Later.
End of Part I
PART II: STARVED
“If they call you my bitch, you say you’re my bitch.” A hot whisper against his ear as the firm, muscular body pressed against him from behind. “You’re my thing, Blue Eyes. Remember that. My thing.”
Sage woke up with a start and stared at the ceiling in confusion for a moment before recalling where he was. His bedroom. Right. He was no longer in prison. It was over. He was free.
He was free of him.
A quiet snoring right beside him made Sage turn his head.
Laura was sleeping by his side, her pretty face peaceful and her porcelain-like skin glowing in the moonlight coming from the window.
It was over.
It was over.
Sage repeated it for the next few minutes, but it was useless: he was still tense and alert, in more ways than one.
He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, trying to match his girlfriend’s breathing.
It didn’t work.
Maybe Laura was right and he really needed to see a therapist after all.
“It was a traumatic experience for you,” she had said only the other day. “A psychologist will help you, love.”
A traumatic experience.
Sage’s lips twisted. She didn’t know the half of it, though sometimes he wondered if she suspected something. Laura had never asked, but she wasn’t stupid. Given his...problems, she probably suspected something had been done to him in prison. She probably thought he had been raped.
A harsh chuckle left Sage’s throat. If only she knew. Even thinking about Laura’s expression if she ever found out... It made his face burn with shame and embarrassment. He had never considered himself homophobic and had been of the opinion that there was nothing wrong with being gay; it had just nothing to do with him. He’d always known he was straight.
What would his mom think if she was still alive?
Sage swallowed hard. It’d been almost a year since she’d died—he was still in prison at the time—and the pain had dulled, but at moments like these, solitary, lonely moments, he missed her.
Sighing, Sage turned onto his stomach and buried his face in the pillow. He closed his eyes and tried to count his breathing, tried to focus on how many breaths he was taking in and out. It didn’t work. The pillow was too soft. The mattress was too soft. The room was too warm.
Dammit.
A year. He had been in prison only for a year, but everything—his freedom, Laura, their relationship—still felt surreal. Sometimes, it felt like his surroundings would disappear any moment and would be replaced with a tiny, cold cell and a heavy, possessive arm slung over his stomach.
Sage swore under his breath. No. He wouldn’t think about it. Wouldn’t think about him. It was over. He was normal again.
He was.
* * *
Laura was very beautiful, curvy in all the right places and slender everywhere else. She would make any red-blooded man’s mouth water.
Yet once again, Sage found himself turning away and looking at his soft dick in dismay. He sat up and ran a hand over his face. “Sorry.”
Behind him, Laura heaved a sigh. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“No,” he said, rolling off the bed. His face red with mortification and his back to her, he pulled on his shorts. He couldn’t look at her.
“I really think you need to see a therapist,” she said carefully.
He hated that tone. She treated him as though he was a very sick person. Maybe he was.
“I don’t need a therapist,” Sage bit out.
“Be reasonable,” she said. “It’s been five months, but you clearly still have problems. I’m not even talking about...this. You keep pushing me away. I have to ask you if I can stay for the night! You barely sleep, and when you do, I’ve seen you moan in your sleep, as though you’re in pain. You don’t talk to me. Half of the time you’re so distant it feels like you aren’t even here!”
Sage snapped, “If I suck so much, why are you still here?”
Silence followed his words.
“Do you want me to leave you alone? Is that what you want?”
Sighing, Sage turned around and walked to her. “I’m sorry,” he said, wrapping his arms around her. “I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry. You know I love you.”
He pressed his face against her sweet-smelling hair and closed his eyes. She was so soft in his arms. So small. So fragile.
So wrong, a voice whispered in the back of his mind.
Sage bit his lip hard and opened his eyes. “I’ll see a therapist.”
* * *
“Tell me about him.” Dr. Richardson’s voice was pleasant and friendly.
Sage wondered if it was part of her training. Probably.
“Who?” he said, looking at his hands.
“Xavier. The man you shared a cell with. What was your relationship like?”
Sage shrugged with one shoulder, still eyeing his hands. “Normal enough, I guess.”
Dr. Richardson sighed. “Sage, you have to be honest with me. There’s no point in your coming to see me if you are not. I’m here to help you. Anything you tell me stays in this room.”