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I just wished he’d come right out and say that’s what he wanted. Why not articulate the wordless truth instead of dancing around the subject, under the illusion that pretend niceties were required.
Ascending the slippery porch steps, I mentally prepared myself to meet my fate. I wondered: would he expect to immediately claim his payment, or would it be reserved for tonight? The ticking of the clock would only weaken my resolve, I honestly didn’t know if I could endure another twelve hours in this suspended state.
Crossing the threshold, a gust of warm air greeted my slightly frozen cheeks as I entered the confines of Grayson’s cozy two-bedroom. It served as a reminder of the rationale behind my choice, the driving force compelling me to embrace the uncomfortable. Even if I had to retreat to the sanctuary of the spare bedroom later to bawl my fucking eyes out, I’d do it, because at least it would guarantee I’d have a bed to cry in.
Perhaps it didn’t have to be all doom and gloom. In the grand scheme of things, being thrust into this situation with Grayson wasn’t the worst that could have happened. In a stroke of sheer luck, I found him genuinely appealing—attractive, even—and I wasn’t afraid of him. Intuitively, I understood that if in the end, I really couldn’t go through with it, he wouldn’t force me. Except, then a vivid recollection surfaced of his rigid cock, with its intimidating size, reigniting my terror. While I may not fear Grayson as a person, his dick was a different story altogether. I was pretty sure that thing would split me in half.
“I’m back,” I announced, the click of the front door reverberating softly as I secured it. Met with an eerie silence, I navigated my way into the kitchen, unsure of myself. Contrary to what I’d been imagining, Grayson wasn’t waiting at the door to pounce as soon as I returned.
Get a fucking grip, Colt. Stop acting like you’re some supermodel that is the human equivalent of catnip to all the local gay boys. You’re not that special.
A swift survey of the kitchen confirmed its emptiness; unless Gray had ensconced himself in his tiny bathroom, I was alone. Delving deeper into the kitchen, my gaze settled on the quaint round dining table nestled in the corner. A plate piled high with culinary delights adorned a 1950s-style dining tray—a feast of pancakes and assorted pastries. A pot of coffee stood beside the baked goods, lending an aromatic ambience to the air, alongside an empty vase. Was that supposed to symbolize something, or did he just forget a flower? Closing the distance, I scrutinized the table, discovering a barely legible handwritten note nestled beside the offering:
Colt
I had to go to work so I realy hope you come back here before I’m home. I’d rather not have to go running all over town tonite trying to find you. I hope this food is ok for brakefast but if it isn’t let me know and I’ll get you something different tomorrow. Heres my number if you need me - use the phone in the kitchen if you have to. Make yourself at home
- Gray x
The confusing gesture hung in the air, a puzzle I couldn’t quite decipher. I’d take this secret to the grave—I may have brushed away a rogue tear at the unexpected thoughtfulness Gray displayed. Still, skepticism clung to me like a shadow; I was almost certain he planned this small act of kindness to cash in later, perhaps coaxing me onto my knees because I felt indebted to him, oblivious to the knowledge I’d already agreed to do whatever he wanted.
Despite my wariness, a single truth lingered. No one had gone out of their way for me before, and Gray’s gesture struck a chord with the dormant part of me begging for attention. My life had unfolded as a series of overlooked moments, surviving on the scraps of recognition from indifferent foster parents who left me to fend for myself.
A peculiar flutter reverberated through my chest, even as I knew I was being an idiot. The disconcerting reality settled in—I could be swayed, even by the simplest act of Gray acknowledging my existence.
Not that I’d let him know that. No, Gray could suck my dick before I confessed that his hastily scrawled note had managed to coax a smile from me. I would not admit that I found his terrible spelling and awful penmanship charming.
Although, perhaps I could admit to something else. The sweetness of the gesture was tinged with a pang of guilt, a niggling reminder of the hurt I’d unknowingly caused. A memory of the night he brought me home resurfaced, a moment tainted by my careless words labeling him as “stupid”. I’d struck a nerve, evident by the flicker of emotion that had crossed his face. Reading his endearing note gave that barb a whole new meaning and now I felt like an insensitive asshole.
Entertaining the chance that I might be wrong about Gray’s intentions, I tidied the kitchen while on autopilot, lost in my thoughts.
In the midst of this daze, a hint of color caressed the edge of my vision, nearly missed altogether as I disposed of my uneaten crusts in the trash. Startled, I focused on the vision in front of me—a single pink rose, slightly obscured by my discarded food scraps. My brows furrowed, my attention pinging back to the table, where an empty vase sat on the tray Gray had arranged for me.
Did Gray get me a flower? It was such a simple yet meaningful gesture, and my eyes welled up at the realization of how much I wanted it to be true.
Surely Gray wouldn’t genuinely invest that much effort to merely get laid, I reasoned. Then, like clockwork, doubt clouded the moment. Did he discard it under the assumption I wouldn’t accept his gesture, or did it have nothing to do with me? The uncertainty gnawed at my gut, and I desperately hoped it was a misunderstanding rather than a change of heart.
Once the house gleamed in the aftermath of a meticulous cleaning session—a routine ingrained from years spent with demanding foster parents who viewed me as a domestic servant rather than a child—I found myself drawn outside again. The recent snowfall had cast a pristine blanket over the landscape, and I reluctantly accepted that Brenda’s path needed to be shoveled once more. In our lengthy conversation yesterday, she had hinted at the guilt she felt about asking Gray for assistance, given his demanding work schedule and sport commitments.
Swiping Gray’s shovel from its resting place on the porch, I justified the chore by acknowledging I had nothing better to do. I hoped that the biting cold might serve as a welcome distraction, momentarily distracting my brain from its intricate web of self-inflicted anxieties. Yet, that respite proved fleeting as…
“Oh dear! You don’t have to do that! I’m sure I'll manage.”
Lifting my gaze from the task at hand, I observed tottery Brenda’s precarious attempt to navigate the thin layer of slush that seemingly conspired against her, threatening an imminent tumble on her porch.
Yeah, whatever you say, love. I hear hip surgery is lovely this time of year.
The snarky retort lingered on the tip of my tongue, suppressed only for the sake of maintaining peace with Gray’s neighbors.
“It’s no trouble at all,” I replied, restraining the impulse to be sarcastic. “With Grayson tied up at work, I’ve got the day wide open, so consider you’re doing me a favor,” I assured her, lying through my teeth.
“That’s right. Grayson works on Sunday mornings. Well, if you’re in need of some company, come inside when you’re done and we can have tea.” She beamed in response, her invitation carrying a subtle undercurrent of needing companionship herself.
“Uh, that’s okay. I wouldn’t want to impose,” I deflected, because truthfully I was fairly certain I would unintentionally ruffle her delicate sensibilities within sixty seconds.
“Oh pish, darling,” Brenda dismissed my hesitation with a wave of her shaking hand. “I’ll go pop a batch of cookies in the oven.You come inside as soon as you finish.”
Dammit. How’d she know my weakness?
