To know it was a facade to hide the homophobic guy Sam thought he knew did more than hurt. It broke something. It made him angry in a way he’d never felt.

  Karl shoved Sam into the lockers. His back hit the metal with a rattle.

  Sam didn’t know what drove the first punch. The idea Joe was not who he thought he was or the realization people like Karl justified Joe’s fear.

  Sam’s fist connected with Karl’s nose and the guy stumbled back. He didn’t even get a chance to examine the damage before Sam lunged, driving his shoulder into Karl’s gut. He followed Karl to the ground. The guy outweighed him by a good fifty pounds, but it didn’t matter. Sam had handled bigger guys than him on the mat.

  A space cleared in the crowd and students chanted.

  Karl wrapped a beefy arm around Sam and he twisted free of Karl’s grip just in time to avoid a hit to the head. Sam turned, grabbed one of Karl’s legs, locked one arm behind Karl’s knee, the other around his head, and pinned him to the ground.

  Karl made an attempt to buck Sam off, but he cranked Karl’s leg forward until it folded against his chest.

  “I’m gonna fucking kill you.” Karl thrashed. “You hear me? I’m gonna mess you up.”

  And Sam believed him. He tightened his hold around Karl’s neck. The flush in his face turned crimson, then a shade close to purple. Spit flecked his lips, and his eyes bulged.

  The cheers and fight cries grew louder.

  A blunt agony struck Sam in the kidney. He lost his hold and rolled away. Karl flailed on the floor, gasping for air. The boy who kicked Sam took a step toward him. Sam met his gaze, and he stopped.

  Sam hurled himself at the guy, and they smashed into the bank of lockers. One of the doors flew open and whacked the other boy in the face.

  Another set of hands on Sam threw him back to the floor. His breath exploded from his chest, and black spots blurred the room. Then he was yanked to his feet by the front of his shirt.

  Sam locked his leg around the boy’s knees and flipped him over.

  The kid hit the floor face first. A splash of blood painted the tile. Two teeth skittered away and were lost in the ocean of shuffling feet.

  Sam had just gotten his balance when Karl punched him in the stomach. Every instinct urged Sam to get away, but it would give Karl more room to swing. He locked his arms around the guy’s waist, swept his legs out from under him, and they both went down again. Before Sam could pin him, he was dragged off the floor. He swung without looking.

  Mr. Freeman’s head snapped back.

  Everything stopped.

  A trickle of blood leaked from the split in Mr. Freeman’s lip.

  The only thing Sam could do was stare. First at his teacher, then at the three boys he’d been fighting with.

  “Principal’s office. All of you. Now.” Mr. Freeman took a handkerchief out of his pocket and held it to his split lip.

  Sam picked up his bookbag and closed his locker. The angry expression on Karl’s face transformed into rage. His two friends didn’t look happy either.

  There was no need for them to speak. The message was clear.

  This was not over.

  Hell, it hadn’t even begun.

  Jacob didn’t want to call Marcel, but he had to. Not because Logan had been there again, but because of the guy in the room next door. The one who’d claimed to be a rent boy.

  If that guy was a rent boy, Jacob was the Virgin Mary.

  The innocence in Ben’s eyes had been long gone from Jacob’s by the time he was the same age because Jacob had already seen way more than anyone should.

  And done twice as many shameful things.

  Living on the streets since the age of fourteen would do it to anyone. At least Jacob had survived. Few did. Ben couldn’t have been much over twenty, and he still had the spark of hope usually dead in those forgotten about. The trait left him exposed and easy to read.

  That’s how Jacob knew Ben had lied about needing money. He’d told the truth about his uncle dying, though, and the gun, but the rest?

  No. The desperation had come off him in waves. He wanted to see Marcel, all right, but Jacob had no idea why.

  Which was exactly why he needed to call and tell Marcel about Ben.

  Jacob took out his cell phone and dialed. It kicked over to voice mail. Jacob hung up and dialed again. On the very last ring, it picked up.

  “Are you all right?” Marcel said

  “Yeah. I’m fine.”

  “I thought we had this discussion last night. You promised no more lies.”

  “I’m not…” Jacob ran a hand over his head. “I’m okay. I promise. A little shook up.”

  “How bad?”

  “A bruise. And maybe a cut.”

  “Maybe?”

  “A small cut.”

  “What else.” Not a question.

  “Nothing, he didn’t do anything.”

  “But he was going to.”

  Jacob sat on the bed. The feral lust in Logan’s eyes had haunted Jacob’s dreams for years. Not because it was Logan but because that look had been shared by so many men Frankie had passed Jacob around too. “I think so. Yeah, I think he would have.”

  “But he didn’t.”

  “No, he stopped.”

  “Because someone was there.”

  “The guy in the next room. He ran Logan off.”

  “And?”

  Jacob sucked in a breath. Eased it out. “He asked about turning tricks for you.”

  There was a shuffle, then the squeak of hinges. A sound Jacob heard whenever he opened the screen door. “What does he look like?”

  “Normal.” Once Jacob said it, all he could do was laugh. He pressed a shaking hand to his mouth in an attempt to muffle the sound.

  “Come see me.”

  “No, no. I’m okay.”

  “That is not a request, Jacob.”

  Of course it wasn’t.

  Jacob rubbed his thumb over the mark on his hand. It was no bigger than a dime, but it was a powerful message to people in a world he never imagined existed.

  Marcel hadn’t told him much. But it was enough for Jacob to know the things in life he thought were terrifying were nothing compared to the truth. The knowledge made him even more grateful for what Marcel had done for him. He’d not only pulled him out of the gutter, he’d given Jacob the kind of protection that couldn’t be bought.

  “What time?” Jacob went back to the mirror to look at the cut on his head.

  “I will send a cab.”

  “I can walk.”

  “I did not think you could not. But I will send a cab.”

  “It’ll take me a couple of minutes to get ready. I need a shower.”

  “Come as you are. You can shower here.” The tone in Marcel’s voice dropped, going from cold to frigid. “You won’t need extra clothes.”

  A nervous thrill ran through Jacob. He pressed his hand against his growing erection.

  Marcel chuckled. “Feeling better?”

  “Yeah. Sorta. I don’t know.” Jacob’s skin tightened.

  “You are more than better. You are hard. You are wanting. Are you thinking of my cock in your ass or down your throat? Perhaps I will do all of those things. Or perhaps I will do none of them.”

  Jacob sucked in a breath.

  “The cab will be there in five minutes. Come in the front door. I will wait for you in the Bedroom.”

  Jacob stared at the blank screen on his phone. His teeth chattered and sweat soaked his skin.

  Five minutes was not going to pass soon enough.

  Marcel sat in the chair in the far corner of the room, where he had a perfect view of Jacob when he entered. His shoes were off, his jacket gone, leaving behind a T-shirt and jeans.

  When Marcel first allowed things to become physical between them, Jacob spent his money on the best slacks and silk shirts.

  Marcel didn’t give him a large allowance. The idea Jacob found a need to spend it to impress him was pleasing, but not important. Jacob did not need fancy clothes to make him beautiful. Besides, the fancy clothes had not erased his self-doubt, his thoughts of inadequacy, the secret fear he would never, could never, be loved.

  All of those things played in the way he moved, how he looked around a room, clenched his fists, swallowed hard, the sweat on his brow, the jump of muscle in his jaw.

  Marcel read these facts as if they’d been written in print. Just like he read Jacob’s past in the faint white lines left behind on his body from years of mistreatment.

  A man or woman of worth did not mistreat the lives given to him. Whether taken as a gift or sacrificed in the flesh, they were meant to be cherished, each one special and unique.

  No. Jacob didn’t need fancy clothes, because you could not give more value to something already priceless.

  “Close the door.”

  Jacob did.

  The room was large enough to leave plenty of floor space between the king-sized bed and the wardrobe. A full bathroom occupied the alcove on the right side. On the left, a set of blacked-out windows.

  From the outside, those windows appeared as any other in the house, but on the inside, they were covered just like the walls, ceiling, floor, and door: in acoustic paneling.

  Even if someone stood right outside, a scream was nothing more than a muted hum.

  All the pain, suffering, and hate festering in Jacob could manifest in ear-shattering pleas, and no one would hear. Marcel had hoped to have emptied him of those feelings by now, but the well inside Jacob was deep and reluctant to give up the terrible things it housed.

  One day though, one day, Marcel would find a way to scrape the last of those festering thoughts from Jacob’s soul and leave them in the sun to rot.

  Not because Marcel cared, but because weakness was a terrible disease to be inflicted with. A sickness no human should suffer.

  Jacob exhaled a shuddering breath. The flush across his cheeks darkened. His lips parted. The bulge in the front of his jeans strained.

  But he would wait in silence, struggling to remain still, as long as Marcel wanted.

  On occasion, it was hours.

  Today wasn’t one of those days. Today, Jacob needed what Marcel could give him.

  “Closer.”

  He walked.

  “Stop.”

  He did.

  Marcel turned his head slightly to give his good eye the best perspective. He’d been lucky to keep any vision in the right. Even if shadows and muted light weren’t very useful.

  “Take off your shirt.”

  Jacob held it in his hand.

  “Drop it.”

  The shirt made a blue puddle beside Jacob’s foot.

  “Unbutton your jeans.”

  Jacob’s hands shook.

  “The zipper.”

  He made a fist for a moment before trying to grasp the tiny metal tab. The denim parted, and his cock curved toward his stomach. Precum made the head glisten.

  “Jeans.”

  They fell around Jacob’s ankles. He stepped out of them.

  Marcel studied the cut near Jacob’s hairline. It wasn’t bad enough to need stitches, but by tomorrow an ugly bruise would encompass it.

  Fainter marks shadowed his neck. Thin scratches drew red lines on his forearms. Jacob was not a fighter. He’d been conditioned a long time ago to believe he was helpless.

  One day he’d learn just how untrue that was.

  “Tell me what happened. Every word Logan said. What he wore. What he smelled like. Had he shaved? Cut his nails? Did he sweat? Do not leave out a single detail. If you do, I will know.”

  Marcel waited.

  The shivers racing across Jacob’s body turned into an all-out tremble. Even his teeth chattered. Bitter fear perfumed the air. His erection flagged. He dropped his eyes, and when he did try and meet Marcel’s gaze again, it fell away quicker than before.

  Marcel continued to wait.

  “I…I’m not sure I can remember.”

  “You do not want to remember. There is a difference.”

  Jacob wrapped his arms around himself.

  “Hands at your side.”

  Jacob’s muscles cut lines over his shoulders as he obeyed. “Logan…” Jacob wet his lips. “He…he offered to triple what you pay me. He said he had customers who wanted me, and they were willing to pay more. He said working for you couldn’t be all that. When I told him to leave, he wanted to know if I was going to flash my scar again.” Jacob started to reach for his marked hand but stopped. “He said a buddy of his saw Frankie in Mexico. He said you were a crippled old man, and there was no way what I told him was true.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “That…that you killed Frankie. That I watched you kill him.”

  “Continue.”

  “He said it would be like old times, him, me, and some H. He said we had catching up to do. That I’d better open the door or everyone would see what he was doing—going to do to me.”

  “Did you open the door?”

  “He did.”

  “Continue.”

  “He called me pretty boy.”

  “How did it make you feel to hear him say those words?”

  Jacob frowned.

  “Answer the question. How did it make you feel to hear him call you pretty?”

  “Like…” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Like a whore.”

  “Are you?”

  Tear shimmered in Jacob’s eyes. “I was.”

  “And now?”

  “I…” A tear rolled down his cheek. “I don’t know.”

  Marcel nodded once. “What did Logan wear?”

  Tension aged Jacobs features. “A light gray suit. Silk, I think. His shirt was purple. It was definitely silk. Alligator cowboy boots. A…a leather tie tied with one of those metal clips.”

  “And him, what did he look like?”

  Jacob closed his eyes. “He’d changed his hair cut. Shorter and slicked back.” His brow wrinkled. “It looked greasy but wasn’t. And his eyebrows, I think he plucked them. His cologne was strong but not offensive like something cheap. He just smelled like he bathed in it.”

  “There’s more.”

  Jacob almost raised his gaze. “I can’t remember.” There it was, a small tic in his jaw, a clenching of his hands, the breath he took hitched.

  “Like I said, that is not your decision to make.”

  “Marcel, I…”

  “Tell me.” Marcel didn’t raise his voice, but Jacob flinched.

  “Please, I—”

  In one smooth movement, Marcel stood in front of Jacob. “You felt something when he spoke to you. What was it?”

  “I was afraid.” The reply was almost a whisper.

  “It was more. You were not just afraid of him.” Marcel tipped his head. The scent of fear bleeding from Jacob’s skin filled Marcel’s lungs. In response, his heart slowed, his breaths deepened, everything came into sharp focus. Objects around him pushed at the empty space, Jacob’s presence all but hummed, and the slightest movement prickled Marcel’s skin. “You were not just afraid of him. You were afraid for him.”

  Goosebumps speckled the flesh on Jacob’s arms. “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “You’ll kill him.”

  “And me killing him scares you?”

  “I don’t want to watch.”

  Marcel cupped Jacob’s cheek. He pressed against Marcel’s hand until he was forced to meet his gaze. Jacob sucked in an inhale, his eyes darkened, arousal mixed with the apprehension.

  Marcel leaned close enough to brush his lips against the shell of Jacob’s ear. “Now, tell me about the man with the gun.”

  Jacob swallowed so hard, his throat clicked. “Blond hair, green eyes, I think. Shorter than me, but not by much. Close to my age, twenty, twenty-one. He was dressed in a black button-up shirt and jeans. He looked tired. Smelled like crisp spring air. I don’t think it was cologne, but maybe the soap he’d used?”

  “And the gun?”

  “What about it?”

  “How did he hold it?” Marcel stroked Jacob’s cheek with his thumb.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Did he appear nervous or sure of himself?”

  “He wasn’t nervous, but I don’t think he’d held one very often.”

  “What else can you tell me about him?”

  “He asked about you.”

  “Why?”

  “He overheard some of the things Logan said. He thought you were my pimp. He said he needed money. He asked if you would be interested in him.”

  Marcel raised an eyebrow. “His expression?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Did he look afraid? Relaxed? Did he wring his hands? How did he stand? Spine straight? Or were his shoulder’s curled?”

  “I think his hands were sweaty; he kept wiping them on his shirt. I can’t remem—”

  Marcel tightened his hold. “How did he stand?”

  “I…he shuffled his feet.”

  “And his eyes?” Marcel turned Jacob’s head until his mouth was close enough to taste his exhale. “Tell me about his eyes, Jacob.”

  Jacob pushed into Marcel’s hold, putting his mouth so very close. The desire in Jacob’s expression turned painful. “Innocent. He was just a guy.” Jacob whimpered.

  “But there is more. Now think.”

  “He…”

  Marcel ran his free hand down Jacob’s chest, then back up to his neck. “I’m waiting.”

  “Sadness, anger. I think. I can’t—”

  Marcel stepped away, and Jacob stumbled.

  “Please, Marcel. That’s all I can remember. I swear. I swear that’s—”

  Marcel silenced him with a look. “Turn around.”

  Jacob did.

  “Put your hands on the bedpost.”

  Shivers danced down Jacob’s back and echoed in his legs. The muscles in his ass clenched, enhancing the shadows cutting him into hard lines. He worked out because Marcel wanted him strong. Not for bulk, but endurance.

  Moments like these would take everything Jacob had.

  Marcel pulled Jacob’s head back by his hair.

  “Never forget you are mine. Your body. Your soul. Your dreams. Your fears. They belong to me. Every part of you. Every cell in your body.”

  Marcel chased another round of shivers with his hand to the crack of Jacob’s ass. Lubricant made his entrance slick.