught a lesson again, Sher?” the man on the couch asks, all too happy to bud in.
“No!” Cameron interjects, sounding extremely nervous and slightly scared.
“Just get the fucking money, Cameron. Useless.”
I have about three seconds of self-restraint left. It sounds to me like both of these assholes have been mistreating Cameron, using him for money. And from the state of the living room, I’d say that money is not going anywhere beneficial.
Beer cans, fast food wrappers, and stray clothing are thrown around. I’m not one to judge, but the place looks dirty.
“But I don’t have a hundred—” Cameron starts.
“What did I say? Alright, James, teach him a lesson,” his mother snaps.
Cameron goes rigid, and I immediately know what teaching him a lesson is supposed to mean. They’ve completely lost their minds.
James stands from the couch, grinning.
“Take one step, and I’ll break your arm,” I say, calm and collected.
Finally, the two—potentially living on borrowed time—dumbasses finally look at me. Both of their eyes widen, clearly glazed and intoxicated.
“You’re… You’re a Chastain,” Cameron’s mother gasps.
“And you’re done belittling my boyfriend,” I counter.
“Boyfriend,” she repeats, slowly, as if she’s learning the word for the first time. And then again, full of surprise. “Boyfriend?!”
Cameron squares his shoulders, sending his mother a confident nod. “Yes, Mom. My boyfriend. Atticus, this is my mother, Sheryl, and her, uh, friend, James.”
Sheryl stands stock still, looking between the two of us. And then she glares at her son.
I prepare myself to defend, to shut down her bombardment of homophobic insults and her violence.
Instead, she says, “You didn’t tell me you had a rich boyfriend, Cameron?! How dare you keep this to yourself while your own flesh suffers?!”
She sounds betrayed, appalled.
“What?” Cameron breathes out. “What does his money have to do with anything?”
“Don’t be na?ve, son,” she chastises, waving a dismissive hand in his direction. “Now we can be comfortable! No more barely getting by and working shitty jobs!”
“But you don’t even work,” Cameron mumbles, which only earns him another glare. “Plus, I’ve never taken Atticus’s money. It’s not about that.”
He’s right. Other than the one time I bought him a milkshake—or when I brought booze to his party or provided groceries for our time in the townhouse we would meet at—I’ve never actually spent money on him. Or straight up given it to him.
“Well, don’t be dumb. It’s time to start,” Sheryl insists. And then she turns to me, smiling sweetly. “Hello, Atticus. It’s wonderful to meet you! Do you intend to keep my son? We should have met sooner if you had planned on being together.”
My calm demeanor stays intact, my expression carefully blank. “I do intend on keeping him. He’ll be moving in with me.”
“Wonderful!” Sheryl gasps, her eyes lighting up and her hands clasping together. “I’ll begin to pack my—”
“No,” I interrupt. “He will be moving in with me. And you will not contact him again.”
“W-what?”
“Wait, what?” Cameron asks, spinning around to give me big, pleading eyes. I can tell that he wants it, that he’s desperate for it, but he’s scared.
“I will not be kept from my son!” Sheryl screams, her eyes narrowing once more. James stands taller, as if he’s meant to intimidate someone.
Funny.
“If you insist on being a pest, then I’ll get him a new phone number,” I tell her, shrugging. “I will buy him a whole new phone if I have to. I’m rich, remember?”
I give her my own sickly sweet smile.
“Atticus,” Cameron says softly, his eyes darting between me and his mother as he trembles.
“Pack, sweetheart. We’re done here.”
“Like hell you are! He is my son! He supports me,” Sheryl spits out.
But my attention is on Cameron. I don’t care to pay mind to pests.
“You’re done living this way,” I promise him. “I’ll take care of you from now on.”
Something breaks inside of Cameron; a wall, a dam, his heart. I’m not sure. But tears flood his eyes, and he nods once.
“Cameron, I swear to god, if you try to leave, you will regret it,” his mother threatens.