A Total-E-Bound Publication
www.total-e-bound.com
Blinded: Part One
ISBN # 978-1-78184-347-5
©Copyright Sarah Masters 2013
Cover Art by Posh Gosh ©Copyright June 2013
Edited by Rebecca Douglas
Total-E-Bound Publishing
This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination
and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or
places is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form,
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The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs
and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator
of the artwork.
Published in 2013 by Total-E-Bound Publishing, Think Tank, Ruston Way, Lincoln, LN6 7FL,
United Kingdom.
Warning:
This book contains sexually explicit content which is only suitable for mature readers. This
story has a heat rating of Total-e-sizzling and a sexometer of 2.
This story contains 37 pages, additionally there is also a free excerpt at the end of the book
containing 5 pages.
Part one in the Blinded Serial
Lee still lives at home with his domineering mother, who makes it quite clear she’s anti-gay…
Since Lee’s father left the marital home, Lee’s mother has punished him physically and
mentally, ensuring he keeps his love for Ryan secret. One night, when Lee’s mother goes out,
the two young men explore one another in Lee’s room.
After an explosive revelation, Lee leaves home. The need to sift through his past and come to
terms with who he is paramount. Someone makes it clear Lee must never come back to town,
frightening Lee into agreement. The only problem is, he’ll be leaving Ryan behind…
Trademarks Acknowledgement
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following
wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:
Play-Doh: Hasbro, Inc.
Nike: Nike, Inc.
Reebok: Reebok International Ltd.
PlayStation: Sony Computer Entertainment, Inc.
Coke: The Coca-Cola Company
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Chapter One
Dad fucked off years ago. I can’t say I blame him really. Living with Mum is hard. She’s
a nutcase, I swear, ruling my life, telling me how she wants me to live it. But her way isn’t
my way. Her way is me finding a girlfriend and getting married, having babies, the whole
nine yards. My way is being with Ryan, the guy who’s been my best buddy since…shit, since
we were little kids. I reckon Ryan feels the same way, what with him glancing at me when he
thinks I’m not looking, the touches to my arm or thigh, designed to be taken either way. You
know, man-to-man, matey kind of touches or…something more. We’ve never discussed it, so
I don’t know for sure, but I’d bet my last quid—
“Lee? Get down here!”
Mum’s voice, it grates on my nerves. She’ll want me to clean up for her or go to the
shop, be the good son I’m never likely to be. Not the one she wants, anyway. She’d have to
gain my respect for me to act the way she’d like, but when you’ve had your arse unfairly
tanned more times than you can count, respect kind of goes out of the window.
I swing my legs off the bed and walk barefoot to my bedroom door, opening it a little to
peer through the crack. There she is, standing halfway up the stairs, peering at me through
the banister rails. Those curlers she puts in her hair, Jesus, they make her look so old, yet
she’s only forty-two. And the wrinkles around her eyes and mouth—some would say they’re
from laughter, but shit, they’re from constant frowning and pursing her lips. At me. At
anyone who doesn’t meet with her approval. Oh, she’s good at hiding that side of her
personality, I’ll give her that. She changes at the click of finger and thumb, depending on the
company.
“Yeah?” I stare at her, willing the shudder ripping up my spine not to become visible. If
she sees it, she’ll start, and no way in hell do I want that. She’ll accuse me of being a
disrespectful bastard, a pain up her arse, and any number of insults she can think of.
“I need milk.” She rests a hand on her bony hip, loose bingo wings flapping.
The blue flowery dress she favours disguises her thin frame, but underneath she’s slim
to the point of being unhealthy. Blue steely eyes bore into me, narrowed as though she’s
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7
daring me to say I won’t go to the shop. I want to say that, want to tell her to get her own
skinny arse up there, but the reprisals just aren’t worth it.
“Okay. Won’t be a minute.” I close my bedroom door before she has time to say
anything more. Talking to her isn’t something I enjoy. Being in her company…well, let’s just
say I’d rather not.
She’s prickly at the best of times. Like a rose stem, she’s got thorns all over her, and
you’ve just got to get lucky and touch the smooth bits. But, man, if she turns too quickly, you
get stabbed, and she hurts. Hurts.
I slip on my trainers then grab my jacket. After picking up my phone, I text Ryan to see
if he fancies a walk. He might not be back from work yet, but it’s worth a shot. Message sent
and jacket on, I swing open my door to find Mum still standing on the stairs, glancing at her
watch. She looks up and frowns, then shakes her head as if she can’t believe how long it’s
taken me to come out of my room. A spike of hate pokes inside me. I wish I didn’t have to
live here. Wish I earned enough to rent someplace of my own, but in reality I haven’t got the
guts to leave anyway. A lifetime spent in fear does that to you, wondering what she’s going
to say, how she’s going to react. Whether the thorns are going to jab, jab, jab, drawing blood.
“You won’t be long, will you?” she snaps, waiting until I’m on the step above her before
she shifts her arse downstairs. She’s at the bottom, back plastered to the wall, like me
touching her as I brush past will taint her in some way.
Damn, she’s already tainted. Doesn’t need any help from me.
“Nope.” I walk out of the door and inhale deeply, the fresh air like heaven compared to
the cloying atmosphere indoors. She has the heating up so high I can’t breathe sometimes.
Maybe she’s trying to kill me off.
I laugh, a dry-sounding burst that pains my throat, and walk down the road, my mind
on Ryan and whether he’s going to text back. I could do with the company, the laughs he
gives me, the way he has the ability to make me light up just by seeing his face. We’re close,
always have been, yet I haven’t gone into too much detail about Mum. I’d feel like I’d
betrayed her if I did, and it’s strange I should feel like that when she doesn’t give a shit about
how she makes me feel. Well, she does—she enjoys making me feel bad—but what kind of
mother does that?
I shove thoughts of her from my mind, walking with my head down and my hands in
my jacket pockets. It’s nippy, the autumn air cold on my ears and cheeks, and I wonder what
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she’ll send me to the shop for when I get back. Oh yeah, she’ll think of something while I’m
out, and I’ll obey and get what she wants. Again. Easier that way. Anything for a quiet life.
My phone beeps, and I take it out of my pocket and look at the screen. Laughter
rumbles in my chest. Ryan’s asking if this is my first trip to the shop or the second. I reply,
and he comes back with the message that he’ll meet me when I come out again. He’s on the
bus on his way home from work. Home to his own place, one that his parents helped him
find, and they paid the first month’s rent too. Nice couple, Jan and Derek, and I’ve wished
they were my parents on more than one occasion.
Smiling, I keep walking and think on times past. Times spent at Ryan’s house when we
were kids, rough and tumbling in the back garden or playing computer games in his room. It
seems like he’s always been there, but there used to be a time when he wasn’t. He arrived in
school the new kid aged seven, the teacher clasping his shoulders and pressing him into the
seat beside me. He’d been crying, that much was evident, his eyelashes wet and his red
cheeks streaked with fresh tears. My stomach had contracted, I remember it as clear as day,
and from that moment on I wanted to protect him, be by his side so no one could bully him
like they did me—at home and at school.
Shit, when I think about it, if Ryan hadn’t been in my life I’d have had one sorrier
motherfucker of a childhood. A loner before he walked into my class, I’d kept myself on the
outskirts of life, there yet not, participating yet having nothing to do with it at all. I reckon
the other kids knew I was different even back then, taunting me for my out-of-fashion clothes
and embarrassing hairstyle. Kids, they can be so cruel, and some of them remained so even
after we left school. Bastards.
I look ahead at the sky. A peachy-orange slash of pastel floats on the horizon, the blue
of earlier dissipating as darkness makes itself at home. What I wouldn’t give to be up there
now, on a plane to anywhere, landing in a place where no one cares who or what I am, free
to express myself. I’m stagnating, I know that, and risk going mouldy if I don’t get the hell
away. Ryan suggested I move in with him, but I declined, thinking it’d add fuel to the fire,
the blokes from school getting confirmation that we’re ‘bent’. I am fucking bent! I’m proud of
it but can’t admit it out loud.
A sigh gusts out of me, one that burns my lungs through lack of air, and I breathe in,
wishing for the millionth time that things were different, that I’d grow a set of balls and tell
them all, finishing off with “And fuck you if you don’t like it!” But it isn’t that easy. Not
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when you’ve grown up in the same town your whole life and everyone knows your shit
before you even know it yourself.
Fuck, I hate it here.
The swoosh of tyres brings me out of my thoughts, my attention now on the road. I wait
for a space to cross, but the cars are coming thick and fast, bumper to bumper, and I’m mad if
I think someone will stop and let me go. Still, hope’s always there, isn’t it, and I wait,
knowing no fucker will slow down, knowing she’s at home counting the minutes. It’ll give
her something to rant at me for once I get back. Never happier than when she’s got a bee in
her bonnet, that one.
The line of cars thin out, and I take a chance, running across the road between two. A
horn blares, and I fight the urge to give them the middle finger, instead reaching the other
side and walking on, head down again. Ryan pointed out once that I always walk like that.
Reckons I should hold my head up more, straighten my shoulders, and be proud of who I
am. I don’t want to harp on about the crap I’ve endured, but fuck, it’s damn hard to act
confident when whatever confidence I had has been knocked out of me.
My thoughts stray to Dad, to how things were so different back then. Always smiling,
that man, despite how hard it must have been living with Mum going on at him every five
minutes. Mind you, there were times he didn’t smile. I’d catch him, mouth downturned,
frowning, the lines on his forehead so sharp they looked like knife slashes in Play-Doh. Poor
bastard never won an argument, and in later years he didn’t bother to try. I must have been
about ten the day he left—a Saturday if I remember right. His bags piled up in the hallway
had given me a clue he was going, but the eruption of harsh words earlier in the day had
been the first inkling it wasn’t one of their usual arguments. Mum’s icy tones accusing him of
having an affair, Dad’s weary responses that he wasn’t, never had, but wished he fucking
was. I’d widened my eyes at his words, amazed he’d had the bollocks to utter them, and
hugged myself while sitting on the sofa, attention focused on those bags.
He hunkered down in front of me, hands on my knees, skin warm against my own,
what with me having a rip in my jeans from climbing trees with Ryan. I stared at the grass
stains on the fabric covering my thighs. The swatch of deep green faded at the edges to
yellow. I thought about Mum belting my arse over it later. I remember betting she’d really go
to town. Dad wouldn’t be there to protect me, and I didn’t care, just didn’t fucking care. She
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10
could hit me all she liked. Nothing would hurt as much as seeing my old man’s eyes staring
at me, moist, like he was holding back tears.
“I’m gonna have to go, son. I can’t stay here anymore.”
He sighed so hard his breath reached my face, and I wished for his arms about me, my
face pressed against his chest, Dad’s hand smoothing my hair and easing my worries. His
fingers tightened on my knees, a quick squeeze that wasn’t enough, didn’t do anything much
to dispel the fear inside me, the panic that unfurled in my gut and sent me lightheaded.
“I’ll work out something with your mum, for when you can come and stay with me, all
right?”
I nodded, tears burning, and looked away, out of the window to where kids played
football on the green. Their shouts and hoots proved our lives were so damn different right
then. I envied them their parents, ones who stayed together, ones who made home a safe
place. Ones who didn’t argue, their screams and jibes searing, hurtful, wounding.
Dad stood, leaned over and ruffled my hair, and I hugged myself tighter so I didn’t
jump out of my seat and grip him around the waist. I should have done it, I know that now—
and damn that saying about hindsight!—but I remained in my seat as he walked into the
hallway. He hefted a couple of bags over his shoulder and stepped over the others, the sound
of the front door squeaking open so fucking loud it seemed to fill the house. Mum, she was
upstairs, probably cursing the day she’d married Dad, telling herself she was better off
without him. That he didn’t deserve her, and why hadn’t she listened to her parents all those
years ago? Hadn’t they predicted this outcome? Hadn’t they told her Dad wasn’t the right
one for her? I frowned, knowing even at my young age that it was the other way around.
Dad was better than she’d ever be, and there he was, back in the hallway, picking up a bag in
one hand and a suitcase in the other. He glanced at me, his expression one of utter sadness.
My bottom lip wobbled. I ground my teeth together, silently cursing and relishing doing so,
something Mum wouldn’t have abided had I screamed those words aloud.
Why are you fucking leaving me here with her, Dad? Why can’t I bloody well go with you? Take
me with you. Please? I can’t stay here. Not with her the way she is. Fucking mad woman. Shitting,
fucking, bastard mad woman.
But he’d gone, a wink and a watery smile the last I saw of him that year, and God, did I
cry. Silent tears, though, me unwilling to let Mum know how much I hurt inside. If she knew
she’d use it against me—gladly.
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I sigh now, a hard lump in my throat, and stare into the distance at the winding path
that leads to the shop. I should just keep walking, plodding on until I can’t go any farther,
tiredness making me slump down on the ground, hunched in a ball, my eyes closing, brain
shutting off the past. The pain. But I don’t. I keep going until the row of local shops comes
into view, the inevitable bunch of blokes outside, ones I went to school with if previous
nights are anything to go by. As I near, they look up and nudge one another. I ready myself
for their usual onslaught, one I’m getting tired of but don’t have the bottle to try to stop. And
they wouldn’t stop anyway, even if I said something. Wankers.
“Whey hey! It’s the bent bastard!” one shouts, the others bursting into laughter.
I keep my head down and draw closer, my guts going over, fear of what they’ll say or
do seeping into my bones. I should stand up for myself, give them what for, but there’s five
of them and one of me, and I don’t fancy being beaten up tonight. Their laughter gets louder
the closer I get, and it’s like I’m outside myself looking in, seeing me walking past them,
seeing a leg jerking out from the pack ready to trip me over. I scoot around it, heart
hammering, hands clenched in my pockets, and walk inside the shop. All this for a fucking
pint of milk, and I’ve got the return visit to look forward to in a bit. Just got to hope they’ve
buggered off by then.
I pay for the milk and leave the shop, stomach bunching in anticipation of a fresh
attack. It comes loud and clear, hoots of derision and gross words about sex that bring a
blush to my cheeks. I wouldn’t know if what they’d said was true—never been fucked, never
been kissed—but they make it sound dirty, wrong, when it isn’t. Not to me. To me it’s right,
beautiful, who I am.
I walk on, lifting my gaze to see where I’m going, tuning out their crass jibes. Around
the corner, I release a breath I didn’t know I’d held and clamp my lips together. I hate it that
they can reduce me to feeling like a little kid again. Hate it that they’ve dogged me all my
damn life and always will if I let them.
How am I supposed to come out, be myself, when I live in such a small-minded, nasty
little town? How the fuck am I meant to be me?
Jesus Christ, I’m not going to let those bastards win. Ryan’ll be with me soon. I’ll be all right
then. Yeah, we’ll go up the pub or something. Just…forget this crap and have a laugh.
I stare ahead, shoulders not so stooped, and it’s like just the thought of Ryan makes me
feel better. Gives me courage. A small smile plays about my lips as images of him messing
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12
about with me go through my mind. He’s so free and easy with himself, and he would be,
because that’s who he is, who he’s been allowed to be. And I’m back to square one. Back to
thinking about Mum and my shitty life. I need to stop going over it, letting it fester inside
me. I should be like Dad and smile despite the pain. That’d piss her right off.
A figure strolls towards me in the distance, and right away I know it’s Ryan. I can tell
by his gait, the way he walks so fluidly, arms swinging by his sides, probably whistling if I
know him. He must have got off the bus a few stops early.
Yep, it’s him all right. He raises his arm and waves, picking up the pace, jogging
towards me until we’re a few feet apart. I stop, he stops, and we stare at one another, his
breaths short, cheeks flushed.
“All right?” he asks, smile wide.
Shit, I love him. Always have and always will. “Yeah. You?”
“Not too bad, mate. She wanted milk, then?”
I nod, and we walk side by side. My whole day has changed from dreary to exciting,
the future—at least for the next few hours—bright and happy.
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Chapter Two
She wanted sugar. Fucking sugar to sweeten her tea. Shame it didn’t sweeten her
attitude. Ryan walked back to the shop with me, and funnily enough, the blokes outside
didn’t utter a damn word. They never do if he’s there. He’d given them as good as they gave
him a while ago, striking back after one of them punched him in the stomach. I’d stood
rooted to the spot, unable to help even though the desire to do so raged through me. I wished
then, and still do now, that I was tougher, that what they say and do wouldn’t affect me the
way it does. You’d think, seeing as I was belted and thumped by Mum up until about a year
ago, I’d be fearless, but confrontation always bothers me, renders me pliant and obedient to
whoever calls the shots. Maybe one day something or someone will push me too far and I’ll
stand up for my bloody self.
Back from the shop now, Ryan waits outside while I go in and give the old dragon her
sugar. She snatches it from my outstretched hand without thanks and stomps into the
kitchen, body as rigid as a taut elastic band, ready to snap at any moment. Though I’m used
to it, I still cringe, wincing as I follow her and wait for the rebuke that always comes.
“Took your time, didn’t you?” she says, ripping open the sugar bag and pouring some
into the canister. “And that Ryan’s outside, so I take it you’re going out tonight?” She slaps
the canister lid down and opens the cupboard, reaching up to slide the remaining sugar onto
the top shelf. “Glad to see he knows his place. People like him aren’t welcome here.”
I stare at her as she swings around to face me, two bright red spots on her cheeks
indicating she’s revving herself up for an almighty blast of vitriol. I want to shout at her for
insulting Ryan, and by doing so she’s insulted me with her ‘people like him’ comment, but
I’m used to it, can take it. Ryan, though, he doesn’t deserve it. He’s never been anything but
polite to her, and he’s out there now, banished to the doorstep as always, unable to defend
himself.
“He isn’t normal,” she says, arms folded over her concave belly. “Always knew he was
queer, right from a little kid. And you hang around with him, acting like you don’t see it,
when any minute he could touch you up, changing you to his way of thinking.”
What the fuck?
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“And then where will that leave me? Without grandchildren, that’s where. The
laughing stock of the community, and my God, boy, if you ever do that to me I’ll…” She
stalks to the sink, plunging her hands into the soapy water and scrubbing a plate that doesn’t
need scrubbing at all. “Well, now you know how I feel, so if you ever let him inside this
house, I’ll whip your arse, do you understand? You’re never too old for a clout.”
I study her back, the rigidity of it, and a wave of hate sweeps through me. I could step
forward now and grip her hair, shoving her face into that water, holding her there until she
can’t breathe, until she’s—
Fuck it. I won’t go down that road. Won’t let her bait me. She wants an argument, that
much is obvious, but I’m not giving her the satisfaction. No, she can stew in her anger,
thinking disgusting things and justifying her reasons for doing so. I’ll never understand her
and don’t want to try. She’s polluted, just like those blokes at the shop, unable to see past the
idea of someone being queer to what lies beneath—a human being who needs love just like
anyone else.
Her curlers bob with her jerky movements, and she places a plate in the drying rack,
then puts her hands back in the water, feeling around for something to wash. Finding
nothing, she turns and looks around the kitchen, seizing on an already clean chopping board.
Scourer in hand, she rasps it against the wood, the sound like a saw, bringing to mind the
time Dad built the garden shed. Resentment sails through me that he’s gone, and I glare at
the woman who gave birth to me, wondering what quirk of fate made her my mother and
who ‘up there’ found it funny to put the two of us together. Well, I’m not bloody laughing.
My emotions harden further, and I mentally add another row of bricks onto the existing wall
between us. One day soon that wall will be impossible to look over, impossible to walk
around, and I’ll be done here. Done with her.
“I’m going to bingo presently,” she says.
“Oh, right.”
“But I’ve just remembered something else I need from the shop.”
My jaw muscles flex, and I inhale quietly. “What’s that then?”
She picks up the washing-up liquid, the clear bottle showing nearly full contents, then
slams it back onto the worktop. “You can never have enough washing-up liquid.”
I turn from her and leave the kitchen, refusing to ponder on the way her mind works
and why she acts as she does. Resigned to yet another walk, I pull open the front door and
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15
step outside. Ryan’s sitting on the kerb with his back to me, smoking. The light breeze tousles
my hair, and he blows a stream of smoke upwards. For a moment the cloud is stark against
the darkness then disappears, another joining it after he inhales and exhales again.
“She wants washing-up liquid,” I say and shove my hands in my jacket pockets.
Ryan turns his head and looks at me over his shoulder. “You’re fucking joking!”
“Nope.” I’m embarrassed. Eighteen years old and embarrassed that I can’t stand up to
my tyrant mother.
Ryan rises and flicks his lit cigarette to the ground. It bounces, brief sparks flying, and
comes to rest on the other side of the road. The end still glows, a bright orange nugget in the
gloom, another puff of breeze making it flare brighter before it douses completely.
“Come on,” he says, cocking his head. “Best be getting a move on.”
He knows a little of what she’s like, but if he knew the truth—the real truth…
“Yeah. Hopefully she’ll be at bingo when we get back. If she is, d’you wanna come in?”
He gives me a sidelong glance. “You reckon that’s wise?”
“No, but fuck it, we’ve got away with it before.”
“Yeah, but I don’t fancy climbing out of your window and jumping onto the back porch
roof any time soon.”
We laugh, the tension easing, and walk the rest of the way in silence, me wondering
what he’s thinking. My situation must be alien to him. He probably can’t understand why I
stay, but I’m not like him, filled with courage. Could I tell her what I really thought of her? If
pushed, I reckon I could, but as it is now…well, I’ll just have to carry on as I am, won’t I?
The house stands as though abandoned when we get back, the lights out, the curtains
shut tight. I slide my key into the lock and motion for Ryan to stay outside for a minute. It
wouldn’t surprise me if she was sitting inside in the dark, waiting to see if I brought Ryan
indoors. She’s done it before, but luckily Ryan heard her voice and retreated out of the door,
closing it quietly so she wouldn’t realise we’d been about to sneak up to my room. Only to
shoot the shit, play on my PlayStation, nothing untoward, but still, Mum would have
suspected otherwise.
Seeing the house is clear, I call Ryan inside and, as he closes the front door, I go into the
kitchen and put the washing-up liquid in the cupboard beneath the sink. I take a bottle of
Coke out of the fridge—bought it earlier when I got Mum’s paper from the shop—and collect
two glasses from the cupboard over the cooker. Back in the hallway, I smile at Ryan, even
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though he can’t see it in the dark, and walk upstairs, pleased to hear his footsteps as he
follows.
Wary, I push the door to my room open, expecting to find Mum sitting on my bed. I
flick the light switch and blush at the state of my room, shown in all its cluttered, untidy
glory under the harsh illumination of the bare ceiling bulb.
“Uh, excuse the mess,” I mutter, stepping forward to scoop up a pile of dirty clothes
and shoving them into the laundry bin. I hadn’t anticipated Ryan coming in tonight,
otherwise I’d have cleaned up a bit. He’s only ever seen it presentable.
“No probs,” he says, flinging himself on the bed, unfazed. He grabs the PlayStation
control and nods at the TV. “Boot it up, then.”
I do, then take off my jacket and flop on the bed beside him, reaching to my bookshelf
to get the other control. The game starts, and we spend the next hour or so battling it out,
Ryan winning every time, as usual. After the best out of five, I drop the control down the
side of the bed, and it clonks as it hits the floor. I lie on my back, head against the pillow, and
stare at the ceiling. Ryan is close, too close, yet not close enough. His body heat warms my
bare arm, and I wonder what it would be like to press my skin to his, feeling it fully,
properly.
“You ever thought about leaving here?” he asks, leaning over me to put his controller
on the bookshelf.
His belly touches my side, and my stomach flips over. My cock twitches, and I will it
not to harden, exposing how I feel for him when he might not appreciate my erection. I’ve
misinterpreted…shit, I’d hate to lose our friendship.
“Um, many times.” I casually lay my hands over my crotch and hope he hasn’t spotted
my burgeoning cock. Shit!
“So what’s stopping you?” He moves away, settling next to me, resting on his side, face
propped in his hand, elbow digging into the mattress.
“Money. Guts.” I swallow, pushing away images of what could have happened just
then if I’d lifted my hand and twined my fingers in his hair. If I’d trailed my hand down his
cheek, his chest, and to his groin…
“You could get a bedsit and afford it on your wages. If you did extra shifts at the pizza
place you’d manage. As for having guts…one day she’ll piss you right off, and you’ll walk,
no problem.”
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“I s’pose. I want to get out. Get out of this town, too, if I’m honest.”
Ryan sits up, his fingers curling around my wrist. “Really?”
I stare at his hand, the contact searing, fucking great, and he releases his grip, retaking
his former position. I will him to put his hand back so I can feel that rush again, but he
doesn’t.
“Yeah, really. I hate this place. Bunch of bastards.” I turn my head to look at him.
“Don’t you feel like running away? Do you see yourself living here for the rest of your life,
stuck in a damn rut, seeing the same faces day in, day out? Hearing the same old shit
regurgitated again and again?”
He makes eye contact, staring at me for long moments before hiking in a deep breath
then releasing it slowly. “I haven’t really thought about it. I mean, I’m only eighteen. Haven’t
looked that far ahead.” He pauses, gaze searching my hot face, then, “Besides, there’s my
mum and dad. I’d miss them. Miss you.”
His gaze intensifies, like he’s challenging me, daring me to open my mouth and tell him
how I really feel. I could, couldn’t I? I could spill it all, lightening my weary bloody soul,
relieving myself of the burdens that sit on my shoulders twenty-four-seven.
“Yeah, there is that,” I say, mentally berating myself for letting the opportunity to come
clean slip me by.
“Where would you go?” He looks down at his hand lying between us then back to my
face.
My cheeks heat further, and goddamn my cock, growing with each passing second.
“Dunno. Pointless even talking about it, ‘cos I won’t go. Not yet, anyway.”
“Reckon she’s sailing close to the wind. She’ll say the wrong thing soon enough.”
“You might be right, but she’s clever. Knows just when to back off. And you don’t
know her like I do. She’s—”
“A bully?”
I remain silent for a minute. “Yeah, and she—”
“Treats you like shit?”
“Yeah. And…” I shake my head, unable to tell him.
“I’ve seen the bruises over the years, mate. I know there’s more to it than her just being
strict. She know you’re gay?”
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His question startles the shit out of me. Never before have we talked about this in any
depth. Never. And I always thought we never would. “Um…”
“She suspects I am,” he says. “Got this look about her when she sees me.”
I open my mouth to say “You are?” but close it again. It’d be stupid of me to say it,
because I know damn well he is, and he knows I know, just like he knows I am. Shit, we’ve
tiptoed around one another for such a long time, denying who we are, probably through fear
of the other brushing the truth off and risking causing offence, when all along we shouldn’t
have.
“I’ve always loved you, Lee.”
Jesus Christ…
His gaze remains steady, fixed on my eyes, the sincerity in his almost bringing me to
tears. This admission, this confirmation of what I’ve always known and felt, seems surreal,
like I imagined it.
“You okay with that?” he asks.
“Fuck, yeah. I mean, I… Fuck, yeah.”
Ryan reaches out and strokes my cheek with the backs of his fingers, the touch sending
shivers up and down my spine, springing goosebumps on my arms. I’ve dreamed of this,
wanted it for so long, yet now it’s happening I can’t quite believe it. I’ll wake up in a minute,
alone in bed, the morning light seeping around the curtains, the alarm blaring.
He scoots closer, his belly moulded to my side, and fuck, my cock hurts it’s so hard.
Tentatively, I slip my hand between his inner arm and side, curving it around his back. His
heat bleeds into my skin, and my stomach bunches with the hope of what’s to come. Ryan
leans forward and down, his lips brushing across mine like a whisper of breath. I tilt my
head, offering my mouth, wanting him to kiss me so damn much I lose the will to think
clearly. As though reading my mind, he does, and I raise my other hand, grasping his
shoulder and bringing him on top of me, the weight of him fucking fantastic.
His cock presses against mine, and I have to fight to hold off coming. This is all too
much, too many sensations going on all at once. My bollocks, Christ, they ache, and I curl my
toes, roving my hands up and down his back. His fingers slip into my hair, the tips
massaging my scalp as the kiss intensifies. He gyrates, almost bringing me off. I groan into
his mouth, a pain-filled sound that has Ryan backing away and looking down at me as
though he’d hurt me.
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“You okay?” he asks, out of breath.
I nod, my heart beating hard and fast, my pulse echoing in my ears. “Yeah, just…just
give me a minute. I’ve never—”
“Me neither.” Ryan pecks my lips again then rears up, staring down at me, his
expression one of tenderness.
Of love?
I’m exposed in this light, blush in full view, but I don’t care. Not really. What does it
matter what I look like? Ryan’s seen me at my worst. That time I had flu, and many instances
throughout childhood when I slept over at his house, my hair sticking up in all directions
come morning, my pyjamas rumpled, sleepy dust in the corners of my eyes.
“I fucking love you,” he says again, and I’m bowled over by the passion, the complete
and utter devotion in his voice. “Knew it for sure when I hit sixteen, and it’s grown ever
since.”
How have we held it back for so long? Did I wait until I came of age before finally
admitting I’m gay? Like it’s acceptable now? I don’t know, don’t want to analyse it, only
revel in the feelings his words have produced. I love him too, and I want to tell him, shout it
to the world, yet I remain silent, hating myself for it but unable to give him the same feelings
he just gave me.
I’m selfish. Selfish to the core.
“I feel the same,” I manage and cup my hand around his nape, bringing his head down
for another kiss that has my cock throbbing and my heart rate soaring.
God, I’m going to come.
Ryan circles his hips, his hardness so fucking right as he grinds it over my cock. He
swirls his tongue inside my mouth, gliding over and around mine, the wet heat of it too
arousing, too much for me to bear. My arsehole spasms, and a grunt cuts short in my throat. I
lift my arse and lower my hands, pushing him closer so his erection pulls back my foreskin.
I ease my mouth from his. “Jesus, I’m coming. I’m fucking coming!”
Cum erupts, hot and sticky inside my boxers, and I close my eyes, mind clearing of
everything but the feelings coursing through me. Shit, this is intense. Another spurt bursts
from me as Ryan circles his hips faster, and he lowers his head, face buried in the crook of
my neck, breaths hot on my skin. His stuttered moan heightens my orgasm, and a third shot
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20
comes out so fast it hurts. I grip his arse, digging my fingertips into his jeans, and my breath
leaves me in jerky exhalations. Heat pours into my face, and sweat trickles down my temples.
Ryan jolts, one-two-three, and whispers, “I’m coming.”
I move him faster, wanting him to experience what I’m going through, the euphoria
unlike anything I’ve ever known. He groans and bucks, licking my neck.
I’m where I’ve always wanted to be, where I’m meant to be, and shit, the future I’d
thought about earlier burns brighter than I could ever have imagined.
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Chapter Three
Together, we stumble to the bathroom. A tinge of unease settles over me,
embarrassment that I came too soon and in my pants, but Ryan appears fine. He strips,
switching the shower on and stepping beneath the spray as though we’ve done this a
hundred times before. I sit on the closed toilet seat and watch him, taking in the planes of his
body, the way the soap lather glides down his belly. My cum cools, leaving me
uncomfortable, so I hike in a deep breath and take the plunge. Undressing quickly before
bravery deserts me, I join him in the tub, his lazy smile spurring me to reach out and wash
him, smoothing the bubbles over his chest. Thoughts of moving in with him enter my mind,
and I grow angry that I’m fooling myself with the notion that if I did, everything would be
fine. It wouldn’t. I’d still have to deal with those blokes, with Mum, and every other fucker
who has an opinion on us being gay.
Not wanting to sour this precious moment, I clear my mind and concentrate on the
now. Ryan rolls the soap between his hands then places it in the small dish shaped like a
dolphin. He washes my chest, lowering his hands to my cock, and a familiar tingle starts at
the base. Before long I’m hard again, heat burning my cheeks. God, this is so unreal, so hot,
that I can’t get my head around it. I look up, meeting Ryan’s gaze, and he smiles again, no
hint of reproach in his features. Relief surges through me, and I lift my arms, cupping his
shoulders as he soaps my balls. His kiss sends spikes of pleasure through my cock, and I step
away, aware that if we get caught in here…shit, my old dear would have a fit.
“We’d better stop,” I say, reluctantly getting out of the tub and drying myself with brisk
strokes.
The water stops its incessant beat on the enamel, and Ryan stands beside me, his skin
peppered with goosebumps.
I hand him my towel, cock softening. “Sorry, but if she sees two wet towels…”
“It’s okay.” He dries himself, hangs the towel on the rail, and scoops up his clothes.
“Come on. Gotta check the time.”
He leaves the room, and I turn to follow, picking up my clothes then padding across the
landing and into my room. The bed covers bear the imprints of our bodies, the quilt cover
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mussed, a round dent in my pillow. Sex scents the air, the tang of it sharper than when I
come alone. I drop my clothes beside Ryan’s at the foot of my bed and move to the window,
opening it a crack. Fresh air soughs in, chilling my body.
Ryan steps up behind me and snakes his hands around my waist, reaching for my cock.
I harden again, the throb in my balls insistent, and he clasps my dick, pressing his between
my arse cheeks. Jesus, who knew it would feel like this? An all-consuming burn rages
through me at speed and takes away all the bad things, replacing them with a serenity that
surpasses any of my imaginings.
“What time will she be back?” Ryan kisses the top of my spine, the touch light, soft.
I glance at the clock on my bookshelf. “About another two hours.”
“Good.”
“But I can never be sure with her.”
He twists me around so we’re facing one another, our cocks and bellies meeting. I slip
my hands about his waist, interlacing my fingers at his lower back, and he rests his palms on
my chest. The hot contact sends a jolt of pleasure up my cock, and the vein pulsates, a quick,
almost painful beat. Unlocking my hands, I cup his arse cheeks and begin circular
movements over them, taking in how it feels, skin on skin and emotionally. This exploration,
this experience, makes me whole somehow.
Ryan steps backwards, leading me to the bed, and we flop down, a lattice of arms and
legs. I shift onto my side, Ryan doing the same, and our new discovery begins. Hands roam,
fingertips featherlight, palms skating across dips and swells, breaths heavy and ragged. I
squirm, wanting to capture every emotion, every movement at once, but there’s too much
going on. Lips brush, tongues lick, and sweat drips. I imagine later times, when we’re
experienced enough to ease our cocks into hot, tight arses, and a groan-laden gasp leaves me
panting, unable to imagine the intensity our future fucks will hold.
His tongue laves a path along my collarbone and up my neck. Warm breath tickles my
ear, the sound of it so loud it drowns out my thudding pulse and the rasping of hands over
skin. I close my eyes and curve my groin up, pushing my cock into his, loving the hardness.
A shift of air whispers over me and a gasp fills the room followed by a high-pitched
scream. I jerk away from Ryan, almost falling off the bed, snapping my eyes open to see his
face in profile, eyes wide, mouth hanging open, gaze fixed on the door.
Oh, fuck. Fuck!
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23
I see her in my peripheral vision, hands cupped over her mouth, the darkness of the
landing behind her. I jump off the bed at the same time as Ryan, scrambling for our clothes,
anything to cover ourselves. As he slides his legs into his jeans, she starts railing.
“You filthy little bastard!” She’s staring at Ryan, hands fisted by her sides. Angry red
splotches spread over her cheeks, joining to form one raging mask, and spittle sits at the
corners of her mouth. “I knew it!”
She’s fit to burst, and I’m scrabbling into my jeans, zipping up, reaching for a T-shirt
from an open drawer. Christ, my heart’s beating so fast it hurts, and I want to throw up. I
glance from her to Ryan, who’s dressed and shoving his feet into his Nikes, face flushed,
making him look like a ruffian. Someone to avoid.
My attention returns to Mum, who has her hands on her hips now, mouth gaping open
as though she’s lost for words. Her speech isn’t halted for long, and she raises one hand,
finger pointing at Ryan.
“You’d better get the hell out of my house! How dare you come in here and turn my
boy, leading him into your disgusting ways. Go on, get out!”
She jabs the air with her finger, the tip meeting Ryan’s chest as he steps forward,
stuffing his soiled boxers into his pocket. Springing back, she melts into the darkness of the
landing, and for a moment it’s like she was never there and Ryan’s just leaving to go home.
He glances back, and his face, my God, I don’t ever want to see that stricken look again. Like
he’s saying sorry, that he’s the cause of all this, that it’s his fault. It isn’t. It fucking isn’t!
His footsteps recede as he goes down the stairs, and the front door closes quietly, my
loud breaths superseding every other sound that remains. She fills the doorway again, eyes
narrowed, and I stand beside my bed, the fear of childhood filling me.
“You!” She stalks into the room, standing inches from me. “You need to get in the bath.
Wash his filth from you. Didn’t I tell you? Wasn’t it only earlier I told you what he was up
to? What he was like? And you didn’t believe it. Now look what’s happened. You’ve allowed
him to touch you, to… God, you disgust me. The pair of you! What will the neighbours say if
this gets out? You can bet that pervert won’t keep this quiet. Oh, I know what those types are
like. He’ll brag about his conquest, how he made you just like him, when you’re not. No, this
is just a blip. A bit of confusion, that’s all.” She whittles her fingers then grips the hem of her
fitted blue jacket.
A blip? A bit of confusion?
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24
“No,” I say, turning from her to kneel beside the bed and pull my large holdall from
beneath it. A brief memory of me and Ryan packing our clothes into it for a camping trip
comes to mind, and although this situation is dire, I smile.
“What’s so funny? What the bloody hell is so funny?” Mum bunches her hands, arms
rigid, and stares down at me.
I rise and dump the holdall on the bed, moving to the drawer to remove a stack of tops.
“And what do you think you’re doing?” Her strident tones rasp on my nerves.
She’s gearing herself up for the big one, but I’m not going to let her reach the pinnacle.
No, I’ll get out of here before she goes too far. Wouldn’t put it past her to find one of my belts
and whip my arse like she used to. Would I let her? I shake my head. No, I don’t reckon I
would. She stopped hitting me a while ago now, probably realising that one day, despite her
being my mother, I might hit her back. I ignore her and pack my bag with more clothes,
mentally going through how much I can fit into it.
“Oh, so you’re giving me the silent treatment now, hmm? That’s all the thanks I get, is
it? I catch you up to no good with that dirty little bastard—and to think I let him in this
house to play up here as a child!—and you’re ignoring me as though I’m in the wrong?” She
closes my open drawers and tidies things on top, busying herself like she does when she’s
thinking on her next move, what to say, do, to make me bend to her will.
I clench my jaw, then say, “But you are.”
“What?” One hand stills above my aftershave bottles, the other grips a can of
deodorant. “I sincerely hope you’re joking. Speaking in the heat of the moment.” She
reorganises my things, not a dust-surrounded circle to be seen as she slides bottles into the
positions she prefers.
Finished packing, I zip up my bag and slip a sweatshirt over my head. Trainers on, I
shove my arms into my jacket and pick up my dirty boxers, stuffing them into a side pocket
of my bag. Can’t be doing with the embarrassment of her knowing I’d already come before
she’d arrived. I lift the bag, its weight heavy and a strain on my shoulder. “No, I’m leaving.”
“Leaving?” She laughs, an irritating titter, and spreads her hands into stars, arms lifted
as if she can stop me walking past.
“Yeah, leaving.” I brush past her and, in the doorway, glance back at my room, taking it
all in. The layout, the memories, the things I’m leaving behind. None of them matter now.
“Should have done this long ago.”
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She spins to face me, her face redder. “So, after all I’ve done for you, after bringing you
up alone for the past eight years, that’s it? You’re just going to go? Up and leave because I
caught you?”
“There’s more to it than that. Don’t pretend any different.” I walk across the landing
and pause at the top of the stairs.
She scuttles to my bedroom doorway, peering into the gloom. “Oh, well, that’s just
marvellous. I’ve raised an ungrateful boy. One who walks out when he can’t get his own
way. Like your father, you are. A little heat and you’re off, burying your head in the sand,
unable to stay and face up to what you’ve done. Fabulous!”
“Don’t bring Dad into this. Not when he’s not here to put his side forward.”
“And why isn’t he here, Lee? You tell me why he isn’t here. Why he hasn’t been here
since you were ten years old!”
“Because you’re such a bitch to live with.”
Shit! Did I really say that?
“Oh, so that’s what you think, is it? Wonderful! He does the damage, and I get the
blame. Typical!”
“You just don’t get it, do you?” I stare at her—hard. “He left because of you. He wasn’t
having an affair, he just didn’t want to come home after work because he couldn’t face the
shit you put him through. He sat in his car, night after night, wishing he didn’t have to come
back here. And the only reason he did come back was because of me.”
She laughs again. “And you know this how?”
“Because he told me before—”
“Oh, he did, did he? And when was that?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Doesn’t it? He taints your view of me, and you think it doesn’t matter?”
“You tainted my view of you. You.”
She slaps her palms against her thighs. “How am I going to explain this to people? How
could you do this to me?”
I sigh, look down, and think on the fact that my courage has finally arrived. And there
was me thinking it wouldn’t. That I’d be stuck here till fuck knew when, rotting in the house
with her. “I’m sure you’ll think of something to tell them.” Without looking at her, I walk
down the stairs, towards the door that represents freedom, the future uncertain. Frightening.
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With my hand on the door knob, I stand on the mat and lower my head, steeling myself
for what’s to come. There it is, a shriek of anger, ripping through the air and bringing
memories from the past, of times when she’d got herself into a stew and went for me with
the belt. Or her fists. Her feet.
No more.
I step outside, closing the door on that terrible sound, muted now, though still piercing
somehow. Looking down the road, I spot Ryan standing beneath a lamppost, the orange
glow giving him an aura. I walk towards him and drop my bag beside me.
“I’ve left,” I say, hands in pockets, head down. “Gonna go and live in the middle of
nowhere so no one can bother me. I can’t stay here. Not with her telling everyone what a
disappointment I am. And she will, despite being appalled. She’ll do anything for a bit of
attention. Always has.” Where had that come from? The knowledge that I’ll find somewhere remote
to live?
Ryan grasps my arm. “Come and stay at my place. I don’t give a fuck what people say.
We can, you know, be together…if you want.”
And I do want. Fuck, yeah, I want it so bad I can taste it, but I need to get to grips with
this shit. Get my head sorted. I can’t do that living here, everyone pointing their fingers, the
risk of bumping into Mum in town, and Ryan, my fucking gorgeous Ryan, a brilliant
distraction.
I lift my head and sigh. “If I tell you something, will you promise not to laugh?”
Ryan nods, face serious. “Yup. Tell me whatever you like.”
“I feel like…uh, like I’ve got to find myself, know what I mean?”
He nods again. “I know what you mean. You go. Do it, but you’ll stay in contact, yeah?
Let me know where you wind up?”
I stoop and pick up my bag. “I will. And hey, maybe you’ll come and see me one day.”
A lump grows in my throat, and shit, it hurts. I hate myself for acting like Ryan means
nothing. That I’m prepared to leave him behind. He’s my best damn friend—a part of me—
but man, I’ve got so much shit in my head that I need to get away. A clean break. Sort myself
out.
“I will. When you’re ready.” Ryan’s eyes fill.
It’s like he knows. Knows we’ll meet again and that I just want a bit of time and space.
Maybe we’re so close he can feel it, senses what I need and that nothing has changed
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between us. If anything it’s got stronger, this love, this thing we have, but if it’s meant to be,
fuck, we’ll pick it up again later. Too much has gone on in my life for me to stick around
now. The urge to get the hell away is so strong it’s like I’m suffocating, and despite leaving
Ryan behind, it’s something I’ve got to do. Otherwise I’ll be fit for nothing later on, if a
memory triggers the crap from the past and I break down, everything tumbling out, possibly
causing a rift between us. And I wouldn’t want that. This is for the best. Really, it is.
I stare at him, and Jesus, what happened back there seems as though it never did.
Another dream. Another wish that never came true.
“Well, um, I’d best be off, then.” My eyes burn.
“Yeah. Yeah, you take care, all right? And I’m here whenever you want me. Fuck
knows I don’t want you to go, and I’ll miss you, but I get where you’re coming from. You
need time, that’s all.”
I nod, grateful he understands, yet I’m torn apart inside. I should just go, walk away,
and not look back.
I want to kiss him. Hold him. Smell him.
I stare at the ground and force one foot in front of the other, my insides hollowing the
farther away from him I get. This path I’m walking, it’s a tough one, but I’ll get through this
somehow.
“Fucking love you, Lee!” he shouts.
I raise my hand, tears blurring my vision, and swallow, fighting the desire to shout the
same back.
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Chapter Four
To get to town I have to pass that bloody row of shops. Surprise, surprise, the gang of
blokes loiter outside, hoods up, hands either in pockets or loose by their sides. Their hollers
begin as soon as they spot me, jeers of ‘bent bastard’ and ‘queer fuck’ flowing over me,
through me, burrowing inside. Those words spoil the memory of what me and Ryan shared,
like mould on bread crust, but, like that crust, when you’re starving you can cut it off and eat
the rest. I tune them out, walking past with my head down. Uncaring if they think me weak,
I keep going, more important things on my mind than their opinions.
“Fucking retard!” one shouts. “Fucking arse-poking, shit stabber!”
That stings, but I don’t have the energy to retaliate. Oh, the idea of it is there, all right,
but I’m emotionally spent, too weary to get into it with them. Yeah, it’d cleanse me, make me
feel a whole lot better, but like before, there are five of them and one of me. The odds don’t
look good.
“You ignoring me, wanker?”
I keep walking.
“You ought to really scare him, Trev, know what I mean?”
The second voice belongs to Michael Warner, a sheep who’s followed Trevor around for
years. I shrug off his words, knowing damn well what they mean, knowing what Trevor is
capable of. What he’s done before and how he got away with it because the kid he scared
was too frightened to grass on who’d pulled a gun on him. Trevor wouldn’t risk doing that
again, would he? I don’t want to hang around to find out so I up my pace, my breaths
coming out in quick bursts, adrenaline spiking, lending me extra speed.
The housing estate tapers. Fields either side of the main road spread far and wide, and I
look ahead. Though streetlights illuminate the path, the bordering hedges and trees give me
an ominous feeling, like something’s afoot. Something bad. No, those thugs back there,
they’re all mouth these days. Jobless, with nothing to do but rile people.
Halfway along the road, I put my head down and press on, anxious to get into town to
the cashpoint and the bus station. I have no bloody idea where I’m going, but it doesn’t
matter so long as it’s away from here. The road stretches on, a lonely strip of asphalt, no cars
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speeding by, and town seems so far away. Stars litter the sky, and I stare at them, thinking
that not so long ago my head was in the clouds and my body was in Ryan’s arms. How
quickly things change.
The rumble of an engine sounds, and another noise, loud, as if the car’s exhaust is
blowing. I turn, and the blinding light of headlamps greets me. Squinting, I turn away and
blink, circles of illumination reappearing each time my lids close. The bag handles cut into
my palm and I switch hands, cursing myself for packing so many clothes. The car zooms
past, and I stare at the taillights, eerie red eyes in the darkness. In the far distance, the shapes
of town buildings come into view, indistinct, their rooftops bleeding into the night sky. I
walk faster, glancing at my wrist to find my watch missing, the timepiece at home—back
there—on the bookshelf.
Shit. The last bus out of town leaves at eleven, and it must be nearing that now. The
shop closes then, and the lights had still blazed inside when I’d walked past, so maybe I’ll
make it. If I don’t, God knows if I’ll find a bed and breakfast open this time of night. I’ve
never had to use one before so have no clue how they operate.
Two headlight circles appear, growing bigger as the vehicle approaches. I avert my
gaze, staring towards town, and walk faster, though the appearance of the car makes me feel
less alone. It speeds, the harsh, blowing exhaust telling me it’s the same car that just passed
going the other way, and I guess they drove around the roundabout down there. Kids out for
a joyride.
The car skids, back fishtailing to my left, and comes to stop. My heart pounds, and I
hurry, not wanting anything to do with whoever sits inside. A car door opens then slams,
and I risk a glance back to see what’s going on. A guy storms towards me, a weird mask on
his face, one with goggles attached. My stomach flips, and I turn my head to face town, legs
like jelly.
“Oi! Where d’you think you’re fucking going?”
Oh, shit.
I spin around, walking backwards, once again taking in that damn fucked-up mask,
designed to scare the shit out of people, I’ll bet. I open my mouth to answer, my words
snuffed out by the guy’s arm rising, a gun held in a gloved hand.
Jesus fucking Christ.
“I said, where d’you think you’re fucking going?”
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The voice is distorted, kind of muffled, but I swear it belongs to Trevor. What the hell is
he playing at? Should I answer him? If I don’t, will he use the gun?
“I…”
“You ought to fuck right off, I reckon,” he says, his stride assured, gun hand steady.
He jabs the gun at me, and I eye the hole where a bullet could come speeding out at any
second, the streetlight we’ve just passed showing it in all its terrifying glory. I glance around
for somewhere to run, the only option through the hedges and trees—the only place with
cover—but before I get a chance to run, Trevor lunges forward and smacks the gun handle
down on my temple. Pain rips through my head, and I drop the bag before sinking to my
knees. Trevor grips my hair, holding it tight in his fist, and points the gun to my throbbing
temple.
“We don’t want faggots round here, you got that?”
Powerless, I nod, piss seeping into my jeans.
“Your sort…well, we just don’t want it, right?”
I nod again, willing the tears away. Even if my courage from earlier returned, it
wouldn’t do me any good now. The gun sees to it that I’ll keep my mouth shut and do as he
says.
“So, I don’t expect we’ll be seeing you around here again, will we?”
I shake my head, stare at his trainers—pristine white Reeboks—and imagine my blood
spattered all over them if he pulls the trigger.
He yanks me upright, gun still pressed to my head. A click echoes—shit, he’s taken the
safety off, shit, shit, shit—and my bladder releases more liquid.
He looks down at the path. “You fucking pissed yourself?”
I jerk my head up and down.
Time slows. Laughter floats out of him. The car engine hums a few feet away, and faint
shouts issue from inside the car along with the thump of jungle music. My legs grow chilled
from the cooling piss, my feet and trainers sodden. Trevor looks so damn hellish in that
mask, his eyes partially obscured by the tinted lenses, his nose covered, mouth a thin line in
the centre of a circle cut out of the rubber.
The strobe of oncoming headlights has Trevor whipping around, the gun lowered
beside him. I remain where I am, willing the car to slow, for the occupants to get out and
help me.
BLINDED Sarah Masters
31
Trevor turns back to me and snarls, “Remember what I said. Don’t come back. Or next
time I’ll fucking shoot, right?” He runs towards his idling car, yanking open the door then
jumping inside. His yell of “Go, go, go!” reminds me of the movies, and if I wasn’t so scared
I’d fucking laugh.
The other car slows as Trevor’s speeds away, and I stare across the road at it, already
forgiving the driver if he roars off. He doesn’t. Or rather, she doesn’t. Her pretty face turns
towards me, and she looks through the glass. The window glides down, and she studies me
wide-eyed. She seems familiar, maybe a couple of years older than me, and I wonder if I
know her from school.
“You okay?” she asks.
I nod, though I’m far from okay.
“You want me to call the police?”
I shake my head. “No. No, it’s just some lads fucking about. It’s…it’s all right.”
“Want a lift into town?”
I think about it for a second. God, she’s brave offering me a ride. “What’s the time?”
“Quarter to eleven.”
I won’t make it to town in time if I walk. “Do you mind? I’ve…my jeans are wet.”
She looks down at my legs, and a fleeting expression of sympathy skips over her face.
“No, it’s fine. Come on.”
I pick up my bag, cross the road, and hesitate at the passenger door. Should I get in?
Involve this woman in my shit? I have no choice really. Still shaking, I open the door and put
my bag in the footwell then get in, resting my feet either side, conscious of my wet jeans on
her leather seat. I close the door and slip my seatbelt on. She drives, eyes focused ahead.
“He’s a bastard.” Her jaw muscles twitch.
“Who, him back there?”
“Yeah, him. Trevor.”
“You know him, then?”
“Doesn’t everyone?”
“Yeah, I s’pose.”
“You piss him off?”
“Yeah.”
“What did you do?”
BLINDED Sarah Masters
32
I’m going to tell the truth. Fuck it. For the first time, I’m going to admit it out loud to a
stranger. “Nothing. He doesn’t like me…doesn’t like me being gay.” A sense of freedom
slices through me, and it feels so good to come clean, to get it out there. To let the words roll
off my tongue. It’s like a huge weight has been lifted.
“Is that right?” She glances my way then back at the road. “Fuck me! He’s got some
serious problems if that’s all it was.”
“Yeah.” I smile, want to laugh, really laugh. She’s just accepted it like I said nothing
more than an inane comment, yet Trevor, Mum… Christ, why are some people so against it?
What’s it got to do with them anyway?
“You moving away?” She nods at my bag.
“Yeah. Need to…need to—”
“Don’t blame you. This place is a shithole.”
We’ve reached town, and she swerves the car into the parking bay beside the bus
station.
“I take it this is where you wanted to go?” She holds the steering wheel at ten and two,
turning to look at me.
“Yeah. And thanks. For—”
“No problem. Look, you take care of yourself, all right?”
Her kindness almost breaks me, and I mumble my thanks again and get out of the car,
pulling the bag free. I shut the door and watch her drive away, lifting her hand in a wave.
Swallowing a ball of emotion, I run over to the nearby cashpoint and withdraw a hundred
quid, then make my way to the large bus timetable mounted on a closed cafeteria wall.
The only bus leaving tonight is heading north, going through Biddingford, an ideal,
out-of-the-way place that’ll suit me just fine. We passed it once years ago on our way to
Hayling Island and the holiday camp there. Dad had mentioned how sleepy and quiet it
seemed, but Mum had said it was too sleepy for her. No way would she manage living in a
place like that. The memory cements my destination, and I turn in a circle, looking at the
stars, wondering what my future holds. It’s got to be better than my past, albeit without
Ryan in it for a while.
The low grumble of a coach approaching yanks me out of my reverie, and I walk to the
bus stop, the only person wanting out of this place tonight. The coach pulls to a stop with
BLINDED Sarah Masters
33
squeaking brakes and the hiss of the door sliding open, and I grip the handrail, one foot on
the bottom step.
“You leaving dead on eleven?” I ask the driver.
He stares down at me from his elevated perch, grey bushy eyebrows above dark brown
eyes, his pasty, lined face lit up by the interior light above his head. “Yep. Why?”
“Have I got time to nip to the loo and change my jeans? Spilled Coke down them.”
He glances at my legs and nods. “Yep. Go on then. But be quick about it.”
I sort myself out and return to the coach, climb aboard, pay my fair, and take a seat at
the back. I reckon I’ve got a good three hours before we get to Biddingford. No other
passenger occupies the bus, so I stretch out on the back seat, prop my head up on my bag.
The coach eases out of the station, and I stare through the window, watching the familiar
buildings pass by, a bittersweet feeling floating through me. Good to be going, but still a little
sad. All that’s left here for me is Ryan, and I reckon he’ll wait for me. That thought is the only
thing that’ll keep me going.
I pull my phone out of my pocket and press a speed dial button. Ryan answers after the
first ring, not a hint of sleep in his voice. He’s been worrying, I’ll bet, and my love for him
grows.
“You all right?” he asks.
“Yeah, you?”
“Not bad.”
“Where are you?”
“On a coach.”
“Shit, so you’re really going.” He pauses, then, “Where’re you headed?”
“Place called Biddingford. I’ll let you know when I get there. I’ll have to sort out a place
to live. Get a job and all that.” The enormity of that weighs heavy on me, hitting me like a
sack of shit. “I’m scared, Ryan.”
“Shit. I wish I was there. With you. But I know…I get what you’re doing.”
“Things’ll work out. I’ve just got to stand on my own two feet now.”
“Yeah.” Another pause. “What if you can’t find a place and a job?”
“Then I’ll go somewhere else.”
“Where?”
“Dunno.”
BLINDED Sarah Masters
34
“Fuck. You got enough cash?”
“Yeah. Took out a hundred. Think I’ve got another hundred or so in the bank.”
“Christ, Lee! You could have rented a bedsit here with that! Got out of your mum’s
place ages ago.”
I sigh. “I know, but I didn’t have the guts. And now I have, now I’ve got it straight in
my head where I’m going… It’s all good. Trust me.”
“I do but… I’ll wait for you, all right? However long it takes.”
“I know you will. But you can’t wait forever. What if it takes a long time? What if I’m
gone a few years and someone else comes along?”
“What, for you or for me?”
“For you.”
He sighs. “They won’t.”
“But you don’t know that.”
“I don’t care. If they do, they can fuck right off.”
I laugh. “Same feelings here, but it’s just…I don’t want you to feel you have to keep to
what you’ve said now. Things change. People change.”
“You trying to tell me to back off? To leave it?”
“No. Just giving you an out if you need one.”
“Right. And you’ll tell me if you meet someone else?”
“Yeah, but I won’t.”
His soft chuckle filters into my ear. “Yet you’ve just lectured me—”
“I know. Listen, I’m fucked. Need some sleep. No idea if there’s a bed and breakfast in
this Biddingford place, and if there is, it might not be open, so I need to catch some sleep in
case—”
“You’re not sleeping rough all night!”
“Might not have a choice.”
“For fuck’s sake!”
“Look, it’ll be all right. I’ll find a shed. Somewhere like that.”
“Make sure you do. And text me if you can’t find a place to sleep, all right?”
“Yep.”
“Promise?”
“Yep.”
BLINDED Sarah Masters
35
“Love you, Lee.”
“Love you too, Ryan.”
I snap my phone closed before he says anything else, because my voice would crack if I
had to reply. Eyes shut, I squeeze them tight, but a tear still trickles out. I feel foolish for
crying, for being reduced to a little kid again, but shit, it’s been one hell of a night. One hell of
a life so far.
Sleep doesn’t come, my mind too alert, filled with images from the past, all flitting
through my head at speed, coming to a stop at the last time I’d seen Dad. It was a couple of
years ago. The time since he’d left saw me meeting him sporadically, for maybe an hour or
two on a Sunday—always a Sunday—when Mum allowed me to go with strict instructions to
remember everything he said and report back to her. And I did, for a while, but as the years
passed I kept some things to myself, treasuring the secret knowledge that she thought I was
doing as she’d asked, oblivious that Dad’s words remained locked inside my mind.
Last time we’d gone to the wildlife park in his car, him joking I was too damn old for
this kind of shit but fuck it, we’d go anyway. We’d walked round, talking about everything
and nothing, and at lunchtime we’d sat in the beer garden of a fake Tudor pub, the wildlife
park a few miles away, forgotten for a while.
“You know why I left, don’t you?” Dad asked, fingers wet from the condensation off his
pint glass. He traced a fingertip around the rim. “Should have taken you with me.”
“I understand why you didn’t. She’d have fought you for me.” I took a sip of my Coke.
“It’s all right. I don’t blame you for going. I would if I could.”
“But you can now you’re sixteen. You could come and live with me. Nothing she can do
about that.”
I thought about it—only for a second, mind—and nodded, hope growing inside me that
I could get away from her. Be free.
“You’d like that?” Dad raised his glass, swallowed a mouthful of beer. He licked froth
off his top lip.
“Yeah. Be great.”
“You sure?”
“God, yeah.” Excitement swirled in my belly, and I smiled, big and wide.
I looked at him, and he winked, but it wasn’t long before his face clouded.
“I wasn’t doing anything I shouldn’t have been, you know, son.”
BLINDED Sarah Masters
36
“I know.”
“It was just…she was so… Shit, I shouldn’t be talking about her to you.”
“It’s all right. I don’t mind.”
“How…how has it been? With her?”
“Bit rough.”
“She been hitting you?”
“Yeah.”
“Bad?”
“Yeah.”
“Shit. I knew it. I should have—”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“It does.”
We sat in silence, and I turned away to look out over a large field. Cows mooched, some
with their heads bent munching on grass, others lying in the sun.
“They reckon when a cow’s laying down it means rain’s on the way,” Dad said.
I nodded. “Doesn’t look like it to me.” I stared at the clear blue sky.
“Me neither.”
After lunch, on the journey back Dad went through what we’d do next. I was to wait
until Mum’d left for work the next day then pack my things. Dad would pick me up about
eleven, and I’d be free. Free of her, free to catch up on all the time I’d missed with him.
As I got out of his car, he said, “It’ll be grand, son, you’ll see.”
The phone ringing that night, it’d sounded shriller than usual, faster, the space between
rings shorter. I tiptoed from my room and crouched in the darkness at the top of the stairs,
watching Mum as she spoke on the phone in the hallway, light from the living room
doorway spilling onto her back.
“Right. Okay… Yes, yes, I’m fine… Well, it’s no skin off my nose, is it? Don’t know why
you even bothered to ring… Lee? Oh, right… Yes, I suppose so. Yes…yes…goodbye.” She
turned and looked up the stairs, spotting me before I had the chance to scoot back into my
room. “That was your aunt. Your dad’s dead.” She swivelled and walked back into the living
room.
Leaving me devastated.
BLINDED Sarah Masters
37
I thumped down onto my arse, leaned my head against the wall, and let the tears fall. I
didn’t sob, didn’t sniff, just sat staring at the phone in its cradle—the damn phone that had
allowed a voice to ooze out such horrific news and for a spiteful woman to receive it.
Blinking now, I open my eyes and stare out of the coach window, the vehicle cocooned
in the darkness of what I imagine is a country road. No lights beam down like they would on
a motorway, and I stare at the reflection of myself in the glass, a skinny young guy struggling
to come to terms with what’s gone by and what’s up ahead. But I can do it, no doubt about
that now. Already I feel stronger, as though the farther away from home I get the hold it had
on me loosens, its power receding.
I spend another two hours dozing on and off. The coach groans to a stop, and I look
outside, the sight of a road lined with houses sparking off a memory.
“Biddingford!” the driver calls.
I stand, working out the kinks in my neck, and lift my bag, which seems heavier now. I
lug it down the gangway, pausing beside the driver to thank him, then leave the coach, the
cold whip of a hearty wind snapping me fully awake. I glance around, every house light
doused apart from the home beside me. I take a deep breath and walk up the garden path,
readying myself to ask the occupant for directions to a bed and breakfast.
At the door, I ignore my fast-beating heart and close my hand into a fist, rapping my
knuckles against the wood. My new life starts now, right this minute, and my future
glimmers, ready to become an inferno.
Also available from Total-E-Bound Publishing:
The Dreaming: Tools of Justice
Sarah Masters and Jaime Samms
Excerpt
Chapter One
Barry floated a bit, on drink or desire, not quite connected to himself as his lover laid the tie over
his closed eyes and tied it. “Really?” A bit of his hair caught in the knot, and he squirmed.
“Really. Trust me.” A tongue slicked over his ear, and the squirm turned to reaching.
He should recognise the voice, thought maybe he did. Something shifted. A scent, making him
think of blood or rust, drifted by like cigarette smoke. He stood still—nude, blind and bound—and the
voice chuckled softly.
“Ready, baby?”
He nodded, straining to find the familiar—so close he could almost reach a name, a
face…something he knew. The hands that had tied his behind him, lowered him until his chest rested
on something hard under an inadequate layer of padding.
“Relax.”
Easier said than done. Barry let out a breath.
“It isn’t going to hurt. Promise.”
“Tag?”
“Shhh.” A hand ran through his hair.
Had Barry caught the scent of Old Spice? The particular drag of Tag’s bad leg?
“What’s next, Tag? Tell me.”
“You’ll see.”
There was a sound behind him—shuffling, grunting—then frigid air engulfed him. He shivered,
glanced over his shoulder as though his covered eyes could make out what was going on.
“What?”
The hands that touched him next weren’t Tag’s. They were too rough, too demanding, and he
flinched, made a move to stand. The hands pushed him back.
“Tag?”
“Shh.” The sound seemed so far away, too little for comfort or reassurance.
Cold air swirled around him. He struggled to stand, but whoever held him was too strong.
“Don’t. Tag, don’t go!” Panic squeezed out rational thought, and he strained. The only answer
was a tighter grip on the back of his neck and one of those rough hands running up the inside of his
thigh. “Tag!”
The hand moved to clamp over his mouth, leaving him struggling for air. His bare feet on the
cold cement chilled him, toes ineffectual claws, gripping nothing. No more floating. Only shivering,
cold, and a gag—its straps cutting into his cheeks—and no idea how it had got there. The ball clogged
his words, turned his begging to garbled, tear-washed nothing. He shouted inarticulate sounds no one
was going to hear. Struggling only earned him bruises and didn’t stop the invasion of those rough
fingers or the wave of pain from being stretched too far, too fast.
The hand came back, around the front of his neck this time.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. Not how he wanted to go—bound and gagged and
fucked, for Tag to find his body like that.
Blackness darker than the blindfold sucked him under…
He awoke screaming.
He always awoke screaming. His voice had gone raw from it, and he only barely
remembered the terror that haunted the dark. He glared at the obnoxious red glow of the
clock. Not quite five. His gaze shifted to the bottle distorting the numbers, but, for once, he
turned away from it, untangled himself from the sweaty sheets, and shuffled off to the
bathroom.
* * * *
An hour later, a good portion of the tar-like station coffee he’d tried to pour himself
landed on the table beside his chipped mug. He sopped it up with the last of the napkins and
tossed the sloppy mess into the trashcan. What was left of it, he took to his desk. It might
taste like all hell, but it would scour the fuzz off his tongue. The computer hummed when he
turned it on, the sound a comfort in the dim stillness of the deserted police station. Maybe he
could get a few reports finished before his shift started. Better paperwork than the four walls
of his empty apartment.
He wasn’t sure how long the screen had been staring back at him, or how long the
flying toasters had been careening around the black void, when he blinked back from his
stupor.
“Hey, Wiki.”
He jumped at his partner’s hot breath on the back of his neck.
“Still daydreaming about Tag banging you within an inch of your life?” He thumped
Barry on both arms.
The coffee cup slipped from Barry’s grasp. The last few, cold sips dashed out across his
desk and spattered the screen, the keyboard, and his pants.
Ross snickered and plopped down in his seat across from Barry. A glare only quieted
the man’s mirth—it didn’t banish it.
“Fuck off.”
“Hey. I tease because I care.”
Barry relegated his response to single digit sign language.
“Seriously, dude. You have got to move on.” Ross shook his head and jabbed at the ON
button of his monitor. “That ship has sailed, man.”
“Sank, more like,” Barry muttered, conceding to truth.
“Whittaker!” Captain Taggart’s voice sliced through the room, and Barry winced. “My
office.”
“Used to like the sound of that,” he murmured as he gave his splattered khakis one last
dab and rose. Ross didn’t snicker this time, and Barry patted his shoulder as he passed. “Just
call me Davey Jones.”
A memory of his latest dream shuddered through him as his fingers curled around the
door handle to Tag’s office. He was already in a cold sweat when he stepped inside and
pulled the door closed behind him. It was impossible to meet his captain’s eye with the
irrational thoughts of blame, completely unearned, grinding through him.
“Wiki?”
Barry’s head popped up from where he’d been studying a dried splash of coffee on the
linoleum.
“You okay? You look like—”
“Fine. What’d you want?”
Tag frowned.
“Sir.”
A heavy sigh filled the room and settled around them.
Tag finally retrieved a folder from his desk. “New case.” He handed it to Barry. “Dead
guy, missing girl.”
Barry took the folder, flipped it open, glad for the new focus. “Do we like her for it?”
“Doubt it. Little thing like that?” Tag shook his head.
Barry understood the comment when he saw the pictures of the victim.
“Beaten to a bloody pulp,” Tag confirmed, as if the visual wasn’t enough. “Garrotted.
Missing woman’s about five foot two, ninety pounds on a rainy day. She didn’t do that.”
“Who did?”
Tag’s eyebrows went up. “That would be the case, wouldn’t it?”
“And no idea where she is now?”
“If I had to guess? Run. Whoever did this had to be one scary son of a bitch.”
Barry nodded, gaze still skimming the file. “I know this guy.”
Tag nodded. “Reporter. Calvin Landry, wrote for some local rumour rag.” He poked at
another, much thicker file still sitting on his desk, flipped the folder open, and picked up a
picture, which he handed to Barry. “He was following this case. Pain in the ass, but not a bad
guy. This was the last murder he ran a story on. That girl there”—he tapped the picture of a
gagged and bound woman lying lifeless on a cold, cement floor in what looked to be a
garage—“looks an awful lot like Calvin’s girlfriend. Now he’s dead, his girlfriend is fuck
knows where, and I don’t like where this is going one bit. If Calvin pissed this guy off, and
this kind of girl is his type…”
Barry stared at the photo of the dead girl. She was young, had been pretty. He handed it
back to Tag.
“She was raped—”
“Strangled,” Barry whispered.
“That was COD, yeah…”
Tag’s voice faded out behind the whirlwind of violent memory. Barry shook. Papers
drifted down around him. “You were there.”
Tag shuffled forward, his bum foot slapping awkwardly on the linoleum.
Barry started and looked up.
“I went to the scene, yes.” Tag paused. “Barry?”
Barry stared at him, a bit of shellshock still ricocheting around in his head, making it
hard to focus, impossible to speak.
“You had a dream,” Tag said.
Barry didn’t have to answer.
“I’m giving this to Cornwall and Riggs. Go home. Get some sleep.”
“Fuck you.” Barry dropped to one knee and scooped the papers back into their folder.
“You have to let me do this.”
“You can barely focus. You’re too close. Those dreams—”
“Make me the perfect candidate to find her.”
Tag was shaking his head already, though. “I know what those dreams do to you,
Barry.”
“No, you don’t.” Barry leaned in to his face, tapped him on the chest with the corner of
the folder. “You left.”
Tag backed off and sank onto the edge of his desk. At least he didn’t argue that point.
“I don’t know where they come from, or why I have them, Tag, but you have to let me
use them,” Barry insisted.
“What they do to you, though…”
“They do whether I use them or ignore them. If something good can come…”
Captain Taggart nodded. “But if I think you’re in trouble, I’m pulling you.”
Barry scooped the fat file off his boss’s desk and turned to the door. “I’ll find her, Tag.”
About the Author
Sarah Masters is a multi-published author in three pen names writing several genres.
She lives with her husband, children, and three cats in an English village. She writes
full time and is also a cover artist and blog designer. In another life she was an editor.
Her other pen names are Natalie Dae and Charley Oweson.
Sarah is busy co-authoring with Jaime Samms. They have several books in mind so
will be writing for a couple of years to come! She also needs to finish her M/M novel,
the tale she’s dubbed The Book That Doesn’t Want To End. She’s at the last chapter
but is afraid to open it in case that last chapter isn’t really the last chapter…
Sarah loves to hear from readers. You can find her contact information, website and
author biography at
Also by Sarah Masters
The Dreaming: Tools of Justice
Clandestine Classics: Hemlock Bones: A Stud in Scarlet
Total-E-Bound Publishing
www.total-e-bound.com
Take a look at our exciting range of literagasmic™
erotic romance titles and discover pure quality
at Total-E-Bound.
Document Outline
- Sarah Masters is a multi-published author in three pen names writing several genres. She lives with her husband, children, and three cats in an English village. She writes full time and is also a cover artist and blog designer. In another life she was...
- Sarah is busy co-authoring with Jaime Samms. They have several books in mind so will be writing for a couple of years to come! She also needs to finish her M/M novel, the tale she’s dubbed The Book That Doesn’t Want To End. She’s at the last chapter b...
- Email: emmyellis@live.co.uk
- Also by Sarah Masters
- The Dreaming: Tools of Justice
- Clandestine Classics: Hemlock Bones: A Stud in Scarlet
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