Page 10 of Inferno

I know that what they did to me is nothing in comparison to what they did to some of the other kids in their care, and I was lucky that it wasn’t so much worse, but the Wilsons and others like them have shaped me, changed me. My experiences have made me who I am…cautious, scared, antisocial, willing to question every action.

Exhaling a shaky sigh of relief, I’m grateful when the bus pulls away from the curb. But as I risk a glance across the street, I see Anders standing on the sidewalk, his huge arms crossed tightly across his chest, his expression stern and determined as he watches the bus leave.

I don’t know what he wants from me, but I really hope Anders doesn’t see me as a new project, because I refuse to be anyone’s good cause ever again.

The moment we hit the town limits, I try to put him out of my mind and concentrate on my book, but by the time the bus pulls into the station in Bozeman, my thoughts are still entirely consumed with him. I’m not sure when it happened, but at some point during my journey, I allowed myself to consider the bizarre possibility that he’s actually attracted to me and not just looking to recruit me into a cult.

I might be a virgin, but I’m not dead. I’ve been attracted to men. I’ve found guys cute. I’ve looked at men on the TV and felt aroused. I just don’t have any real-life experience.

But if Anders isn’t some do-gooder looking to fill up his “pay it forward” bingo card, then why would he be interested in me? I’m completely inexperienced. I’ve never even kissed anyone. I can’t be his type, and he definitely isn’t mine.

When I close my eyes and allow myself to indulge in a fantasy of who my ideal partner would be, the person I see myself in a relationship with is someone who is a lot like me.

When I put my hands on my dick and bring myself to release, I always picture someone quiet, with kind eyes and gentle hands. Someone who would be my best friend. Someone who wanted me for all the reasons I think I’m not worthy of love, and there’s nothing about huge Viking Anders that says quiet and gentle.

I’m sure that to most people my fantasies sound lame and boring, but after surviving all the bad hands I’ve been dealt since I was born, my bland, peaceful, and loving dreams feel utterly perfect to me.

Following the line of passengers off the bus, I pull my backpack onto my shoulders and make my way out of the busy bus depot. My apartment is on the outskirts of the city, about a twenty-minute walk from here. Normally the walk doesn’tbother me, but it’s late, and the usual hum of the city has changed to an eerie lull that’s as threatening as it is peaceful.

Holding the straps of my bag tightly, I walk quickly, staying close to the curb instead of allowing myself to drift toward the alleys that disappear into the darkness between the closed shops, offices, and warehouses.

By the time I get to my apartment building, I’m breathing heavily and jumping like a frightened bird at every small sound. I don’t relax until I’m inside my apartment with all five of my locks firmly clicked in place. Exhaling shakily, I pull my backpack off my back and drop my keys into the bowl on the tiny kitchen counter.

Calling this place an apartment is probably a stretch. My home is actually a converted basement storage room. The only window is small, covered by bars and half obscured by the sidewalk outside. The space is just big enough for a queen-sized bed, a shower stall, sink, and toilet in the corner, and a kitchen counter just big enough to get a single hotplate on.

The place is damp, cold, and crumbling, but it’s mine. I’ve lived here since I moved to Montana for school, and even if it’s a dump, it’s the only place I’ve ever lived for longer than a year. It’s home.

Taking off my shoes, I slip them onto the rack beside the door, then quickly strip and take a fast, cold shower. Hot water in the building is sketchy at best, but at this time of night it’s entirely dependent on how much water is left in the tank, which isn’t usually much, if any at all.

Once I’m clean, I fold my dirty laundry and put it in the bag I keep beside the bed. The apartment isn’t big enough to have a closet, so I keep my clean stuff in stackable totes in the corner. My clothes aren’t fancy, but everything I have, I’ve scrimped and saved to buy myself, and I’m painstakingly careful not to stain orruin any of them because I have no idea when I’ll have enough spare cash to buy myself anything else.

My home is painstakingly organized. When I left foster care at eighteen, I did it with little more than the clothes on my back and my schoolbooks. The things I have now might not seem like much to most people, but they’re mine, and I’m incredibly possessive of my meager belongings.

Since my brief stay with the Wilsons, sleeping naked will probably never be something I’m comfortable with. So, I grab a pair of warm, fleece Christmas pajamas that I got from Target in January from one of the totes and pull them on. They’re two sizes too big for me, but they were such a bargain that I brought them anyway. I have to roll the waist so they don’t fall down and the top is enormous, but I don’t care. They’re warm and comfortable, and I love wearing them even when it’s nowhere near Christmas.

Climbing into bed, I snuggle down beneath my comforter and close my eyes. An image of Anders fills my head, and for the first time, when I fall asleep, I dream of something different than kind and gentle.

Jolting awake, I cringe at the cold sweat that’s coating my skin, making the thick fleece of my pj’s clammy and damp. The alarm on my cellphone is screaming loudly, but that’s not what woke me; it’s the vivid memories of my dreams that are stampeding through my thoughts and making my already hard dick pulse and beg for release.

I’m a twenty-two-year-old man. I’ve been waking up hard since I was a teenager, but not like this. Never like this. My balls are aching with the need to come, like I’ve been on edge for hours, and maybe I have.

As I try to forget all the dirty images that my mind conjured up last night, memories of my dream start to roll through my thoughts like a film. Anders stripping my clothes. Andersdemanding I present myself to him. Anders grasping my cock and cupping my balls. Anders sliding slippery fingers down my crease. Anders, pushing his fingers into me. Anders working my cock while he stretched and opened me up for him. Anders pushing between my legs and inching into me.

Anders, Anders, Anders.

Usually, my fantasies consist of nothing more than soft kisses, gentle caresses, and a sweet release with a faceless lover. But last night was completely different. Even now that the remnants of sleep are melting from me, I still feel hot and needy, my body anxious and prepped for a ravishment that I know won’t be happening.

In my dreams I felt the firm grip of his hand on my cock. I can remember the sound of the stern growl in his words when he demanded I comply. I can still feel the way he used me, like I was his to do with what he pleased.

None of it really happened, but I still feel…dirty and owned and like I want to beg him to do it all over again, even if it’s only in the space between awake and asleep.

When my cell phone starts to scream again, I drag my clammy self from the bed and strip out of my thick pajamas. Glancing at the time on my cell, I decide I’d rather power walk to the bus depot than spend the rest of the day feeling like I’m being owned by the spirit of my dream. So, I turn on the water and take a two-minute, freezing cold shower.

My teeth are chattering by the time I wrap my naked skin in a towel, but I don’t care. Opening the plastic tote that sits at the top of the pile, I take out clean underwear and socks and pull them on. Spraying myself with dollar store deodorant, I find clean navy-blue slacks, a white button-down, and a burgundy-red knit sweater that I brought from a discount clothing store and quickly get dressed.

I look a little preppy, but at least my clothes are neat and clean. Slipping on my shoes, I throw together a peanut butter sandwich and grab the last apple from the bag I snagged in the reduced section at the grocery store on my way out the door. I barely make my bus, but by the time I climb down the steps in Rockhead Point, I’m feeling almost normal and fully determined to pretend that the dream I had last night never happened.

The moment I get to the garage, Parker asks me to go out in the breakdown truck with her and I agree, even though I have zero knowledge about cars or how to fix them.

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