Page 7 of Shared Obsession

“I've seen worse places than this,” I say,knowing that it’s bullshit. My fists are still shaking, anger and regret buzzing through me like electricity. If my parents saw me now—caged, bruised, spiraling—they’d barely recognize me. I barely recognize myself.

Suddenly, the tattooed guy stands and moves closer. “You got a lot of fight in you for a guy who looks like he should be on Wall Street.”

“Back off,” I snap, fists clenching.

He grins, testing me. “Or what? You gonna swing again? You got that look in your eyes. Like you don’t care if you walk out of here or not.”

“Maybe I don’t,” I admit, surprising even myself. “But I’m not here to make friends.”

He laughs, holding up his hands. “Alright. Yeah, whatever, man.”

A guard comes by, calls my name, and I finally look up. “Looks like you aren’t getting out before your court date,” he says, no concern in his voice. I’m just another troublemaker to him—a face he’ll forget by morning. I’ve always kept my head down, followed the rules. But tonight, something snapped. I still see the way Ayla looked—so vulnerable, the Uber driver’s hands on her, crossing a line he had no right to cross. My blood boiled then, and it still does now. And what did it get me? Locked up, useless. If I’d just kept my damn cool, I’d be texting her right now, maybe even working up the nerve to plan that dinner. Instead, I’m banging my head against my fists, groaning at the mess I’ve made. Fuck.

Suddenly, a big guy with a scar on his cheek shoves me. “Next time, save the hero routine for the movies.”

I snap back, “Next time, maybe you’ll shut the fuck up and mind your own business.”

“Yeah?” He gets in my face. “You wanna take another swing, pretty boy?”

I don’t even think—I swing, my fist connecting with his jaw. We go down in a tangle of limbs, elbows, and curses. His elbow slams into my ribs—white-hot pain flares, but I barely flinch. I shove him back, my other fist landing hard against his temple. He snarls, driving his knee toward my gut, but I twist and slam his head against the concrete. He spits in my face, claws at my arm, and for a moment I see red—just pure rage and adrenaline. My knuckles split against his cheekbone, blood slicking both our hands. He manages to get a few shots in, but I keep swinging, all the anger and fear and everything I can’t say to Ayla or my parents pouring out in every punch.

Finally, guards crash through the door, yanking us apart with shouts and batons. They haul me down the hall, shoving me into a cell by myself. I’m left with bruised knuckles, more blood on my shirt, a pounding heart, and all the shit I can’t seem to get right. For the first time, I wonder if I’m actually the man I thought I was—or just another lost cause.

Chapter Five

One Year Later

Alexander

The sunlight is blinding—too sharp after a year boxed up like an animal. I squint, breathe in the city air, and feel the weight of freedom settle on my shoulders. It’s the end of summer in New York, the heat lingering but already hinting at cooler days ahead—crisp air just starting to bite at the edges of the morning, golden light painting the sidewalks. 365 days for assault. The judge barely blinked, handing down the sentence—a year wasn’t much, not with the handful of misdemeanors already on my record.

The man I beat—the Uber driver—I’ve never lost control like that before. I nearly killed him. All it took was seeing his hands on Ayla, and something primal snapped inside me. I wanted him dead, wanted to tear him apart just for touching her. That kind of rage, the urge to destroy for someone else’s safety, was new to me—fierce and terrifying. It’s not like my record is full of violence; before this, it was just a few stupid bar fights, nothing that ever really mattered. But for her, I’d do it again. I’d do worse. I’d do things I never knew I had in me until that night.

My grip tightens on the cheap canvas bag they gave me at release—just a few clothes, some paperwork, my old wallet. No phone. No contacts. Uber isn’t even an option, so I wave down a cab, ignoring the way the driver sizes me up in the rearview. I give him my address, stare out the window as the city rushes by, and when we pull up to my building, I run in, dig out the roll of bills I stashed in my loft before everything went to hell, and go back out and pay him. I tip him well enough that he doesn’t ask questions.

Inside, the place is spotless. Too clean. The housekeeper’s been in, dusted around the ghosts. I drop my bag on the floor and let myself sink into the couch, the silence so thick it’s almost a living thing. “Free.” I say the word out loud, just to make it real.

The first thing I do is strip off my shirt in front of the mirror. The new ink sprawled across my chest, muscles hard and lean from a year spent working out frustration and rage—it all looks different under the soft light of home. With too much time and too much anger, I carved myself into someone new while I was locked away. I let the shower run hot and step in, the water pounding against my skin, washing away months of grime and memory. The heat sinks into my muscles, loosening the tension I’ve been carrying for a year.

I close my eyes, the steam swirling around me, and let my hand wander down my body—every touch exploring the changes, the new strength, the scars. My palm finds my cock, already half-hard, and I start slow, stroking up and down in deliberate motions. The relief is almost dizzying—a way to reclaim my body, my life, even if only for a few minutes. The water drowns out everything but my own breathing, heavier and faster with each stroke. I edge myself, building the pleasure and letting it fade, again and again, chasing the high but holding back, savoring the control. Finally, when I can’t hold out any longer, I let go—my orgasm hitting hard, a guttural groan tearing from my throat as I spill ropes of thick cum onto the shower floor, hot and shuddering, every muscle finally relaxing into the heat. For the first time in a year, I feel clean. I feel free.

After my shower, I grab my phone off the charger and dial Dean DeRose—my business manager, the one person I trust to keep my life afloat when I can’t. I built my tech company from nothing, and Dean ran the show while I was locked up, making sure I didn’t lose everything I’d bled for in my 28 years on earth. He even managed to get my bike and my phone out of impound for me at some point, because they are here.

“Hey, man, how are you?” I say, my voice a little rough from disuse.

“Oh shit, Alex!” he practically yells, and I have to pull the phone away from my ear. “When did you get out? Do you want me to come get you? Wait—you called me, so you’re already home. Damn, sorry.”

I can’t help but laugh. “Yeah, I’m home. Just grabbed a cab. I wanted to thank you, for real—for holding it all together.”

“Of course, man. You want to grab a drink tonight?”

I hesitate just a second, my mind already running through a list of questions I need answered. "Actually, before we meet up, Dean, I need to know where Ayla Barron is. I need to see her, to know she's okay."

Dean gives me a knowing huff, his tone laced with reassurance but also caution. "You'll know when you see me, Alex. Trust me. I'll make sure you have what you need."

“Thanks man, and yeah. A drink sounds great,” I say without a second thought. I could use it.

We lock in plans—7 p.m. at Rusty Bull, downtown. Just saying it out loud feels surreal after a year behind bars. I glance in the mirror and realize I look every bit like a guy who just got out of prison. That won’t do. I grab my helmet, head out to the parking garage, and swing a leg over my bike, the engine roaring to life beneath me. It’s like I never left—the rhythm, the wind, the surge of freedom as I cut through traffic. The city looks different from behind handlebars, more alive, like it’s waiting for me.