Sweet Revenge (m|m)

Eleven - Aaron

Back in my tiny apartment, I let out a sigh of frustration and regret and bang my head against the door I just slammed shut at my back.

"Fucking drama queen," I berate myself under my breath. "You couldn't hold it together for five fucking minutes? Shit."

Now I've got a raging hard-on and Blake thinks I'm some kind of mental case. At least one of those things I can deal with.

In the bathroom, I turn on the shower and shed my clothes. Beneath the hot spray, I stroke myself off with swift efficiency, gasping and leaning heavily on the wall as I come with an intensity I haven't felt in months.

My legs feel weak, and I slide to the floor, letting the hot water beat against my back while I rest my head on my raised knees. Great, now I'm acting like a mental case, too.

I shouldn't have let Blake kiss me, no matter how much I wanted him to. He'd wanted it just as bad, and clearly would have taken it further if I'd let him. But it wasn't his reaction that alarmed me; it was mine.

It's true it'd been a while, but I'm no virgin, and it's not like I don't take care of my own needs. And yet I almost came in my pants from that kiss alone. Worse, now that I've tasted what Blake has to offer, I don't think I'll ever stop wanting more.

Just when I thought I'd finally left the past behind me, too. I'd even stopped dreaming about it.

~♡~

Chad's fingers left dark bruises on my face where he'd grabbed me. When I'd got home that night, my dad looked away from his sports program long enough to notice.

"What the fuck happened to you?" he'd asked.

"Got in a fight," I'd said.

That answer seemed to please him. Fighting was manly, so it had his approval.

I like to think if my mom was still around she might have pressed for more; might even have scolded me, or given me a lecture or something. But she was in Europe somewhere with a wealthier, handsomer man than my father. She'd been too young when she had me, and domesticity hadn't agreed with her. I didn't blame her, really.

My grandma told me my dad used to be 'sweet as apple cider,' when he was young and in love with my mom. I guess time hadn't been kind to his body or his soul, and his apple cider had turned to vinegar.

I made chicken and pasta that night. The extent of my dad's talent in the kitchen was the ability to operate the microwave, so the cooking fell to me. My dad appreciated that at least, though he always found a way to include a barb in his complements: tiny razors hidden in something sweet.

I served him his dinner where he sat in front of the TV. I'd have preferred to eat at the table, like a normal family, but he didn't want to miss whatever was happening in whatever gladiatorial game he was watching. So I sat at the other end of the couch and pretended I was interested too.

"Mm, this is good," he said, mopping cream sauce up with a piece of chicken. "This a recipe?"

I shook my head. "Not really. Just something I made up."

"Huh," he grunted. "You'll make someone a fine wife someday."

Out of someone else's mouth, maybe that would have been a funny, lighthearted joke—a little jab meant more as a compliment than anything else. From him, it sounded ugly and mean-spirited, and I knew he didn't mean it in a good way.

I stood and snatched his plate from his hands, and some pasta fell in his lap.

"Fuckin' hell, boy! What the fuck are you doin'?" he yelled.

I took his plate and mine and dumped them—plates, forks, and all—in the trash.

"The fuck you wastin' good food for?" He was on his feet now, face red with fury. "You think I'm made'a money? I work hard for that shit!"

I dashed up the stairs to my room and locked myself in. From the living room below I heard him continue to rant and curse for a minute, but he quickly ran out of steam.

"Now what the fuck 'm I s'posed to eat?" He grumbled, and then he was quiet, probably having answered his own question with another beer and settled back in front of the TV.

I cried—quietly, of course, so he wouldn't hear me—for a long time. I cried for my broken heart, and my broken family, and my stupid little broken dream of making something worth loving—or of being something worth loving. I guess I thought those were the same thing.

~♡~

Sweet Revenge is closed on Sundays. Not because I'm religious, but because even I need a day off, and it's the quietest day of the week.

I let myself sleep in. Or I try, at least.

I'm roused by a loud rapping on the door, and drag myself from bed with a groan. It's not coming from downstairs, I realize. It's coming from the door of my apartment.

It has an outside access at the top of a flight of wooden stairs around the back of the shop, but most people don't realize it's a residence unless they know me or they've looked it up.

I rub the sleep from my face and run my hands through my hair. I didn't sleep well, and I'm hoping whoever's out there will give up and go away.

They don't, and continue to knock with increasing insistence, until I'm not sure whether to be more worried for the door or their hand.

I decide to reward their impatience by not bothering to get dressed. If it's the Jehovah's Witnesses, they're in for a treat.

It's not, though.

It's Blake, and his eyes go straight down while his brows go up. At least I don't sleep nude, but my briefs suddenly feel very small indeed.

"Holy shit," he says.

"Jesus Christ!" I say at the same time, and try to slam the door in his face, but he's too fast and catches it.

"Wait! Aaron, I need to talk to you," he says. "Please?"

I briefly consider which would be more painful: paying his hospital bill if I slam his fingers in the door, or letting him in my apartment while I'm dressed in my underwear and listening to what he has to say.

"Fine," I let go of the door and step back. "What?"

"I . . . I didn't like how things ended last night," he says.

Yeah, he's not alone there.

"And I . . . I know you don't want to hear this, but . . . I really like you."

Actually, I don't hate hearing it.

He draws a deep breath and finally spits it out. "And . . . I'm really worried about you."

Ah, fuck. Time to set the record straight.