“I’m up,” I snap, assuming he’s about to try and get me out of bed.
He calmly sits in the chair, sips his hot coffee, and watches me over the rim of his cup. It takes all my willpower to sit still. “Then go back to sleep and try that greeting again when you’re feeling less cranky.”
I scowl and huff, cross my arms, give him a withering glare, but he doesn’t address it. Seems like I can get away with some brattiness, after all.
Not that he’s actually my Daddy or anything. Last night was just… temporary insanity.
“What time is it?” I finally ask.
“Almost noon. You were tired.”
Shit, noon?I shift my weight like I’m about to spring out of bed, only to realize I’ve got nowhere to go, no plans, nothing that needs me. “Oh.”
We sit in silence for a moment, and that’s when all those feelings from last night–from corner time–come roaring back to the forefront of my thoughts. Without exhaustion to distract me,I can really suffer under the cringey embarrassment of what I did, what I allowed him to do. I squirm, my face so hot I might have a fever. My gut churns and I think I might throw up, but the worst of it is that it’s not totally in a bad way… which makes no sense. Because I don’t like feeling embarrassed and small and vulnerable at all. Hate it, even. So why is it different just because he’s the one making me feel that way?
I have a hunch, but it’s almost the worst part of everything. I think I liked it because… because he wasn’t just Daddying me to be a bossy son of a bitch or to be kinky or get something out of me, not just to flex his power or make me feel like shit, not to punish me, or hurt me. I think–and this is the part I hate the most, the painful part like someone is prying old scabs off my heart, ripping open old wounds that should’ve been fucking healed by now–but I think his Daddying was mostly about… me.
About actually helping me.
Well, fuck him for thinking I want his help. I’m fine on my own, and it’s better if he and Ibothknow that. I won’t forget it. I won’t let him make me forget it.
“Is there anything you’d like to do today?” he asks. His flat, emotionless tone makes what should be a ridiculous question sound almost serious.
“What the fuck are you going on about?” I almost hiss, feeling hurt and sad, like I’m crying but only on the inside, angry on the outside. “What do I want to do today? Seriously? What am I, five? You my mom or some shit?”
“It’s not a complicated question.”
The warning edge in his words brings me right back to corner time, right back to the way his voice seemed to heat me up inside, the way he had me feeling small and embarrassed and safe.
Kill me now.
“A ride to the nearest tall bridge would be great,” I snark. “Bonus points if there aren’t guardrails.”
“Tommy.”
“What?!” I demand, aggressive and pushy. “What’s wrong? You don’t like my sense of humor? Well, too bad. You’re not actually in charge of me, dude. If you don’t like me, then fire me, and I’ll walk. I don’t fucking need this mess. The only reason I’m still here is because you’re stupid enough to keep paying me to stick around.”
He pauses, then sips his coffee, slow and deliberate, and it feels like rage bait. Like he’s daring me. And fuck him! I don’t back away from dares.
“Nothing to say?” I ask, saccharinely sweet, falsely helpful. “Don’t you want to tell me what I can or can’t do? Don’t you want to boss me around? Come on, tell me something, give me an order, so I can tell you to fuck off.”
He looks me up and down. “You’re too old to be acting like such a child, Tommy.”
Such a child. Such a child…
“My child. My perfect baby doll. I saved you, I’m the only one that loves you. You love me too, and this is how people in love touch each other.”
Just like when he said it to Brian in the boxing ring, the word punches me right in the gut harder than Leonard or Gregory ever could. Drags filth from the back of my mind, where it should stay. Pulls all this dirty, dark shame right into the open so I have to look at it all over again. A ragged, disgusting beast inside me that wasn’t supposed to even be born, let alone still be haunting me.
“I hate that fucking word.” I don’t even recognize the gruff whisper that scrapes past my raw throat. “Don’t fucking call me that.”
Young-gi looks like he’s about to speak, but he sees something in me that gives him pause. So instead, he watches, and he waits. Always waiting. Patient where I’m not, and I hate him for it. Hate him so much. Hate everything about him; hate the way he makes me feel, hate being in his big stupid house, hate that I slept here, hate that he’s seen me be such a mess, hate that he’s seen me at all. For a second, I’m so full of this poison inside me that if I had a knife, I’d cut his fucking eyes out just so he never looks at me again. I can’t fucking think straight.
“Stop fuckinglooking at me!” I throw a pillow at his stupid face and launch myself out of the bed. I’m too vulnerable here, I don’t want to be in the sheets with that word ringing around in my brain. “Leave me the fuck alone!”
He doesn’t even bother to stand up, and lets the pillow bounce off his shoulder; like I’m a non-threat. Like I really am just a child to him. He places his coffee cup on the nightstand so casually, so calmly, it’s like he doesn’t see me at all. Like he doesn’t see how close I am to the edge, even though it’s so fucking obvious. Well I’ll show him!
“Tommy.”
