Page 3 of His for Hanukkah

Either way, Adam needed it. His mind was darting all over the place and he noticed his hands shaking as he pulled off his gloves. No blood, thank goodness, but he didn’t want to do the finger exercises now that his hand hurt. He needed another kind of pain to calm his frazzled nerves.

He wondered if this was how addicts felt. Could he be a submission addict? Was that a thing? It probably was, since there were brain chemicals involved. It was still reasonably healthy, though, right?

OK, so he was going.

Once Adam made up his mind, he didn’t want anything to slow him down. As he started up the car, he did a quick survey of his clothing. The black jeans he was wearing were tight enough to draw the eye to what limited assets he had. And he’d impulsively bought a shimmery silver shirt that had caught his eye in the women’s section after his disappointing experience with the men’s sweatshirts.

He’d taken a shower before he left the house, and his basic black boxer briefs would be nice enough if he showed them to anyone.

His glove compartment would probably have some eyeliner in it and definitely lip gloss. Makeup was another thing that his ex, Jacob, had hated, but after those frustrating years of dialing himself back, he wasn’t going to hide who he was. He felt invisible enough already.

He reached the club within minutes, but of course there wasn’t any parking. Escape shared a small parking lot with a bar he loved, Whirlwind, and a few small shops, but usually he could find a space. One part of his mind reminded him that he usually arrived later at night, but the other part just wanted to blame it on Christmas.

The Christmas was everywhere. As he circled the block, all of the streetlights were hung with green branches and red ribbons. Banners with Santa and Christmas trees hung from the poles.

He finally parked three blocks away. In the car, he hastily changed his shirt and outlined his eyes with a practiced hand. It was still drizzling as he walked back to the club.

All of the shop windows were decked out with Christmas scenes. They were never just winter scenes. It couldn’t just be some fake snow with sleds and hot cocoa and ice skating. It had to be reindeer and Christmas trees and snow-covered churches. It had to be red and green.

Even the store with the fair-trade, international knick-knacks was displaying Christmas tree ornaments from India and nativity scenes hand-carved in Africa. That pissed him off even more.

Couldn’t the Christians just mind their own business? Did they have to use their religion as an excuse to conquer other nations and convert everyone they didn’t annihilate?

When he opened the door to Escape, it was like it all came crashing down on him.

There was Tate, infuriatingly sexy Tate, up on a ladder in the lobby decorating a fucking Christmas tree.

“Hey, Adam! Merry Christmas!” Tate called, his voice full of welcome.

And Adam couldn’t help it. He kicked the box of ornaments. He knew it was wrong, but it was just so unfair.

He didn’t kick it hard, of course. He just wanted somewhere to let everything out. To tell Tate how unfair it all was.

“Hey Adam, are you OK?” Tate sounded concerned. He could hear the thumps and clanks of Tate climbing down the ladder, but he didn’t look up.

He knew it was irrational, but he didn’t want Tate to ask what the problem was, he just wanted Tate to fix it. To fix him. He kicked the box again.

Something rattled inside. Maybe it was glass. Maybe it would break.

Not that he wanted to actually break something. Not really. Was Tate watching him?

Gentle hands rested on his arms, but he tugged away. He wanted Tate’s attention, but he didn’t want Tate’s sympathy, and he didn’t want to calm down. He really didn’t know what had come over him because he never, never acted like this.

It was all just too much today. He didn’t want to think. He wanted to turn everything off and have Tate take over.

He kicked the box again. Tate was definitely watching him this time. Was he in trouble yet? What would happen if he got in trouble?

“Alright, Adam, over here.” Now Tate was using his Dom voice. Or maybe his Daddy voice. It made Adam tingle inside.

He knew, though, that Tate wasn’t really being his Daddy. He was just taking charge of the disaster Adam was making of the situation. Still, he let Tate turn him around with a firm grip on his shoulders.

In front of him was a cardboard box, about knee height, wrapped with Santa-infested paper and a giant red bow.

“Kick it,” Tate commanded.

Even as pissed off as he was, Adam knew that wasn’t what was supposed to happen. Tate was supposed to tell him to stop, and maybe, if he was really lucky, give him a punishment so good that it would set everything else right inside of him again.

He kicked the box tentatively.