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And he’d found… found them.
My eyes darted to the pretty little panties he was holding before I could stop myself, which was all kinds of stupid because he saw me looking and it obviously reminded him of the reason he must have barged into my room in the first place.
“What the fuck are these, Dashiell?” he asked, holding them up and shaking them at me. “They aren’t your mama’s. And they smell like fucking cum. Are you fucking hot little high school girls in here, under my roof, while I’m busy earning a goddamn living just so I can support your sorry ass? Do you think I go to work just so you and your mama can freeload off me? So you can poke your little dick into hot teenage pussy whenever you please, while I’m out slaving away? While I… while…”
His voice had been getting louder with every word, maybe because he was pissed off, or maybe just so he could be heard over the escalating sounds of the porn still blaring from my phone, but the porn finally won, distracting him.
His voice trailed off, and he used his toe to kick my phone over, exposing the screen.
Nothing good could possibly come from him seeing that. Absolutely nothing.
I scrambled off the bed as fast as I could, falling onto my hands and knees but then quickly getting up and getting back, as far away from him as I could manage in the small room.
I knew darn well what Terrance thought of “dirty queers,” since it was one of his favorite topics to rant about when he, my mom, and a few six-packs of beer were all home together, and I could only imagine what he’d have to say—what he’d do—once he realized just what kind of porn I liked to watch.
“What the… fuck?” Terrance said, tilting his head to the side and squinting down at my phone quizzically. He sounded more confused than mad for a second, probably because he wasn’t all that bright, but then—
“What are you… why are there two… Dashiell, is that… holy motherfucking shit.”
At “shit,” he suddenly jerked back like the phone had burned him, the confusion on his face replaced by a look of disgust. His eyes snapped up to meet mine, then he slowly turned his head to look down at the panties he was still holding in his hand, making the connection between what he’d just seen and what I...
“You came in these girl panties?” he asked, dropping them onto the floor and kicking them away as he shook out his hand like it had gotten tainted. “While watching… that?”
Yes.
So many times.
I shook my head anyway, a silent lie out of desperation even though it was probably pointless to try and deny the truth now.
His lip curled back in a nasty sneer. “At least tell me you were just jerking yourself off with them,” he said in a scary-mean voice that made my stomach twist up so tight I honestly thought I might hurl. He stalked toward me. “Jerking it, I could maybe understand. But if you were actually… actually wearing them to get yourself off, you little sicko—”
I cringed back against the wall, still shaking my head. “I’m sorry, Terrance. I—”
My mom’s voice, gritty and rough from the cigarettes she’d been chain-smoking ever since I was little as she called out to her boyfriend, interrupted me before I could come up with any kind of defense.
“Terrance? You in here, babe?”
She poked her head into my room to look for him, and it was just enough of a distraction for me to scoop my phone off the floor and make a break for it.
“Oh no you don’t, you dirty little pervert,” Terrance shouted, lunging at me as I darted past him. “You’re not staying here rent free and getting away with this kind of sick shit under my roof. Not in my fucking house.”
It wasn’t even a house. It was just a crappy little apartment in the worst part of Queens. But I clearly wasn’t welcome there anymore, and for the first time in my life, I agreed with one of Mom’s boyfriends.
I definitely couldn’t stay, and it didn’t really matter that I didn’t have anywhere else to go.
I bolted, and I didn’t look back.
Chapter 3
Callum
* * *
God, maybe I really was getting old. I was pretty sure there had been a time when I’d enjoyed traveling for work, but there was no denying that the thrill had been gone for at least a decade.
“You could always delegate, sir,” Paul, my New York driver, said when I grumbled about it on the way to the airport.
I narrowed my eyes, meeting his in the rearview mirror when he glanced back at me. The way they crinkled at the corners told me he was laughing at me, and I supposed—after fifteen years in my employ—that I could let that slide. Especially because when I actually got enough sleep and didn’t have a stick up my ass, as my nephew would no doubt have put it, I considered Paul something damn close to a friend.
