By His Rules (16 page)

Submission is about trust.

Yeah, but it’s also about doing what someone else wants.

And I’m not into that anymore. From now on, I’ll do whatever

the hell
I
want.

He kicked a stone down a drain and tried not to

think about Keaton’s smile, Keaton’s hand in his.

* * * *

He knew it wasn’t really his place to worry about Aiden.

Aiden was an adult, perfectly capable of making his own

decisions.

Except that Keaton had known more than a few

adults who had trouble making their own decisions, who

longed for guidance and security. Boundaries. Aiden,

obviously an intelligent young man, was lost right now.

Scott Runge had harmed Aiden physically and

psychologically, and it would be a while before Aiden

felt safe again. In the meantime, the boy was letting his

health—and his attitude—go to hell.

Keaton had yet to see Aiden eat anything that could

Keaton had yet to see Aiden eat anything that could

be called a meal, and he was fairly certain Aiden had

thrown up what little of his lunch he’d eaten. When

Keaton had sat on the bed beside Aiden this afternoon,

trying to ease the boy through his nightmare, he’d been

struck by how small Aiden looked in the large bed, the

covers kicked askew—painfully thin, huddled in the

center of the bed in a T-shirt and underwear, his ribs

jutting as he drew quick, shallow breaths.

If somebody didn’t look out for the kid, he could

end up in real danger.

Keaton toyed with the idea he’d been trying to keep

at bay. On one hand, it seemed that the last thing Aiden

needed was another D/s relationship with someone he

didn’t know well, didn’t trust. But the type of

relationship Keaton had in mind would be very different

from what Aiden had had with Scott. Keaton had no

intention of taking advantage of the boy, of harming or

frightening him.

It’s not a good idea, Keaton warned himself. He

barely knew Aiden, after all. But there was something

about him—underneath Aiden’s skittishness, his

defensive sullenness, was a beautiful, intelligent,

talented young man. Keaton longed to get to know him

better.

He heard the front door open. Aiden had barely

been gone ten minutes. Keaton forced himself not to go

downstairs, to let Aiden have time to himself.
Even

though I don’t think that’s what he really wants
. Aiden

needed to know that what he asked for would be

respected—he’d said he wanted alone time. He had a

right to privacy, without Keaton watching and worrying

over him.

The TV went on, the volume far too loud. Keaton

smiled, recognizing he was being baited. Yes, it was

possible that Aiden Cole would benefit from some

discipline. But Keaton had no intention of rushing things

or pressuring the boy. He painted for another half hour,

turning up his music to counter the TV’s volume, which

decreased when it drew no reaction from Keaton. When

he finally went downstairs, Aiden lay on the couch,

staring at the ceiling. The TV had been muted.

“I have an idea,” Keaton said.

“What?” Aiden muttered.

“I’m a member of an all-night gym in Frankfort.

What do you say we head over there for a little while?”

Aiden sat up. “Really?”

Keaton almost laughed at the boy’s wide-eyed

eagerness. “Really.”

“I’d like that. A lot.”

“Then that’s what we’ll do. There are a couple of

rules though.” He watched Aiden carefully to see how he

reacted to this statement. Aiden sat up straighter, looked

directly at Keaton, and waited. “The first is that the

workout lasts no more than an hour.” Keaton assumed

anyone with Aiden’s eating issues was a candidate for

exercise addiction as well. “The second is that, when

we’re done, I buy you a protein shake from the smoothie

bar, and you drink the whole thing.”

Aiden looked uncertain and a little disgusted, but

finally he nodded. “All right. I’ll pay for it, though.”

Keaton shook his head. “My treat.”

“But—”

“No,” Keaton said firmly. He noted how quickly

Aiden stilled. The boy’s muscles relaxed visibly, as

though Keaton’s “no” had unburdened him somehow.

“Okay,” Aiden said, still looking at Keaton. Aiden

wasn’t intimidated, wasn’t frightened. He accepted

Keaton’s rules.

The drive to Frankfort took about twenty minutes.

Keaton loved this gym for the drive as well as its

insomniac-friendly hours. At two or three a.m., when his

mind was wild and his body singing with energy, the

dark, winding road to Frankfort was a comfort and an

adventure. He loved the town of Frankfort at night—the

historic brick buildings dark and vacant, the glow of

streetlamps on Main Street…

Tonight he enjoyed the drive even more than usual,

because Aiden was finally talking. The idea of working

out seemed to have cheered him immensely, and he

chatted happily with Keaton, cracking jokes and telling

stories. At the gym, Keaton left Aiden in the weight room

while he made use of the indoor track and lap pool. After

an hour, he returned to the weight room to find Aiden

diligently bench pressing what looked to Keaton like far

too much weight for such a slight body.

“Let’s hit the showers, kid,” Keaton said.

“Just a few more.” Aiden strained to lift the bar.

“Uh-uh.” Keaton took the bar from him and set it

back on the frame. “And what do you think you’re doing

benching without a spotter?”

“He’s spotting me.” Aiden nodded at a good-

looking, dark-haired man on the rowing machine, who

was watching Aiden hungrily. “He’s been spotting me all

night.”

“Very funny. That’s dangerous and foolish. Come

on.”

Aiden followed Keaton to the locker room. Keaton

stripped down to his underwear, keeping his back to

Aiden. Watching Aiden at the bench press had produced

uncomfortable evidence of his interest in the younger

man. He wrapped a towel around his waist. Aiden, too,

seemed shy. He removed his shirt, and Keaton tried not

to hiss at the few pink welts and yellow bruises that

hadn’t faded completely from his back and torso. Aiden

slipped quickly into a shower stall and, a few seconds

later, reached around the curtain to hang his pants and

underwear on a hook.

Keaton showered, hating Scott Runge with a fury

that made his head hurt. He closed his eyes, trying not to

think about Aiden, naked, soaped up, just one stall over.

He wished he could slip inside that stall with Aiden and

rub soap into the boy’s pale skin, being careful not to

press too hard on his bruises.

Cut it out, Hughes. He just came out of an abusive

relationship. He tried to offer you sex in exchange for a place to

stay. He doesn’t know what he wants right now.

Showered and dressed, they headed for the

smoothie bar. Aiden looked increasingly apprehensive

as they approached. “I’m really not hungry,” Aiden said.

“You didn’t eat dinner. You barely ate lunch. You

can’t burn the kind of calories you burned tonight on that

kind of a diet. Now what kind do you want?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

Keaton shot him a look.

“Really! I like anything.”

Keaton ordered him the Protein Powerhouse.

On the car ride home, they discussed a production

Keaton had seen of one of Aiden’s favorite plays. Aiden

grilled him about how the lead actor had approached the

role—a role Aiden dreamed of playing one day. Keaton

role—a role Aiden dreamed of playing one day. Keaton

enjoyed the discussion so much that he didn’t have the

heart to nag Aiden about drinking his shake until they

were almost home.

“You’ve barely taken a sip.”

“Look what I did to the straw.” Aiden held up the

cup, grinning sheepishly. He’d chewed the end of the

green plastic straw completely flat. “I can’t drink out of

it.”

“Then take the lid off.”

Aiden shifted in his seat. “I hate drinking out of

Styrofoam cups. I can’t do it without a lid.”

Somebody does have a touch of brat in him, Keaton

thought, smiling to himself. Maybe more than a touch.

When they got home, Keaton poured Aiden’s

smoothie into a tall glass with a straw and set it on the

table in front of him. “Drink,” Keaton said.

“I’m not—”

“Drink,” Keaton repeated in the same calm, certain

tone.

Aiden’s face clouded. He took a few sips. Keaton

brought up the play again, but Aiden no longer seemed

interested in talking. He pushed the glass away, still

more than two-thirds full. “I don’t feel well.”

“You’ll feel worse if you don’t get some nutrients in

you.”

“You don’t know everything.” Aiden tipped the

glass back and forth in his hand, watching the sludgy

drink shift.

“I know it won’t hurt you to drink that.”

Aiden glowered. “I wish you’d mind your own

business.”

“That’s hard for me.”

“No kidding.” Aiden took another sip, wincing.

“No more,” he said, pushing it away.

“At least half.”

“Goddamn it!” Aiden picked up the glass and

hurled it. It cracked into several large pieces on the

kitchen floor, and chocolate-peanut-butter sludge coated

the floor and the nearby wall.

For a second, Aiden looked horrified, as though he

couldn’t believe what he’d done. Every muscle in his

body tensed, and he stared at the floor. His breathing

became shallow, and he closed his eyes.

First things first, thought Keaton. He’d worry about

the mess later. He stepped behind Aiden’s chair and

placed his hands on the boy’s shoulders. Aiden flinched,

and Keaton ignored it. Keaton moved his thumbs firmly,

slowly toward the base of Aiden’s neck, where he rubbed

small circles, pressing deep into the knotted tissue.

“Easy. You’re all right.”

He felt the boy tense, relax, tense, relax—like a

flickering lightbulb. Then Aiden slid out of his chair and

bolted upstairs. Keaton decided to give him a couple of

minutes before he went after him. He knelt on the floor

and picked up the large pieces of broken glass, then

sopped up the smoothie with paper towels. He headed

upstairs.

Aiden was gagging in the hall bathroom. Without

knocking, Keaton opened the door and went in. Aiden

was hunched over the toilet, bringing up strings of bile.

Keaton hooked an arm around him, supporting him, and

rubbed his back in slow, soothing circles. Even when

there was nothing left to throw up, Aiden continued to

gag and choke.

“That’s enough now,” Keaton said.

Aiden gagged again.

“Shh. Deep breath. You’re okay.” Keaton helped

Aiden to the sink to rinse his mouth out, speaking

soothingly to him. He wet a washcloth and wiped

Aiden’s tear-streaked face. He felt how hard Aiden was

trying to contain his sobs. “Let it out,” Keaton said. “It’s

fine.” But Aiden tensed and fought harder for control.

Keaton led him down the hall and into the guest room.

He stripped the boy of his shirt and pants and got him

into bed, pulling the covers over him. He sat on the edge

of the bed, one hand on Aiden’s shoulder. “Breathe,”

Keaton said.

Aiden choked, tears still flowing from his red,

swollen eyes.

Keaton got up, intending to get the boy a glass of

water, and was surprised when Aiden caught his wrist.

“Don’t go,” he whispered.

Warmth flooded Keaton. He sat back down on the

bed. “I was just going to get you some water.”

“Stay.”

Keaton kicked off his shoes and got on the bed,

propping himself up slightly with pillows. He shifted

Aiden so the boy’s head rested in his lap. Aiden grabbed

the fabric of Keaton’s pants with one hand as if to keep

Keaton there. Keaton stroked Aiden’s hair, and after a

few minutes, the boy quieted. His body stopped

shaking, and some of the tension left his muscles. “That’s

right,” Keaton said as Aiden drew a deep breath. “Good

boy.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry. Just rest.”

Aiden lifted his head from Keaton’s lap and