CHAPTER TWENTY – LOCKE

 

TWENTY YEARS AGO

 

He’s the kind of man I want to be.

And he’s got amazing lips. Kinda plump, but not too thick. The kind of lips that provoke fantasies of the sexual nature.

We’re not that different in the looks department. He’s got dark hair, and so do I. And from a distance, I think his eyes are brown. Mine are almost brown, with tiny bits of blue in them. So everything is tracking so far. He’s tall—again, about my height. Six foot, six-one. Somewhere around there. And we’re both young. Very young. I don’t think he’s seventeen like I am, but he’s not that much older. Maybe twenty-one. Maybe.

But these similarities all come crashing to a halt when I get to his suit.

I don’t know anything about suits. I’ve never even worn a tie, let alone owned a suit. But I’m a man. Or nearly one, anyway. And I know that this man’s suit is a symbol of money and power. Of which I have neither.

Hell, I don’t even have choices.

He approaches my table. We’re in a private room. I’ve never been in here before, but it’s not bad. There is a couch, a chair, and this table with two chairs. I’m not sitting, I’m standing. I realize that I’m not in control of this meeting, but sitting down felt like submission.

“Michael Locke, I presume,” he says, extending his hand across the table once he’s close enough. “I’m Silas Mercer.”

I don’t shake his hand. I don’t want to touch him. And besides, handshakes are a symbol. They have meaning. And power too. I don’t care how attractive this guy is, I’m not taking the bait. I’m out of juvy in two months when I turn eighteen, my debt to society paid in full. I don’t need his bait.

He waits me out. He takes four seconds to withdraw his handshake offer, then he sets a briefcase down on the table and clicks the locks open. He sits, apparently unconcerned about whether or not his seated position will convey a sense of submission to me.

Alternatively, he knows it does and that’s why he did it.

Gives me some power. Kind of builds my ego a little.

Smart. But not smart enough to trick me.

He pulls a dark-green glossy folder out of the briefcase, sets it on the table, then closes his briefcase and puts that on the floor, right next to his chair. He points to the folder. “Do you know what this is?”

“How the hell would I know what that is?”

He squints his eyes at me. “I was told you have an IQ of one eighty-five.”

“So?”

“So I’m interested in you.”

For some reason, my eyes wander down to his lips. It’s a slip-up, and I quickly correct this error and meet his gaze again.

“No,” Silas Mercer says. “Not that kind of interested.”

“That’s too bad.” My boldness is a little surprising. To him—he raises one eyebrow—and me, as well. Because I’ve never been with a man. But this one, damn. He’s quite a specimen. It’s like he got all the upgrades before birth. And he’s got a nice mouth. I take a moment to compare our mouths, but I don’t have a clear picture in my head of what mine actually looks like, so I put that aside and concentrate on surprising this man again. “I mean… I would be interested, if you were that kind of interested.”

Silas Mercer grins at me. Then he lets out a breath and leans back in his chair. “Would you mind sitting down?”

“Why?”

“Because I want to stare at those eyes of yours and I don’t want to crane my neck as I do that.”

I allow myself a tight-lipped grin. And I sit. “There. Happy?”

“Indeed.”

“What are you? British, or something?”

“No. I’m American. I just come from an old family.”

“Right.” I scoff the word out. “So why are you here?”

“I’m here for you. I have an offer.”

“I don’t need your offer. I’m out of here in two months. I’m good. I can do two months standing on my head.”

“Well, that’s excellent, Locke. Because my offer is a bit like prison.”

I actually guffaw. “Is that so?”

“Indeed.” He’s smiling big now. And I realize… we’re playing some kind of game. Maybe he didn’t come here planning on playing that game, but when I started it with my surprisingly bold statement—well. Silas Mercer comes off as a man who doesn’t turn down a challenge.

I don’t know what to say next.

That’s not true. I want to say all kinds of things. I want to tell him that he’s got a nice mouth and I want to ask if I could kiss it.

Which is, once again, surprising. Because I’m not into men.

Until now.

Until him.

And just the mere thought of kissing him—like right here, in this room, him wearing that fucking suit and me in these ratty orange scrubs with the words PRISONER stenciled on the back of the shirt—just kinda does it for me. And then the familiar tightness begins as my cock starts to grow.

“Well, I think your sales pitch needs some work. I’ve had enough prison for two lifetimes.”

“Good. Because while some parts of what I’m offering feel a little similar to prison, no one here is paying you millions of dollars to attend prison, are they?”

Now he’s got my attention. I don’t know what I was expecting when the guards came to my bunk and told me that I had a visitor in a suit who is not my lawyer. But not once, in the ten minutes I had to think while I was being searched and led downstairs to this meeting room, did I imagine there would be money involved.

“I don’t get it. What are you going to pay me to do?”

“We’re going to pay you to graduate, Locke.”

I sneer out my words. “I took the GED when I was fifteen.”

“Not high school.” He kind of laughs these words out. “College. First undergrad, then grad school, and if things work out—well. We’ll see. Better to not get ahead of ourselves.”

I take a moment to think about this, unconcerned for how Silas Mercer might interpret my pause. Because even though I have known about my unusual IQ for many years now, no one has ever offered to send me to school.

All they’ve ever wanted to do was lock me up.

And the only reason they wanted to lock me up was so they could study me. They want to ask questions and then they expect answers. And I’m not interested in this kind of shit. No one has a right to my mind. No one has a right to my private thoughts. I’d rather spend the rest of my life in prison than let people into my head.

So this Mercer guy has come in prepared.

Which throws me just long enough to take a nibble at his bait. “Why?”

“Why?” He’s smirking at me. “Because”—he pans a hand at me—“you’re the whole package, Locke.”

“What does that mean?”

“Look at you. You’re… spectacular. Handsome, tall, dark.” He winks at me. “And smart. You’re exactly what I’m looking for.”

“Your goal in life is to send high-IQ juvenile delinquents to college?”

“Not exactly.”

“Well, I’m into details, Mercer.” I use his surname the same way he started using mine. And it fits him. Silas… I dunno about that name. It conjures up images of the Bible for some reason. Mercer sounds like… ‘merciless.’

Which is actually quite interesting. My choice of ‘merciless’ instead of ‘merciful.’

He points to the glossy folder again. “They’re all in here. Shall we go over them?”

I shrug. But it’s a shrug of agreement.

So he opens the folder and pulls out the stacks of paperwork. And explains what he’s doing, and who he’s doing it for, and what my part in this whole thing will be.

One year.

I get to take some new drug and live a fantasy life on a special island in New Hampshire for one year and once that contract is over, I will be paid a million dollars.

But there’s a catch. This fantasy drug will only be administered after I finish school—which is also paid for.

“How long does it take?”

“How long does what take, Locke?”

“To do all this fucking school? Undergrad, grad school. It sounds like a waste of time, if you ask me.”

“It varies. For most people, about seven years. But you’re not most people, are you?” He winks again. And my cock—which has settled down considerably since he first turned me on—is growing again with the excitement of this new offer. “You will breeze through undergrad. Eighteen months, tops. But grad school is a different story because it’s dependent on your project.”

“What project?”

“Exactly. What project? You must come up with one. You must do science, Locke. And you must produce results.”

I let out a sigh. Because this is not my wheelhouse. Not my world. And it sounds… well… tiring.

“If you’re worried about the project, I can help you with that.”

“How?”

“I have an IQ of one eighty-five as well.”

I actually chuckle. “Is that so?”

“It is. We’re practically the same man. I mean, look at us, Locke. Handsome, tall, dark.”

I’m looking at his lips as he talks.

“I’ve been watching you for about a year now. Since you came here.” He pauses. Smirks at me. “This last time, anyway.”

“Is that a dig on my criminal history?” I’ve been in this juvenile facility so many times now, I’m on a first name basis with pretty much everyone. Hell, one of the guards even puts money in the commissary for me every few weeks.

“Only if you want it to be.” I don’t know what to say to that, so when I don’t say anything, Mercer continues. “We’re practically perfect, you and I. In fact, I’m becoming quite infatuated with you.”

“Who are you?” He opens his mouth, but I put up a hand. “Don’t just repeat your name. You know what I’m asking. Who are you?”

“I’m…” His first stumble. Interesting. “I’m… you, Locke. Just like I said, we’re practically the same man.”

He’s the kind of man I want to be.

Is this what he’s offering?

A chance to be him?

How do I say no to that? I’m already addicted. I can’t imagine how dull life will be once he leaves me here.

It’s heartbreaking.

Mercer keeps going once it becomes clear I don’t have anything to add. “I have stacks of projects. And you need to be part of them. Don’t worry about the school. You’ll be at Yale. You’ll have support. And when you’re done, I’ll be there to pick you up.”

“Did you go to college?”

“When I was twelve. And that’s when you should’ve gone too. But… you got misplaced, Locke. It was unfortunate, but the important thing is, we’ve found you now and all you have to do to get this new life is sign right here.”

He points to the bottom of the last page of the contract we just went over. And I swear, I stare at the blank, white space for an eternity as I imagine this new direction.

When I look back up at him, he leans over the table, his hand reaching behind my head to pull me closer, and I am certain—absolutely one-hundred-percent certain—that he’s going to kiss me.

But he doesn’t. He just stares into my eyes as he speaks. “You belong with me, Locke. Sign the papers. And in two months I will see you outside this dismal, disgusting, depressing building and then you can do whatever you want with my lips.”

He leans back in his chair and I’m holding my breath. Mind reeling from this man’s words.

I sign the papers.

 

 

Two months later, he’s true to his word.

When I come out of juvy he’s in the parking lot, leaning against some classic Mustang that probably goes for several hundred thousand dollars. He’s wearing faded jeans and a white button-down shirt that’s flapping in the wind, black work boots on his feet.

There were clothes waiting for me when I was released. A suit, of all things. Just like the one he was wearing the day we met.

He’s the kind of man I want to be.

And this is the first step.

When we’re about two feet apart, I stop. And he smiles.

Which makes me smile. Though I’m nervous.

Then he erases that two feet of space between us and he’s got his hand around the back of my neck again. Just like he did that day. I have jerked off endlessly to the feeling of that hand on the back of my neck. He pulls my face to his and then…

Then…

Fuck.

His mouth is way more than I could’ve ever imagined.

And his kiss is the true start of my addiction.

He kisses me like I’m his long-lost lover.

He kisses me like I’m his fucking soulmate.

And that’s how all this shit started.

With a kiss.