Wrath (Sinful Secrets 4)

“You know who sent me?” he asks.

I shake my head, holding my breath as I wait on his answer.

“My parents.” His hand comes to his forehead, two fingertips rubbing for just a second before he moves it, frowning back up at me. His brows are pinched like he’s a little confused as he says, “My parents—who both loved me. My dad’s dead, but he was a good guy. My mom is pretty awesome, too.” His nostrils flare as he sucks air in. “They thought it was for the best,” he says, so quiet. “The people they sent me with? They thought they were helping. Weren’t really ‘bad’ people. Just wrong.”

That turns on the fucking waterworks for me again, because that’s not true in my case.

He leans forward, putting his elbows on his knees and fixing me with eyes that look careful. “Did you get sent to somewhere like that?”

I find myself nodding.

He nods with me. "Okay," he says. "So you came to the right place." His hand are pressed together in the classic prayer-hands pose. "My stuff," he says, quiet but steady, "was embarrassing. And weird," he offers. "I kept it to myself for ages. And when I thought about myself after that—being gay—it seemed like something dirty."

Tears keep dripping down my cheeks. I'm not losing my shit, thank god, but I can't stop them coming. I keep wiping at them, even as I try to keep my face from looking weird and teary. I can’t believe I’m not alone, that it happened to him—Luke McDowell.

"Who sent you? Your parents?" he asks.

"Just my mom," I manage somehow.

He nods. "You get any say so in it?"

I put my hand over my eyes as I nod. Because this part is one of the worst. "I picked the place," I rasp. I rub at my forehead, telling myself to calm the fuck down. I don't want to break down in here with him. I look up at him, swearing I won't cry while I talk. "There was this place that said they'd teach you how to shoot a bow. It had like...cabins," I say, swallowing the crack in my voice. "It was on this land. Remote. I thought it sounded like survival courses."

More tears fall down my cheeks as he nods. "Okay," he says softly. "But it wasn't, was it?"

I shake my head.

"None of that was your fault," he says, quiet and steady. "Whatever happened there—you wanted what you thought was best. Maybe to please your mom? Your pastor?"

I nod, feeling like a fucking moron.

"Did you want to be straight?" he asks me.

I nod again.

"I get it," he tells me. "Me too. For a long time. That's a failing of our modern Christianity. A really harmful one that hurts a lot of people. But it's different when it's you, isn't it? It's not theoretical or theological. For me, it all came down to a few memories. Like...these peak moments of feeling embarrassed. Or violated," he adds softly.

More tears seep out when he says those words. I don't feel like talking, but I don't want to leave him hanging. "That's how I felt," I say in a voice that sounds an octave too low.

It feels fucking weird to say it out loud. I look down so I don't have to see his reaction.

"I'm here to listen to you. Anything you want to tell me. It will never leave this room. No matter what."

I look at him, my throat tightening like I might really lose my fucking shit. But I won't. Not for Alton.

I look at him, and then back at the big, dark wood coffee table. I look at the rug under my feet and leave my mind on idle. I hear myself say, "It was okay at first." I look at him, finding his face neutral. "It wasn't that bad. We got grouped in cabins with someone from the opposite gender." My throat's raspy, so I swallow, but it doesn't totally help. "My partner," I whisper, "was bi, I think. I think they did it that way. On purpose. So one of you would want the other one—and keep things..."

He's nodding, looking into my eyes, and I'm talking like it's nothing. Like it's fucking SEC football. "Her name was Riley. She was young, too. Really young. Like middle school. I didn't get it at first. What we were meant to do." My throat tightens again, and I can't go on. I swallow and regroup. "By the time I was understanding," I whisper, "they moved us out of our cabins. Which was a good thing," I add, finding my voice, "because it was fall and getting cold. They made us hunt and build our own fires. Shit like—stuff like that."

His lips give a little twitch. "It's okay," he says softly. I'm not sure how to say the next part. He says, "Go on," in this soft voice. It's like hypnosis...because I do.