Bliss Page 7

  Aaron flushed and grinned at the floor. “Well, nothing too bad, sir.”

  Lowell raised his eyebrows but didn’t say anything.

  “I mean, I maybe drank a little too much.” Aaron’s grin was caught somewhere between cheeky and sheepish. “And maybe Alexandra Holt and I kissed and made up over the whole internship squabble. Okay, maybe more than just kissed—”

  “That’ll be quite enough, Aaron,” Lowell scolded suddenly.

  Aaron’s grin faltered.

  What had happened to their friendly boss, the one who’d been so eager to hear the gossip?

  Rory cleared his throat. “A gentleman doesn’t mention a lady’s name, Aaron,” he said. “Or a fellow gentleman’s, as the case may be,” he added with a wink, hoping to ease the tension.

  That seemed to work because Lowell clapped him on the shoulder. “That’s right. That’s good advice.”

  “Oh.” Aaron looked a little hesitant. “Okay. Um, sorry.”

  “All right,” Lowell said, rising to his feet. “I can’t stop and chat all day. You boys get some work done, hmm?”

  “Yes, sir,” Rory said.

  Aaron echoed him, lacking his usual enthusiasm.

  Lowell returned to his office and closed the door. Aaron stared at it, a pitiful expression on his face.

  “Come on,” Rory said. “I’m going to need your help to find that info.” He lowered his voice. “Every boss gets snappy once in a while. Don’t take it personally.”

  “Yeah,” Aaron said. “I guess. He’s easygoing so much of the time, I guess I didn’t realize that even he has a limit when it comes to workplace-appropriate stuff.”

  “Exactly. But now you know, right? And hey, you can tell me all about Alexandra while we work. Would be nice to get my mind off things.”

  “‘Things?’ . . . Oh, your rezzy,” Aaron said, looking relieved to change the subject. “What’s that like?”

  “Why don’t you show me where to find the records room, and I’ll fill you in.”

  “Okay.” Aaron’s smile was back, and only a little dull around the edges.

  By the end of the day, Rory was pretty confident about his ability to do his job. He was still overwhelmed, but at least he could find his way around the Hall of Justice now without getting lost. He had a headache, though, so he was looking forward to going home, Tate or no Tate. He used the walk from the station to his house as an opportunity to clear his head, or at least fill his lungs with fresh air.

  As confident as he’d been earlier talking to Lowell, now that he was alone again, the thought of interacting with Tate was beginning to worry him. He wished Lowell could have come along for moral support, but no, this was something Rory needed to do on his own. How could Tate ever respect Rory’s authority as a sponsor if he needed Lowell to hold his hand through all the rough spots?

  As he turned into his street—still not familiar enough with it to be absolutely certain he was in the right one—a white, unmarked van with heavily tinted windows passed him. It looked like the one that had delivered Tate to his doorstep yesterday. And, although he couldn’t be sure, it seemed as if it had only just started moving. Had it been at his house? Or was there another rezzy being delivered on the street? Of course, it could have been a laundry service for all that Rory knew.

  He turned off the footpath and headed for his house. The front door opened before he could even dig his keys out of his pocket.

  “Good afternoon, Rory.”

  “Tate.” Rory frowned at him. “Have you been waiting for me, or was someone just here?”

  “There was nobody here,” Tate said. His gaze flicked to the road, to the direction the van had gone, and then back to Rory. “Can I take your bag?”

  “I’ve got it.” Rory entered the house, and Tate closed the door behind him. As quiet and dignified as a butler. It should have been satisfying, but instead it was just unnerving. And irritating. He didn’t trust that Tate was telling the truth. God, he hated this whole situation. So much for Mr. Lowell’s pep talk earlier.

  “How was your day?” Tate asked.

  Rory refused to look at him. “Fine. Yours?”

  “I did all the chores you asked me to do. And a few you didn’t. I made dinner. Hope you like steak.”

  “Sure,” Rory said. “Who doesn’t? Gonna eat alone in my room and get some work done now, though. Make sure the kitchen’s clean before you go to bed.”

  “R-right. I will.”

  Rory frowned. Something was off here, and he was sure that Tate was lying about the van. “So no one came here today?”

  “No, Rory,” Tate said. His gaze flicked up, then down again. “But I did want to speak to you, if that’s okay.”

  “What about?”

  “About my behavior,” Tate replied. “Yesterday. I was . . . I was playing you.”

  Rory couldn’t help his small smile of triumph. “That’s exactly what I thought.”

  Tate’s voice gained strength. “And I know you don’t want me to apologize, to be, um, a sycophant, so I won’t say I’m sorry. But I will promise that it won’t happen again.”

  “Fine,” said Rory. He wasn’t sure he trusted this new Tate any more than he trusted the old one, but Tate didn’t push it, didn’t turn on the histrionics like he had yesterday. He only nodded and backed away.

  “Let me know when you’re ready, and I’ll bring your dinner.”

  “Thank you.” Rory headed for his bedroom. He dropped his bag on the floor, closed the door, and rolled his shoulders. God. That encounter was almost more awkward than their first, with Tate crying on his knees. And wasn’t that a depressing thought. Rory rubbed his still-aching forehead and sat down on the bed. He took his painkillers from the bedside table and swallowed two.

  At least he’d managed a little alone time for tonight. If Tate would just keep himself scarce, maybe Rory could manage this whole restitution sponsorship thing. He unfastened his tie and tugged it off, then lay back on the bed with a sigh. Maybe he’d feel better after a nap. He had half a mind to head outside and demand that Tate be the one to eat in his room. After all, this was his damn house, which he’d earned, and it wasn’t fair that he wasn’t able to actually live here, and all because of some jerk who’d punched him in the face and then hadn’t had the decency to get away. But he was too tired to force the issue at the moment.

  He wasn’t keen on confrontation, either, especially not after Tate had finally—seemingly—cut the bullshit for the first time.

  Punched in the face on the first day. Hiding in his own house.

  Beulah was nothing like he’d expected, and not only that—he felt damn sorry for daring to feel disappointed by it.

  He sighed again and closed his eyes. He must have dozed because he didn’t even realize anyone was in the room until his mattress dipped. His eyes snapped open. Tate. Tate was kneeling on the bed beside him, one shaking hand reaching out for Rory’s belt.

  “Jesus, what are you—” Rory froze with shock.

  “You seem so stressed and high-strung. Let me help.”

  “Help?” Rory croaked. “I don’t need . . .”

  Tate tugged his zipper down, swiped his tongue across his lips, and leaned in. And—oh shit—every objection Rory wanted to make died right then and there as Tate, his face hidden by his gleaming dark hair, mouthed his cock through his underwear. Tate’s hot, wet breath soaked through the cotton.

  “How—” He gasped. “How did you know I’m gay?”

  Tate pressed the side of his face to Rory’s growing bulge and stared up at him through glassy, half-lidded eyes. “I didn’t. But a hole’s a hole, right? And a mouth’s a mouth?”

  “Oh fuck,” Rory whispered. “Yeah, I guess.”

  He could blame this bad decision on his painkillers later.

  And as for the guilt? There would be guilt. But knowing that wasn’t enough to make Rory refuse Tate now. It had been so long, and he’d been so fucking lonely.

  Tate hooked his cold finge
rs around the band of Rory’s underwear and pulled it down. Kept one hand on his bunched-up underwear and trousers, holding them out of the way, and wrapped his other hand around the shaft of Rory’s cock. Licked his lips again. Bent his head down.

  “Help.” Tate shivered suddenly, jerked his head. “Let me help.”

  “Shit,” Rory breathed, as Tate’s lips pressed against the head of his cock. Hot and wet and so soft. Plush against the hardness of Rory’s erection. Then Tate’s lips parted, and he took Rory’s cock into his mouth. “Oh shit, shit, oh yes—”

  Tate moaned. Stared at Rory through his hair, his eyes dark, his lips stretched around Rory’s cock, looking every inch one of those boys from Rory’s magazines. Fucking gorgeous. And he felt even better, so wet, suckling the head of Rory’s cock so very gently, flicking Rory’s foreskin with the tip of his tongue.

  “Tate, fuck!”

  Tate’s eyes shone with pleasure. The corner of his mouth twitched, spasming from being stretched around Rory’s girth, maybe. “Pl . . . ease,” he gritted out.

  “Yes,” Rory replied. He lifted his hips, wanting more. God, it had been so long. “Yes, yes.”

  Tate bobbed his head down, too fast. He coughed and tears filled his eyes, but he didn’t ease back or make any attempt to pull away. Shit, Tate didn’t have much finesse, but Rory couldn’t fault his enthusiasm. He gagged again but kept going, eventually faltering into a rhythm of sorts. Stuttering strokes that dragged along the shaft of Rory’s cock, punctuated by choking noises.

  Rory dropped his head back onto the mattress and groaned. He shouldn’t be doing this. He shouldn’t be letting this happen. He and Tate had no reason to want to share something this intimate. But then, maybe a blowjob wasn’t intimate to a person like Tate. He was a crim, wasn’t he? Maybe even an addict, on the outside. Like the guys that hung around the streets near Rory’s old apartment block, the ones who’d do anything for money or drugs. Not that Rory had either, but maybe he had something else Tate wanted. Like his docile fucking cooperation. Like he could buy Rory’s goodwill this way. Wrap him around his little finger while he was at it.

  “I was playing you,” Tate had said earlier. And fuck him, he was still playing him, only using a new game.

  Just like that, Rory’s cock softened. Tate whined in exaggerated despair, wrapping a hand around Rory’s shrunken cock and trying to stroke it back to life.

  “Get off,” Rory demanded. “I know what you’re fucking doing. Get the fuck off and get out.”

  Tate leaned back, eyes wide in shock. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I don’t . . . I don’t understand . . .”

  Rory rolled away from him, tugging his pants closed. “Get out.”

  “I wanted to,” Tate said, climbing off the bed. He was panting. Something like panic flashed in his eyes. “I wanted to!”

  “Get out!”

  Tate fled.

  In the sudden silence, Rory struggled to make sense of what the hell just happened. He dropped his head into his hands, groaned at his own stupidity, and wondered what the fuck he was supposed to do now.

  Tate hugged the toilet bowl. He had no idea if his sudden urge to puke was because of the fact that he’d had another man’s dick in his mouth or if it was the chip, punishing him for displeasing his master. Maybe both.

  He was crying, and he’d never cried in his fucking life before they’d put that chip in his head. And even thinking about it hurt. How was that fair? Bad enough that he couldn’t talk about it, but he wasn’t even allowed the privacy of his own thoughts?

  His head throbbed.

  The man who’d come today for Tate’s routine check-up had promised it would get easier. Told him not to try so hard. Told him to be less of a sycophant. By “easier,” Tate understood that he’d stop feeling this conflicted eventually, this push and pull between what he was supposed to be and the man he had been. And he wanted that. He wanted to be at peace, even if it was terrifying at the same time. Because then he’d be gone, wouldn’t he? He’d be gone, and there would be no coming back. But if he stayed like this, if he struggled to keep himself whole, never stopped fighting, he’d never be happy, never stop hurting, never, never—

  Even now he could feel the chip’s influence stealing him, silencing his thoughts. Smothering them.

  Why hadn’t Rory let him finish? Why hadn’t Rory let him . . . make him happy? Why couldn’t he see or sense what was happening inside Tate’s head? What was he doing wrong?

  Tate lifted his head as he heard footsteps. Rory on his way to get his dinner probably. Another thing Tate had fucked up. Should have taken his dinner in like he’d said and not tried for anything else. But he’d seen Rory lying there, his forehead creased with tension, and all of a sudden he’d remembered the men at the police station. They’d said he’d do it, said he’d suck dick, even though Tate had never done anything like it in his life. Never wanted to. But all of that was different now. Now he just wanted to please Rory, and what man didn’t like to get his dick sucked? So he’d done it. Fought against all the screaming in his head, even the bits that had escaped his mouth, and done it, but Rory hadn’t been happy.

  Tate moaned and knocked his head against the toilet. Why couldn’t he get this right? He was trying, but it just wasn’t working. Damn, they should give Rory a chip to make him easier to please.

  Just the thought made him puke all over again, retching his empty stomach out over the bowl.

  No. He wouldn’t wish this hell on anybody.

  Especially not his awkward, unassuming master, who hadn’t asked for this any more than Tate had.

  God, he wished he could just tell the man what was happening to him. Maybe then he’d—

  What, let you suck his cock just to alleviate your pain . . . after you punched him in the face for no reason?

  No. Shit. What was even wrong with him? He didn’t deserve Rory’s pity. He didn’t deserve his compassion. He didn’t even deserve his fucking cooperation. He didn’t deserve anything.

  ays passed, and Rory was relieved that for the most part, Tate made himself scarce. When he woke up in the morning, his slippers were next to the bed, and his breakfast and packed lunch were ready in the kitchen. When he got home at the end of the day, every room in the house was spotless, his bed made and his laundry washed, and there was a hot supper waiting for him on the table.

  Tate didn’t join him for meals. Didn’t come out when Rory got the chance to laze around and watch TV in the evenings. Didn’t speak to him, except the occasional, “Do you need anything?” to which Rory always mutely shook his head.

  It was a small house, so yeah, Rory saw him, but it was only ever brief glimpses as he hurried from one room to the next, moving like a shadow. The guy seemed to look paler and more withdrawn every time Rory saw him, but at least things between them were peaceful, all boundaries respected, and no lying whatsoever. And that was fine. It was working.

  Except one night when Rory had woken and, heading for the bathroom, heard a strange sound coming from behind Tate’s door. A kind of snuffling and a strangled whimpering. He’d stood there in the darkness, shocked.

  Tate had been crying.

  He couldn’t help but feel guilty for that. Was it because he’d rebuffed Tate so soundly? Shit, had Tate maybe not been playing him, not been working some angle? Rory had been too ashamed, too afraid, to knock on the door and ask. But the next morning he’d made sure to seek Tate out to thank him for breakfast, and his smile seemed so genuine, so entirely without artifice, that Rory had felt guilty for most of the day.

  Maybe Tate really did want to do a good job. Maybe his apology and his promise had been just as genuine as his smile. And if that was the case, was the blowjob genuine too? You couldn’t fake that kind of enthusiasm, could you? Well, not unless you were a practiced whore, he supposed. But practiced whores didn’t cry over being rejected, did they? Which meant . . .

  Rory kicking Tate out of his bed like that had been a cruel and unneces
sary rejection of a man who had genuinely wanted him. Hard to believe, maybe, but it was the only thing that made sense.

  No wonder Tate had been so upset.

  “Do you need anything else?” Tate asked the next morning after serving Rory his coffee, already half turning away because Rory never did.

  “Actually . . .”

  Tate spun back, expectant. His eyes had lit up, and there was even a smile tugging at the corners of his soft, pouty mouth.

  Rory, unable to face that expression any longer, averted his eyes and just blurted it out. “So, Mr. Lowell has his speech today, the one I wrote for him.” He wrinkled his nose. “There’s no way he isn’t going to knock it out of the park, so he thinks we should do something to celebrate all our hard work and . . . well, he’s kind of invited himself here. In a nice way, I mean. He’s also invited Aaron and Zac and Ruth.” He looked worriedly at Tate.

  Tate’s smile grew, his pretty face lighting up. “What do you want me to do, Rory?”

  “We could get takeout,” he suggested.

  “Let me make something,” Tate said. “Let me try, please. You can’t feed your boss takeout. Not if he’s coming for dinner.”

  “O-okay,” he said, a little taken aback by Tate’s enthusiasm. “Like to cook, do you? What do you suggest?”

  “It makes me feel useful,” Tate replied, which wasn’t exactly an answer to Rory’s question, but oh well. “I’ve been learning. Practicing. I think if I can pull off a nice roast; it would make a good impression for you.”

  “I don’t know . . .” Rory shrugged. “I mean, are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

  Tate nodded. “I’d like the chance to prove myself.”

  Something about the stubborn tilt of Tate’s chin impressed Rory. “Okay. I’ll leave it in your capable hands, then. So tonight, six o’clock?”

  “Six o’clock,” Tate said. Then his stubbornness vanished, his expression softened, and he bit his lip almost shyly. He stepped forward. “Thank you, Rory.”