“Assumingyour father might’ve had something to do with Foster's death is inherently different fromknowing.Something in you hoped it wasn’t true, and when it was, it rattled you.”
“Itscaredme,” he corrected. “Like full on jumped out of the closet, ripped my lungs from my chest, and beat them against that ugly basement floor.”
Stepping up behind him, I wrapped an arm around his waist and tugged him back into my chest. Pressing a kiss to the base of his neck, I forced his bloodied fingers from his teeth. “Stop scarring yourself. It’s not a healthy coping mechanism.”
“Well, excuse me, counselor daddy. My best friend is dead, my father is printing fake money, and my skin feels like it’s going to slip off my bones and stick to the floor like something from a low budget horror movie. If it weren’t for you, I’d probably be comatose on the cement ground.”
“You’re a lot stronger than you give yourself credit for, baby bird.” Positioning his hand at my wrist, I encouraged him to trace my tattoos. He left a thin trail of blood behind as he did so, but like I told him before, I didn’t mind wearing his pain.
“I’m sorry if you felt like I was downplaying how you must be feeling. When Charlie died, I felt like I was being torn apart. The lack of closure, the unanswered questions, it all felt like a tornado designed to rip my limbs off one by one.”
He angled his head just slightly, pressing a tender kiss to the center of my chest. “I’m sorry you went through that all alone.”
“It led me to you, sweetheart, and that’s all I really give a shit about.”
“Does it make me completely deranged to love when you say stuff like that?”
“Baby, if you’re deranged, there’s absolutely no hope for me.”
He grinned against my skin, and we stood there for a moment, bathing in silence and the comfort of each other’s embrace. His hands kept busy, circling my tattoos and playing with my knuckles. Looping his fingers with mine, he squeezed once before they danced across my palm and drew shapes against the lines he found there.
The photos laid out before us were like a simple storybook, one he’d read too many times, fit with missing chapters and an ending that broke his heart every damn time.
It sat abandoned for nearly two days after the first read through. He’d left it behind to process—to work through what it was telling him and the all horrific yet relieving things it made him feel.
He processed with puzzles. With math problems. With long showers and songs without words. He processed by hiding in those hallowed halls and mid-day blow jobs on the couch in my office.
He processed by wearing the truth against his skin until he’d absorbed it completely and was finally ready to tear it back out.
“These photos don’t even incriminate my father.” He spat. “Not in the way that matters most.”
“Foster captured real, shot for shot images of your father breaking the law. Six days later, he was found dead. His death might not be displayed across these photos but they sure as shit offer probable cause for questioning.”
“This is… a lot.” He sucked his lips into his mouth, eyes slipping shut before popping right back open. “I didn’t really have expectations for what I’d find on that film but this feels like more. Bigger.Huge.”
It was fucking massive—a colossal sized cluster fuck that went deeper than your average homicide.
Sitting in the nearest chair, I pulled him into my lap. His hand shot to his mouth, but I caught it, loosely twisting his wrist and capturing it inside my palm. Forcing the misbehaving hand between my thighs, it became my prisoner.
“Daddy,” he whined.
“If you want to bite, bite me.” I wedged my pointer finger between his lips. “You’re done bleeding.”
He made a noise low in his throat before dragging his teeth over the top layer of my flesh. The faint lick of pain sent a jolt straight to my cock.
Trailing my nose over the column of his neck, I inhaled him, sinking my teeth into the supple skin before licking over the indents I created. An adorable cooing burst from his lips, making him sound every bit like the bird he was.
“I’m glad I’m not dead yet,” he said, and I about fell off the fucking chair.
“What are you talking about?”
Sebastian placed a hand against one photo, tapping his father’s face with the tip of his finger. “I think… I think my father believes I’ve known this whole time. About Foster. This money scheme. He hasn’t come after me because I haven’t been able to talk. My silence saved my life.”
Fuck.
I tasted blood on my tongue, jaw ticking as it ran down my throat.
“I’m talking now, but put me back in that school and I swear my mouth forgets it has a tongue.”