Page 72 of Sweet Shots

I stay on the ground with her, shaking her, trying to do CPR, calling for help. Crying. Shaking. Eventually the sirens are heard off in the distance until the ambulance is in front of my house and the paramedics are pulling me off her so they can work.

“It was a brain aneurysm,” I say, finishing my beer and dropping the bottle to the ground before grabbing another.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” Mikah says. “That’s… I can’t imagine dealing with that at any age, never mind so young.”

I nod absently, fighting off the heaviness in my chest. “Thankfully, I was placed in a good foster home. Not one of those shitty ones. Emmet’s family was the only one I was sent to. Stayed with them until I was eighteen. They were amazing.”

“Silver lining,” he comments.

Yeah, tell me about it.

“What about you?” I dare ask, and don’t miss his flinch.

He sighs, shifting in his seat and staring at the bottle in his hand.

“My life was… very different.” He picks at the label on the bottle, his lips set into a deep frown. “Complete opposite, actually. I’m pretty sure my mother is the actual spawn of Satan.”

I choke out a laugh. “Sorry, it’s not funny. Just sounds like you really mean that.”

“I do,” he admits with a firm head nod. “We lived in a trailer that I’m pretty sure was deemed unlivable, but no one out therereally gave a shit. The roof leaked. It was infested with roaches and ants. The smell was…” He shivers, making a disgusted face. “There was never hot water, if there was water at all. Electricity was on less than half the time. There was no food. Never. My meals came from school and the times I went to my friend’s place, which wasn’t too often. I hated taking from them, because they were a big family and struggling to survive too.”

“That sounds rough,” I say.

“It’s not even the worst of it. I could handle the shitty living situation if my mother had any bit of kindness to her, but she was cruel. Vile. She’d tell me at least once a day how pathetic I was. How she wished I had never been born. That the only reason she kept me around was because it got her money and food stamps—which she used for drugs, by the way. Fucking dealers will take anything in exchange for their product. When she was mad, I was her punching bag. When she brought guys there?” He scoffs. “Sometimes they were nice. It was rare, but it happened a few times. They looked like they felt bad for me, like they wanted to help, but they just used my mother for whatever she was willing to give and went on their merry way.”

“Mikah—”

I say his name to let him know he can take a breather, that he can slow down if he needs. But he just keeps going and I can’t help but feel proud of him as I listen to him get this off his chest.

“When I discovered how quickly I could make money creating adult content, I did it. I ignored the fact that I was doingwhat my mother did, selling her body to survive, and just did it. Because I was different.”

“You are different,” I adamantly say.

He nods. “Yeah, I can agree with that. I’m not my mother, but I am terrified of going back to that life. Of having nothing, living in squalor, having no one to rely on. I know I’m not my mother, and I never will be, because I refuse to be. I was doing well. At least, I thought I was, until all this mess with my identity happened, and…”

“Your worst fear came true.”

“Yep. It sure as fuck did.”

It falls silent for a few moments, nothing but the crackling of the firewood and a car or two passing by the front.

“If you ever need anything, all you have to do is ask, Mikah. I’m here. Whatever it is, night or day, I don’t care. I want you to ask for help. I want to help you.”

“You know,” he begins with a smile, looking up to meet my gaze. “I believe that. And it’s insane, because I don’t get it. I know you do. I see it, I love it, but… why, Dominic?”

I shrug, chewing on the inside of my cheek as I think of how to answer that question in a way that won’t sound like a line.

“We’re all creatures of our upbringing. I was taught to care for people, to be kind, because that’s how my mother raised me. But I learned as I got older that it isn’t just about how she raised me, but who I am. It’d be weird if I said I was into being dominant in the bedroom because of my mother.” I chuckle.

“I’m submissive because of mine,” Mikah whispers, barely audible, almost like he can’t believe it. He looks at me. “That’s why, isn’t it? That’s why I like it?”

“Possibly. Not her specifically, but your childhood. When I said all that stuff… about the way you grew up? It happens a lot. I’ve seen it. There’s nothing wrong with it. It’s just a bunch of psychological stuff.” I get up and go to him, grasping his cheeks and looking into his eyes. “You had a shit childhood. You couldn’t rely on anyone. You had no one to make decisions for you and had to make them yourself. You grew up too fast, and the little boy inside of you was neglected. So, the adult-you craves what child-you didn’t get. I can give that to you.”

His gaze holds mine before dipping to my lips.

“You do. And it’s…”

“Scary?”

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