Page 87 of These Secret Years

Yeah, of course it’s extra. It increases my risk exponentially.

Me

Even with someone you trust?

Sullivan

Ha. Who the fuck can I trust?

Me goddamnit. Why the hell would he think otherwise? Not for the first time, I realize there’s something seriously wrong with Sullivan Scott. Whether it’s some condition he was born with like his musical skill, or it’s something he’s acquired from having a shitty life, I don’t know, and he’ll likely never tell me. Not that I can blame him for that. It’s not like there would be a point in getting to know him better. I had to keep myself from falling for him with both hands last summer, and if he’d kept seeing me when we got back to school, I’m pretty sure I would have gone ahead and fallen anyway.

But he’s changed, and I guess I have, too, because I’m more than willing to give him some cash to meet me some place private and allow me the use of his mouth. I wouldn’t even need the whole fifteen minutes.

Me

I’ll pay. Just say where and when.

Sullivan put all the parameters of when and where to meet on me, and I understood why when I realized how hard it was to find someplace private on a campus this big, this full of people—in a town that’s beginning to recognize me. His house is a hell no. Mine is an even bigger hell no. A motel is a maybe, but what if someone saw me there? Campus is completely lacking in empty buildings, and there are students and faculty everywhere.

All it leaves me with is my truck. Growing up, I never saw myself as the type of guy who would own a big ass pick-up truck, but when I found out I was going to college in the Ozarks, it seemed like a good idea, and it turns out, I like it. I took a day off classes to drive around, looking for someplace remote and private. It wasn’t too hard one once I got out of town.

Now, on Thursday afternoon, I’ve got Sullivan following me in his fancy as fuck Audi. It’s the kind of car that’s so nice, it makes me wonder how long he’s been doing sex work for. He had it the summer of freshman year, so I have to assume he’s been selling his services awhile. I don’t know why that thought pisses me off except that everything seems to be pissing me off lately. I’ve convinced myself I just need to get laid. It helps put my roommates in a better mood whenever they get sucked or fucked. I don’t claim to be above that. I do have needs, and I’m fighting off erection after erection on the drive to the secluded spot in the woods.

“Wow,” Sullivan says as he languidly steps out of his car to take a look around. “Where the fuck are we?”

I gesture widely. “Ozarks.”

“Yeah, but I mean—I might have to charge you for gas.”

I wish he’d cut the shit. I mean—I get it. I offered to pay him. He’s transactional as fuck, and I guess that hasn’t changed, but last summer it felt like we were almost something.

Not that I want us to be, and I certainly don’t need us to be. It’s the last thing I need if I’m being honest with myself, but he’s not any less attractive to me than he ever was. His long sleeved henley fits him perfectly, clinging to his lean frame. He’s wearing straight leg jeans and Birkenstock clogs. His dark blond hair is long and loose, the waves clean and shiny. “Are we setting up a tent or something?” he asks.

“I don’t have a tent.” I lower the back gate of my truck. The bed is covered in every blanket I could find and some I thrifted along with two open sleeping bags. I brought all my own pillows. A few things shifted on the drive, but the cooler kept the spread I laid out more or less in place.

“Damn. Did you want to get right to it then?” He gives me a look I can’t interpret. There might even be some disappointment in it.

I take a chance and ask, “How much time do you have?”

“I don’t have anywhere else to be tonight.”

It feels like a confession, and I’m both relieved and flattered, not only that he would share that with me, but that he might have cleared the whole evening. “Do you want a beer?”

This time, he gives me a wary glance. I swallow when he studies my face, and I find myself doing the same to him. It’s a little like the first time I saw him—arrested by how beautiful he is. Eventually, he nods and hops onto the bed of the truck. I follow him and leave the gate down for now. Opening the cooler, I pull out two cold bottles of beer, open one for him, and hand it over.

He takes a long drink of it before glancing at me and saying, “Thanks.”

I nod, taking a sip of my own.

“What’s the story with your car?” I ask when too much silence has me feeling stupid and nervous.

He glances at the Audi. “Oh.”

“Sorry,” I say quickly. “Is it a secret or something? You didn’t steal it, did you?”

“No. But it’s not something I’m proud of, either.”

That makes me frown. As usual, talking to Sullivan is like being in a maze, constantly running into a dead end until I finally find a clean turn and an open path. “You know my secret.”