Contains: references to sexual activity

We’re on his bed, sitting up, and facing one other. We came on each other and now we’re finger painting with cum. I’m feeling creative. Usually, I smear it on him and lose interest. It’s his sick habit, not mine. But tonight I take my finger and draw two devil horns on his chest.

He looks thoughtful, not surprised.

I’d consider his expression longer, but I’m distracted by what he’s doing.

He’s moving his hand again. He takes a cum-laden finger and writes his initials on my chest. I only know what he’s writing because he’s speaking.

“QRW.”

He’s saying it the way people murmur to themselves as they label what they own.

I suppose he’s right. I’m allowing myself to be owned. I only put up resistance when I’m bored, which is a rare occurrence.

We’re finished with his lewd artistic predilection. He’s up. I’m down.

Lazy. I admit it. I’ve gotten lazy. He’s in the shower and I’m simply lying down staring up at that mirror above his bed. I move the hair out of my eyes. Staring. Staring accompanied by rumination. A month like this. A month of being his consort. I’ve been pampered, overlooked, slighted, challenged, annoyed, molested, and satisfied. All of that from one person, sometimes on a daily basis. It’s mostly my apathetic nature that allows me to put up with his unpredictability. That, or I’m simply a masochist.

He’s done with the shower. He’s back in the room and doing a half ass job of streaking. He walks by with a towel around his shoulders and his wet hair covering most of his face.

I think we’re both having a competition. Who can approximate a sheepdog best? We both need haircuts. I couldn’t care less about my end. I don’t know what his angle is. But, if he starts shedding, there will be problems. I’ll take a pair of sheers to him myself.

“Heero.”

I’m suspicious. “What?”

He’s pulling on his clothing. “I’ll be gone for a while.”

He’s acting as though I’m his secretary and need to know everything he does. I frown. I _was_ his secretary.

He’s staring at me.

I grunt. It’s my succinct way of saying: “I heard you. Go away.”

He frowns at me before taking his leave. I must be dense to provoke him. He doesn’t like to be dismissed. Residual issues with Daddy.

My chest itches. Great. I need to wash this dry cum off. I’ll do it...as soon as I have the energy...

I’m clean, walking, and eating an apple. I grabbed one from his kitchen. He said he’d be gone for a while. It’s been over two hours. He must be dragging his heels. He probably thought I was going to pass out like I usually do after coming. Watching me sleep can’t be high on his list of things to do. I take another bite out of my apple. His bouts of insomnia are probably rubbing off on me. I shouldn’t be up. Right about now, I should be scratching at my crotch and rolling over.

I’m at my destination and have gooseflesh. I’m in the tech room with the intention of entertaining myself. It’s cooler in here because of the machines. I should have put a shirt on. My nipples are getting hard from the chill. A noise stops me from parking myself in front of that 20-inch flat panel monitor I was eyeing. I hear movement, from his office.

I should have known. He’s a workaholic.

He’d turned the cameras off. At least they’re off when I’m on the premises, which means his office is fair game.

I walk in and, instead of the blonde, I get an Asian man with a surprised look and a bundle of papers in hand.

It’s Mr. Forehead and I’m standing in front of him shirtless, barefoot, and still wet from my shower. His mouth is open and I’ve just dropped my half-eaten apple.

It’s past 1 a.m. Although he and the blonde’s other underlings think I’m still employed, there’s no tasteful reason why I should be here at this time and in this state.

Being the blonde’s bedmate has made me sloppy. I should have looked in before entering his office, regardless of the time of night.

10 seconds. 12 seconds. 15 seconds.

There’s a noise. We both look to it. It’s the blonde. He’d just walked into his office from the main entrance.

It’s his arrival that sets Mr. Forehead in motion. He walks toward the blonde, hands him the papers, and leaves without a word.

The blonde holds the stack. He sighs and begins flipping through it. He makes a low noise, the kind someone would make while looking at a tabloid. It’s the kind of noise that speaks of curious incredulity. I wonder what he’s reading, but he doesn’t give me time for the consideration. He’s talking to me.

“Perhaps, we should take a trip.” He looks up. I return his gaze as he says, “Two days should be enough.”

Damage control via retreat. I’m game.

He made me go somewhere quaint. The only thing keeping me from being repulsed by the postcard scenery is the sea breeze. I can’t complain about it no matter how much I try. It’s crisp, it’s clean, and light.

“It smells like clean laundry around here,” he murmurs. He’s uneasy, but impressed. It’s an odd reaction that I’m mirroring.

It took 3 hours of driving to get here and that’s our initial response to this place...

We’re walking around, seeing what this place actually has to offer. We’d checked into the hotel already. We’re killing time before dinner.

There are a fair amount of stores, restaurants, entertainment establishments, and scenic sights. It’s the kind of town where families come to relax and spend money, the money they’d squirreled away for their two week vacations.

He didn’t choose this place on a whim. No one knows or cares who he is here. There’s another appeal, one I didn’t see coming. He fits in. I get stares and he gets smiles and waves.

He hasn’t noted the differential treatment. He’s not going to and I know it would be a waste of time to.

I fix my attention on him. It may be just the location, but he looks different. He’s got more color in him and it suddenly occurs to me that he was probably that pale because he’s a recluse, or at least has been living as one. I’ve been at his estate for three months and this is the first occasion that I’ve seen him outside of his property. I go as I please so I don’t have a full grasp of his movements, but I haven’t heard anything about him traveling since my arrival. He had his arm as an excuse the first month—

“What?” He looks back at me. “You were staring,” he says.

“I always stare.”

Dinner. We’re at dinner. Everything feels unnaturally natural. I drink my wine and look down at my plate. I ate everything. It must be the sea air. I’ve gone from having a normal appetite to being a glutton.

He’s doing it again, laughing at me without laughing. It’s there...at the corner of his lips as he offers his plate.

Great. We’ve gone from spit swapping, to mutual cum smearing, and now we’re close to eating off of each other’s plates. I’ll pass. I grunt in the negative, a guttural rebuff. He ignores me. I take the plate, put it down, and ask for the check. He’s paying.

We walk out together but go separate ways. He’s heading back to the hotel and I’m going to do some walking. I wonder if I’ll still get weird stares at night, or maybe it’s simply the juxtaposition that makes me a target. Walking at his side...with my grimness next to his easy going exterior, I’m only setting myself up as an oddity. I’m curious. I’ll use these gentle folk as entertainment since they’ve been treating me like some kind of walking freak show.

The walk was mostly uneventful. I’m back at the hotel, standing in front of our suite’s door. I unlock it and push open the door, but hesitate to enter. I hear talking. It’s him. He’s on the phone, probably in the living room. I walk in and close the door softly behind me. I take slow steps forward until I have a partial view of him.

I’ve learned to be quiet, very quiet. That, or he’s too agitated to realize my presence. I can delude myself only so much. It has to be agitation. I’m careless and he usually has the hearing of a dog, at least when coming to my movements.

I’m listening to him. I’m watching him, and he’s oblivious.

He thinks he’s alone, yet he’s hissing into the phone. “Don’t do this again. I’ll come to you.” There’s a long pause before he says, “Nothing has changed. Goodbye.”

He’s ticked. He’d slammed the phone down on the table, an unnecessary motion given it’s a cell phone. Flipping it closed would have sufficed. Now he’s just standing in front of the phone, bracing himself on the table. He’s muttering to himself. “I can’t take this anymore.”

He picks up the phone. He looks like he’s ready to chuck it. He’s holding it over the wastebasket. He stays there frozen for a few seconds. He pockets the phone.

I walk in.

He turns around. “Heero...”

“I just came in.”

He’s staring. He’s inspecting me to gage if I heard anything.

I play dumb. “There’s supposed to be some sort of parade tomorrow.”

“And...you want---”

“I want to steer clear of it.”

He smiles. “I thought as much.”

I look at the time. It’s around 4 a.m. He’s gone. He’s been missing for at least 2 hours. After blowing me and waiting for me to doze off, he left. He probably left with the intention of returning in the morning. He doesn’t get it. I’ve gotten accustomed to sleeping at his side. I know when he isn’t there and, now, I know when he’s doing something he shouldn’t.

He’s usually painfully conscientious...to the point that he’ll whisper his comings and goings even if I’m half-passed out. He’s even done it while he thought I was asleep. It’s a creepy habit of his that I’ve gotten used to. It’s a gut feeling, but I know he didn’t do it this time around.

There’s another gut feeling. As I look at the empty place beside me, I understand it. It’s jealousy and it’s scratching at the pit of my stomach.

Hootie. I haven’t seen her at the mansion for a month. Now, has she placed herself back in the picture by tracking him down? His father...has his father been calling again without my knowledge? Is it a tag team effort to get him to be responsible and respectable? A career...a wife...

And I’m back to something that has been bothering me for the past month, for as long as I’ve been a regular in his bed.

The cell phone of his, the one that came into my possession that day I was invited/blackmailed into his mansion...the phone he couldn’t retrieve from his pocket because of his broken arm...the phone that I’d held up to his ear that day.... The phone I’d found myself holding that day he fired me for the second time.

It’s dead. It’s been dead for months. He’s never asked for it and I’ve been carrying it around with me for a while. It’s not that I expect he’ll ask for it or remember it. But I’m tied to it. I’ve had flashbacks to the park, to that day long ago, when it rang. I’ve had flashbacks to the name that popped up as it rang. “Love”. And the number...I hadn’t admitted it to myself back then, but I’d memorized it on the spot. I can look back and admit that I did it intentionally.

Had he named her “love” on his phone? Is she still that word on the phone he’s carrying now?

I need to get that phone.

What I’m plotting is rational, or so I’m telling myself. He’s an investment and I’m just making sure no one is dipping into my funds.

The sun is about to come up and he’s trying to sneak in.

I switch on the light as soon as he steps in. “Where were you?”

He looks startled. “Out,” he replies. And then he adds, “But that’s obvious...” He apologizes.

I’m squinting at him as he says, “We left suddenly. There were loose ends--”

My expression stops him from making more excuses. We didn’t leave suddenly. We left just after lunch, 11 hours after I ran into Mr. Forehead.

He’s no longer apologetic, just somber. “It won’t happen again.”

He’s right. It won’t happen again because I’m keeping an eye on him.

He was gone for 4 hours. It wasn’t enough time for him to drive the 3 hours, service her, and drive back. She has to be here.

With the parade taking place at the center of town, this area is nearly deserted. Only the non-festive people are around the nerd district.

I’m in a bookstore, ostensibly flipping through a magazine, but I’m watching him.

He’s outside walking to an overlook, to the area where there are telescopes that allow a view of the entire town. We opted out of the parade, but he seems to at least want to catch a glimpse of it.

He doesn’t make it to the telescopes.

A woman, a lithe brunette with my coloring, is running in his direction and then to him. He looks around to see if anyone has noticed. He’s the only one out there by the overlook.

My attention hasn’t shifted.

I watch him. He’s getting too comfortable with that woman.

He’s touching her, in a familiar way.

A thought from yesterday asserts itself: he didn’t choose this place on a whim.

I put down the magazine, leave the bookstore, and start walking over to them.

He hears my footsteps, glances over his shoulder at me, and then turns back to her.

As I take the final steps, I realize that I’m an asshole, a misguided asshole.

She’s crying, blubbering actually. The thought is immediate: it’s not ardor that brought her to him.

He has a hand on her face. I watch his thumb; he wipes some of her tears away. I know I’m frowning. The motion was very movie hero-esque. She’s turned him into some sort of leading man. I’m pissed off all over again.

He’s talking to me without looking. “She lost track of her little brother.”

Little brother. I look at her. I zero in on her face, past the flushed exterior, past her tears. She can’t be more than 15. She’s tall for her age and more developed than she should be...but she’s still jail bait. Now, I’m frowning at myself. I let my imagination get the best of me. I let it color her into some interloper who was—

“Heero.” He faces me.

I look back at him.

“Her phone is dead. Could you go into a shop and call the police?”

I’m staring at him.

He answers my unuttered question. “I lost mine.”

I turn and do as I was asked.

Did he discard it? He’d stressed the word “lost” as though he was trying to convince himself.

Part 18b