Page 57 of My Family

I look at Jack to see if he notices anything, but he's just grinning, as usual. Liam still looks puzzled, but we head to my bed and lie there together without commenting on it.

Later, after dinner, after the first full day back, the building feels different. Maybe it's the aftertaste of freedom, maybe we're all tired in the way that comes from returning to your old life after a glimpse of something better. The rec room is packed, everyone showing off the chips, sodas, and bags of junk they smuggled back from break. I know staff turns a blind eye to this kind of stuff, as long as it's not cigarettes, booze or drugs, and it's nice. Harry is running a poker table. Jack is teaching two new kids how to play pool, which is mostly him showing off trick shots and talking shit. Even Miles is there, standing at the snack counter.

Liam nudges me. "Let's go," he says, and I know exactly what he means.

We slip out quietly, through the admin wing, up the back stairs. The staff bathroom is just down the hall, tucked behind a fire door. I check the hallway. No one.

Inside, it's cold, but there's a shower, a real one, with a curtain and a bar of soap and even a little bottle of hotel shampoo. I lock the door behind us.

Liam flicks on the light, and it's so bright I squint, but he's already pulling his sweatshirt over his head, dropping it on the tile. He grins, that wild blue in his eyes, and strips faster than I can process, like he's running from something. He turns on the water, waits for the steam, then steps in.

I follow. The water is scalding. We stand there, just breathing, the steam rising around us, the tile slick under our feet. For a second, we don't touch. He's looking at me, eyes wide, the freckles on his nose standing out against the red flush of the heat. He's beautiful. He always is. I can't look away. I want to devour him. I feel so happy I could explode.

He steps closer, wraps his arms around my waist, and presses his face to my chest. I hold him, just hold him, his skin hot and slippery against mine. His breath is shaky.

We stand like that, just holding, while the water pounds down. Then he slides his hand down my stomach. He doesn't look up, just moves his hand, wraps it around my cock, and starts to stroke, gentle at first, then rougher, his thumb working the head the way he knows I like.

I'm instantly hard. I can't help it. I push his wet hair back from his forehead, kiss him, my hands cupping his jaw. His hand doesn't stop. He pulls away, grins up at me, and says, "You're so easy."

"You're an asshole," I say, but I can't stop smiling.

He drops to his knees, water cascading over his back, and takes me in his mouth. The heat, the pressure, the fucking devotion of it… all of it is perfect. I don't last long. I grip the bar on the wall, trying not to fall over. When I come, he swallows, then stands and kisses me, hard.

"My turn, Daddy, serve me," he says, and I laugh, because of course.

"Brat."

I push him against the wall, my hand finding him already hard, already leaking. I wrap my hand around his cock, slick in the spray, and stroke him slow, teasing, the way I know he likes. He shudders, his head tipped back, the line of his throat beautiful and sharp. My other arm is braced against the tile above his head, pinning him, and I press my hips to his, letting him feel how hard I still am, even after coming. He laughs, breathless, and then bites my shoulder.

He bucks into my fist, desperate, greedy, and I love it, I want to see him lose it entirely. I go faster, thumb circling the head, and he's panting now, eyes squeezed shut. The water hits us both in the face, drowning out every sound but his voice, that high, helpless noise he makes just before he comes.

"Fuck, Ethan, I'm…" and then he does, all over my hand, his chest, the tile. He slumps against me, boneless, and I hold him up, laughing, kissing his wet hair.

We stand there, catching our breath, letting the water rinse us clean. He looks up, eyes glassy, and says, "That was so fucking hot."

"I know," I say, and he grins, wicked and lovely.

We dry off with the thin, scratchy towels, and I help him back into his clothes.

When we walk in, Jack is sprawled on his bunk, holding court as usual. "Where the fuck were you two?" he says.

"Staff meeting," I say.

"Staff meeting," Liam echoes, and they all laugh.

Chapter 22. Ethan

The reception area is colder than usual. They've turned up the AC, or maybe it's just my skin. The floor is the same blue-and-gray linoleum that runs everywhere in this building, worn to a shine in the center by decades of institutional shoes. Above the front desk, there's a half-hearted attempt at a bulletin board, which currently features a single, curling poster about "Mindful Coping Skills" and a row of untouched pamphlets on how to avoid fentanyl.

I check my watch for the fifth time in three minutes. No one says anything, but the secretary keeps darting glances over her glasses. The clock on the wall is slow by at least thirty seconds. I shift in the plastic chair, then stand, then sit again. In the reflection of the security glass, I watch myself go through the motions: up, down, pacing, chewing the inside of my cheek so hard it's starting to bleed.

He's late. Not by much, but enough for me to already start thinking about possible disasters: van breakdown, transfer paperwork mix-up, Tyler refusing to get out of the car, Tyler running away from the county lockup and hitchhiking to Mexico, Tyler choking on his own tongue and dying in the back of the van while nobody noticed. I dig my nails into the soft flesh of my palm.

The van pulls up at 2:09pm. White, with the county logo on the door, the windows too dark to see who's inside. The driver is a woman, and she exits, keys swinging from her belt. The back door jerks open, and I get my first glimpse of him.

Tyler steps out in a jacket and jeans, shuffling with that sullen gait of someone determined to prove how little he cares. His hair is longer than I remember, brown waves going below his ears, those green eyes like mine, just a little darker, and he's paler than I remember. Too skinny. His face is gaunt, almost skeletal.

The van driver gestures for him to move, and he does, but only after a pause. He goes into the intake area, where they'll get his fingerprints, take his picture, make him sign stuff, pat him down, make him change into the institutional uniform, and give him toiletries. Make him forget he's an individual.