A Little Bit

Chapter 27

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Warren

Age 17

Terrence watches me while I pace, his arms petulantly crossed across his chest. “Would you please relax?” He sighs loudly. “It’s not a big deal.”

Yes, it is. It really fucking is.

If his dad had just walked in on him sucking another dude’s dick, it would be awkward . But that’s it.

For me, it’s so much worse. Catastrophic.

Dad will run and tell Mother, because he has to stay in her good graces. Then she’ll tell Grandaddy because everything goes through him. The patriarch. The first senator in the legacy. And he will not accept this.

“Just get out, Terrence,” I mutter, still wearing a hole in the floor with my pacing.

He scoffs at me, but still turns to leave, making sure to slam the door on his way out.

What do I do? What do I do?

I need to find SJ. She’ll know what to do. She’ll figure out some way to get me out of this—she usually does anytime the attention is on me.

Maybe I could just say it was a misunderstanding. That I wasn’t actually sucking his dick.

No. There’s no mistaking what he saw. Terrence’s dick was practically down my throat when he stumbled through the door.

SJ. She’s the answer. I’ll just ask her.

Scurrying over to the door, I whip it open, ready to run around the house until I find her.

But I can’t, because Mother’s perturbed face stands in my way.

“Warren James!” she hisses quietly at me, walking through the door so I have to retreat back, her heels clicking on the old wood floors with each step. “What in the world did I just hear?!”

Her voice is quiet, but filled with venom. “Do you know what could’ve happened?! Did you even think ? —”

A hand appears on her shoulder, covered in veins and wrinkles that only time can give. It gently moves her to the side, revealing Grandaddy. His distinguished face is stoically cool next to my Mother’s obvious panic. His large imposing figure dwarfing hers.

“Darlene, darling, I’ll talk to the boy. Go back to the party.”

My knees quake, but I try to stay still.

She turns to him, putting a sweet smile on her face. “Daddy, it’s alright. I’ll just talk ? —”

“Darlene,” he states in a tone that leaves no room for argument.

Her eyes drop to the floor and she nods, quickly casting me a look I can’t decipher before disappearing through the doorway.

Grandaddy gently closes the door behind her.

He stays quiet, sending my anxiety skyrocketing into space.

“I’m sorry,” I murmur into the silence.

“Don’t talk, boy,” he barks. “Just listen to me.”

I follow his orders, pinching my lips together and waiting for what he has to say.

He walks around the room, letting us fester in the silence before speaking again. “You know there’s a party downstairs… and yet you thought it was a good idea to come up here and perform disgusting acts.”

He turns to look at me for the first time, and I can see the anger, the hatred, the bigotry flaming in his eyes. It’s hot, ready to burn me alive.

“Anyone could’ve come in. You’re lucky it was your worthless father and not one of the potential donors. Can you imagine?” He quickly takes a few steps closer to me, making me shrink.

I’m crying now. Grandaddy has never liked when men cry. Says it makes them weak. Pansies. Fruits. I’ve never seen him cry in my life. Not even when Grandmother died, but I suspect they actually just hated each other, so maybe he didn’t need to cry.

He abruptly grabs my jaw in his weathered fingers, squeezing my cheeks together. “Now you listen to me,” he seethes angrily, enunciating each word so spittle flies from his mouth into my face, but never raising his voice. We can’t have anyone downstairs know that things aren’t perfect in this house. “I won’t have a faggot grandson. And this state won’t elect a faggot senator. So you better sort yourself out. I won’t have your perversion soiling my legacy. Understand, boy?”

His words cut into my skin, leaving behind wounds of hopelessness in their wake.

I give him the most subtle of nods and watch as his face slackens into something more pleasant.

“Good,” he says in a much calmer tone. “Now… I’m only doing this for your own good. Because I love you.”

My own good.

He quickly raises his hand, smacking me across the face with it. I stumble from the blow. My ears ring. The sting on my face hurts, but it’s nothing compared to the shifts happening inside my mind. Adjusting to the new understanding of myself.

He pulls my face back toward him and does it again. This time I fall to the ground as my teeth clack, the taste of copper touching my tongue.

“Remember this when you get another urge,” he grunts, and then he leaves me, crumpled and broken on the floor.

My thoughts consume me.

I’m disgusting. I’m depraved. I’m wrong.

The ancient house oozes tradition all around me, yelling the same things.

I need to get out of here.

I pick myself up off the floor, jogging down the steps and searching my Mother out.

She’s surrounded by potential campaign donors, completely oblivious to whatever is going on with me right now, leaving her father to deal with my mistakes.

Hunching my shoulders and looking down so no one can see the mess that I’m sure is my face right now, I run up to the cabinet where all the car keys are and grab the set for the Jag, before making a beeline for the side door, escaping.

It’s pouring outside. The valet service had to move the car onto the street for the party, so I’m completely soaked by the time I open the driver’s door and jump inside. I don’t even care. I can’t be here anymore.

The engine roars to life when I press the ignition and peel out.

I don’t know where I’m going. Maybe I can just go and go and go. Never come back.

Maybe I can find a bridge and just drive off of it.

I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself.

The rain is pelting the windshield, the wipers a flimsy aid against its obscurity. I’m trying to calm down but I just can’t stop crying. The sobs are shaking my whole body. The pain is flowing through me, intensifying with each second that passes.

I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself.

I’m chanting over and over in my head, eyes refusing to stop leaking, wipers furiously flying, when a figure appears in the road. But there’s nothing I can do. It’s too late.

Screeeeeech.