Page 21 of Slay the Gay Away, Daddy

“A lot more.” His voice is apologetic, and he’s still got that same scared look on his face. “Please don’t hate me.”

“Never,” I answer without a second thought, trying to process what he’s telling me. “Keep going. It’s okay, Dare.”

“We made love. You gave me the world, and then the next day you took it away. You pretended like nothing was different. I thought you regretted it, but texted me later that night, telling me to come over. Every night for two weeks. Every night, I would come over, you would comfort me, and in the morning, you treated me like nothing had changed. It was like emotional whiplash. After a few weeks, you asked me to stay the night, and then you didn’t remember me in the morning. You forgot me.” I’ve never seen him this distraught, and I can’t do a dang thing to make it better with my arms tied to the bedpost. I should be laying hands on his forehead and praying for God’s forgiveness on his behalf. On both our behalf. “How—” His voice cracks. “How could you forget me?”

“I’m sorry,” I say, because I am. I’m sorry he’s hurting. Sorry his heart is breaking right in front of me. Sorry I can’t remember a single second of what he’s telling me.

He sniffles and shakes his head. “Then Meadows told me about the pills.”

“You spoke with Brother Meadows about my sleeping medication?”

He presses his forehead to mine and closes his eyes. “Brother Meadows isn’t really a brother in Christ. He works for the same agency I do.”

“Agency?” I ask, bewildered. “You don’t work at an agency, You stock shelves down at the Walmart.”

He shakes his head. “Before I came back from college, I was planning on going to California. I thought I’d try my hand at acting, but each time I tried to make a plan, I felt like I was going to be sick. I kept thinking about what would happen to you if I left you here on your own.” His lips brush against mine, soft and sweet, and although I know it’s what’s expected, I can’t bring myself to pull away. “I missed you so much I couldn’t sleep some nights. Five years and it never eased. Losing you was unbearable. Nowhere I go will feel like home if you’re not there with me. So, when my friend Tatum told me his husband used to work at a hitman agency down here, and that they were looking for a new secretary, I jumped at the opportunity. The money was good. The hours were good.” He smiles proudly. “I’m good. Miles, I’m so freaking good at my job. You’d be so proud of me. I’ve gotten Employee of the Month three times.”

“Did . . . did you just say hitman?”

“Yes, but,” he says, holding a finger in the air like he’s making a point, “I don’t actually kill people.”

“You just answer phones for the people who do actually kill people?” I close my eyes and sigh. “For goodness’ sake, Dare. You’re complicit in murder. Haven’t you listened to any of my sermons? Murder’s a sin. It’s one of the big ones.”

“Do you wanna know a secret?” he asks with a smirk that tells me I don’t want to know whatever the heck his secret is at all. “I don’t pay a whole lot of attention to your sermons.” Heat pools in his cheek and he finally breaks eye contact with me. “I usually just look at your butt. Or your bulge. Sometimes your face, because it’s so pretty, but usually, it’s the ass or the bulge.”

“My Lord,” I whisper, stunned.

“Yeah. That’s what you’re usually saying in my head while I’m looking.” He cocks an eyebrow at me. “My Lord, what a magnificent member. My Lord, what a delectable derriere.”

“Good heavens,” I say hoarsely. I close my eyes in an effort to steady my breathing, refusing to entertain him when he’s like this. I don’t know this version of Darren. He isn’t my Dare-bear. He’s behaving like a wanton slut. The worst part is, I think I like this version of him. I think I like him a lot.

“So, I worked my butt off until I was promoted to the investigation squad. In fairness, it’s not a very big squad. Just me and Lurlene Fletcher, and she plans on retiring soon. Meadows gave me the job after I told him how I used to cyber stalk you when I was at college. But you can’t blame me for it, okay? I was just missing you so bad and you were always so busy. So, if you wanna be mad at someone because I hacked all your email accounts and read all your Facebook messages, you can be mad at yourself.”

I gape at him. “You can’t be serious.”

He blushes. “I like to read all your text messages as soon as they hit the cloud. I used to read them like romance novels, not that there was any romance in them whatsoever.” He scowls at me. “You couldn’t have thrown me a bone every now and then and sent your wife a nude? Oh, I used to get so mad at you about it. It felt like you were hiding them from me, even if you didn’t know I was looking.”

“What the hell?” I shout, making him recoil like I’ve slapped him. The funny thing is, even though he’s in the wrong, I feel like the guilty party, because he’s staring at me like I’m an abuser.

“Are you mad at me?”

I want to shout that of course, I’m angry. What he’s admitting to is madness, and he’s acting like he’s explaining a minor lapse in judgment, like accidentally voting Democrat at the polls. He’s paid little concern to how I might feel about such a massive violation of privacy, and thank God, because judging by the state of my ever growing erection, I think I’m kind of into it. I breathe a shaky breath and stare down at my crotch. Sure enough, it’srising to attention. I’m only wearing a pair of boxers, and the higher the tent grows, the closeritgets to slipping out the hole in front. “No,” I whisper, but it doesn’t stop it from happening. The first sign of pink skin peeks through the hole, and I slam my eyes shut, feeling mortified.

“Oh, God,” I groan. “Please don’t look at my penis.” There’s pressure on my crotch, and I flinch, but when I open my eyes, I realize Darren’s placed a pillow on top of my erection.

“I won’t look again until you allow it. I’ve told you that every night since I found out you were drugged during our visits. I swear. As soon as I found out, I made you stop.”

“Youmademestop?”

“You’re kind of an animal when you’re horny,” he says, sounding a little embarrassed. “You’re a beast in bed.”

That’s not true in the slightest. I’ve slept with my wife five times. Each time has been torture for both of us. She just lies there waiting for it to be over, and I would have to close my eyes and focus on the sensations rather than their source just to maintain an erection, all the while, trying not to remember the girl my dad made me . . .

“I’m a very gentle lover.”

“Not with me. But you’re not ready to hear about that, I’m guessing.”

I stare at him, this stranger in my bed I thought I knew. “What is the end game here, Dare? What do you want from me?”

---