Page 90 of Captivated

“I used to talk,” Nate told him. “A lot. When I was a little kid, I used to laugh until my stomach hurt, make up stories, even sing sometimes.” Zeeb’s eyes focused on him, and Nate sighed once more. “They took it out of me. The camp. My dad.”

“Can I stop you for a sec? ’Cause I get confused sometimes when you talk about your dad. You have two now, remember? So how about we use Dad and Derek? Makes things a helluva lot easier.”

He nodded. “That makes sense.”

“Okay, back to where you said they took it out of you.”

Nate stilled. “Every time I opened my mouth, I was either punished or corrected.” He blinked hard, his jaw tight. “I think I forgot how to be a person.”

Zeeb shifted slightly, just enough that their shoulders almost touched. “You didn’t forget. You’re still here.”

It wasn’t pity that laced his words, but certainty, warm and steady, and Nate liked the way it made him feel.

Like I’m here. I’m real. Valued.

Zeeb was damn good at that.

He cocked his head to one side. “Why are you like this?”

Zeeb quirked a brow. “Like what?”

“Kind. Patient. Like you actually give a damn.”

His gentle smile felt like sunshine. “Because I do give a damn.”

Silence stretched between them again, but this one felt different, not tense, not suffocating, but full of….

Expectation.

“You’re easy to be quiet with.” That was a gift few people possessed in Nate’s experience.

Zeeb glanced over, his smile soft. “That’s a helluva compliment.”

“It is,” Nate said. “For me.”

There was a pause before Zeeb replied. “I know.” Another pause. “Something I have to ask about that camp…”

Nate arched his eyebrows. “Only one thing?” Despite the fluttering in his stomach, his lips twitched.

Zeeb blinked, then chuckled. “You’re right. I have a heap of questions. Top of the list is… what kind of people run places like that? Apart from the obvious, because I can imagine there being a few pastors or ministers orsomekind of religious people. They’re usually the ones who get their panties in a wad over what folks do in the privacy of their bedrooms.”

Sanctuary Hill had had its share of those.

Nate forgot about his painting. This was more important.

“Yeah, there was a full-time minister, plus a couple of others who showed up now and then. But I did some digging a few years ago. What I discovered would be laughable, except it was true. Sanctuary Hill was run by gay men who’d gone through the same program they were pushing on us, except they’d renounced their past and were trying to make others follow their example.”

“That’s how it works for people trying to quit the booze, right? The people helping them are usually ex-alcoholics.” He grimaced. “Camp makes it sound innocent, fun.”

Nate snorted. “It was a claustrophobic, oppressive environment with strict schedules, surveillance…. And I wouldn’t call it fun being made to fast for forty-eight hours before a minister performed a ‘deliverance’, praying over you to free you from the demonic forces hurting you. Or being subjected to your own mock funeral. Yeah, that wasreallyfun.”

“What the fuck?” Zeeb looked aghast.

Nate nodded. “They even had a coffin. I had to lie in it, my hands crossed over my chest, while the other ‘patients’—that was what they called us—stood around me, reading out my obituary, talking about my slow death due to HIV and AIDS.”

God, the cloying fear that had threatened to smother him as he lay there…

Zeeb’s face grew mottled. “You werefifteen, for Christ’s sake.”

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