More, Sloan Parker [guided reading books TXT] 📗

shoved the gun in my face again.

Tim reached out and touched my calf. “I'll be right back.” He squeezed. “I love you."

I met his gaze. “Love you too."

My father scoffed. The gun jabbed into the hollow of my cheek. My mouth opened in a protective instinct to make room between my face and the gun's barrel. Had my own father not been holding me at gunpoint, I'd have laughed at the realization I looked like I was about to suck someone's cock.

Tim backed to the door, keeping me in his sights as long as he could.

My father watched him. “Close the door behind you."

Tim stepped into the hall and did as instructed.

My father didn't flinch. He didn't speak. He didn't look at me, and I didn't look at him. The cool steel of the gun was our only contact.

Finally, he stepped away. He pointed at a picture frame on Tim's dresser. Tim with his parents. “I take it this is his side of the room?” His back to me, he grabbed a gym bag off the floor and opened Tim's closet.

I shot off the bed and reached for a pair of jeans. “What are you doing?"

"Packing your lover's clothes. He isn't coming back."

"What are you talking about?"

"His parents need him home right now. They believe God has a better life for him than you."

My gaze flew to the door. “But—"

He swung around. “But nothing. I told them I'd send his things.” He smirked, turned his back to me again, and stuffed more clothes into the bag.

I sprinted for the door. I didn't care if he raised the gun. No shot rang out, and I kept going. I took the stairs two at a time to the first floor lobby. No Tim. I went outside and scanned the parking lot. Nothing. I asked around. No one had seen him. I pushed aside the panic and stormed back to our room. I wanted answers.

My father was gone, and so were most of Tim's clothes.

I collapsed onto the bed. What the hell was I going to do? Call the police? Call my mother?

A few hours later, I called Tim's house. No one answered. The next morning, I borrowed a friend's car and drove the four hours there.

When his father opened the door, his first words were, “He's gone."

"Where?"

"He agreed to get some help. Someplace you should go, if you ask me."

"What did you do to him?"

"We didn't do anything to him. You did. He was a good boy before he met you. And the Free Yourself Ex-Gay Ministry is going to remind him of that."

"No. They'll—"

"They'll help him get things straightened out. They'll help him find God's love again. Now, get off my property. And stay away from my son.” He slammed the door in my face.

I made it two steps toward the car before I fell to my knees. “Tim.” The misery of my own voice terrified me.

The anger and fear and sorrow fought a war as I knelt in the snow-covered front lawn of my lover's old home, gripping the edge of a three-feet-tall stone birdbath. I had no idea how long I stayed there. My jeans were soaked through from my ankles to my knees, and the frigid skin never warmed during the ride back to school. When I made it to the dorm, darkness had descended— over the day, over me, over my life.

Tim would find a way to get in touch with me. Once he had convinced his parents he'd changed, they'd let him come back to school. He'd do whatever they wanted to get away from them, to get back to me.

So I waited.

I went to class. And I waited.

I studied. And I waited.

I got drunk. And I waited.

I got drunk again. And I waited some more.

It took three months before I opened my door to find him standing in the hall. I pulled him into my arms. He returned the embrace, but it didn't feel right.

"God, I missed you,” I said and led him to the bed. “Tell me what happened. I know where they sent you."

"I wasn't sure what they told you."

I'd missed him. I wanted to hold him, kiss him.

As soon as my lips touched his, he jerked away. He swiped at his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes narrowed. “Don't touch me, Luke. Not like that.” He leaped across the room and leaned against the wall. “I want to help you, but if you can't stop touching me like that, then there's nothing I can do for you."

I lurched off the bed and gripped his arms. “No. Listen to me.” He shrugged off the touch. I let him go. “What they've told you, it isn't the truth."

"You have to see what we did was wrong."

"What we did? We loved each other. No matter what they've told you, they can't take that away from us. Or make it seem disgusting."

"It is disgusting.” He slunk along the wall until he could step around me. He walked toward the door but stopped short. “It took me a while to see what we had was never love. Not when we did those things to each other."

"No.” My strangled cry startled both of us. “Stop talking like your parents. Come touch me. Kiss me. Make love to me."

"That will never happen again.” He shook his head. “He was right. Coming here was a mistake."

"Who was right?"

He opened the door.

My father stood in the hall, a smile plastered on his stoic face. Tim left without looking back at me.

My father stepped inside and shut the door. “Are you done yet? Are you ready to find your way back to a normal life?"

"Why are you doing this?"

"I didn't do this. I merely showed him the options. Do you think if he cared about you, he'd have been turned away from you so easily? It took him, what, three months to learn to hate you? To see you as nothing but a fag that wants him for one