Page 97 of Don’t You Cry

Like there is some part of him that genuinely expects me to turn what just happened into a funny story for other people, to sit around drinking with Mathias and Quillan while recounting every detail of the frightened boy who needed help taking a piss because I cuffed his hands behind his back.

The thought kills whatever amusement remains.

“I promise.”

Kamden studies my face for several seconds before apparently deciding there is nothing else he can extract from it. He draws his rabbit higher beneath his chin and looks toward the wall, cheeks still pink enough that the color reaches the tips of his ears.

He looks like he wants to disappear, which I understand. I need him to stop thinking about what happened in that bathroom.

For his sake.

And, if I’m being honest, mine.

Because I do not need to replay the feel of his body beneath my hands, or the sight of that soft, pretty fucking—

John’s son.

There are enough warning signs there to qualify as a goddamn minefield, but apparently my dick has decided it’s above all that.

I press the heel of my hand against my forehead, scrubbing downward as if I can wipe the thoughts away.

Think about John.

That usually helps.

Actually, no.

Thinking about John while thinking inappropriate things about his kid makes me feel like I should be struck by lightning.

Thinking about John doing something irritating, though, seems alright. Much safer.

I clear my throat. “You know,” I say, mostly because silence is dangerous territory for my thoughts right now, “your dad once nearly started an international incident over a goat.”

Kamden’s eyes lift toward me, confusion replacing humiliation almost instantly. “A… goat?”

I take a seat at the end of the bed, farthest from him. I should really bring a chair in here.

“Technically, the goat started it,” I tell him.