The thing is, Tris, it didn’t feel simple. Don’t roll your eyes at me. I’m not going soft. I didn’t feel this unexplainable connection with him with just one look. I didn’t see him and know my life would change or any of that bullshit romantic nonsense that people try to sell us in books and movies.

But, no, it didn’t feel simple because he saw something in me that most people don’t see. Something that you know is there and something I’ve seen in you. Maybe not so much now, but before you met the kid and the thug (yes, I know I’m being an asshole. I’m entitled).

Do you know what it is he saw in me? Think hard and I know you can figure it out. It’s one of the things that drew me to you and probably drew you to me as well (other than the fact that I’m a great lay).

Did you guess yet? If not, I’ll tell you.

He saw how much I hate myself.

He saw a lonely man.

You and I were always different with that last one. You didn’t try as hard as I do to hide the loneliness. You didn’t give a shit about what anyone thought.

I don’t want to, but I do. I spend more time laughing in the right places, and going out and drinking with my peers after work. You never did those things, which really just means I’m a better liar than you were. I’m a chameleon. A fake. I inherited that from my father.

So yes. I had coffee with a man who saw past my façade. It’s...odd. The whole situation was fucked up if I’m being honest.

I first saw him at the club. I know how you feel about those places, but they’ve been giving me what I need, though. At least for a while. Which is odd as well because you know I’ve never been a big player. I’ve never lived the lifestyle. Maybe that’s another way I’m a liar. Do you suppose I’m trying to be someone I’m not when I go to those places?

You know I like bondage. I know you like it, as well. I’ve never been submissive though—not even to you. I like being in control but do I consider myself a dom? I don’t know.

I’m overthinking things because the truth is, even that’s not working for me any more.

I couldn’t get hard, Tristan. My dick wouldn’t go stiff. There’s never been a time in my life I couldn’t get an erection when I needed one, yet I was soft the whole night in the club.

Still, I’ll probably go back. Maybe I’ll even use my real name this time. Congressman Worthington’s son, frequenting a gay sex club. I can see the headlines now.

Ben

CHAPTER SEVEN

Ben closed his eyes, hoping to soothe the sandpaper his lids had become. Sleep wouldn’t let Ben catch him, even if he closed his eyes for the whole day. He knew that. How often had he given Tristan shit about not being able to sleep? And now Ben did the same thing.

It was so easy before—living, getting by, laughing and smiling and defending. He’d enjoyed his rise to the top. Enjoyed living his life despite all the shit that he stuffed in the furthest corners of his mind.

It was as if there’d been a switch hit inside him that made everything different.

Now, things weren’t easy. Ben couldn’t fake it and he’d lost the drive to try. Why, he wondered? Finally losing Tristan, maybe. Seeing him with both of the men who could give him what Ben never could? He was good at that—not giving the people he cared about what they needed.

Walking away from his family? Finally, telling them who he was instead of clinging to something Ben didn’t want.

Or was it Javier? The kidnapping and beating and seeing a body in something other than pictures of crime scenes for the first time since Bonnie. The blood on the floor and the brains on the walls were forever etched into his memory.

He didn’t know the reason. The only thing he did know was how desperately things had changed. And how half the time he couldn’t find it in himself to give a shit.

Suddenly, it wasn’t black that Ben saw anymore. It was red—thick red. The scent of blood filled his nostrils, made him gag, before he forced himself to jerk his eyes open.

Ben’s chest heaved in and out with heavy breaths. It hurt. His eyes darted around the room. Looking for Bonnie or Javier, he didn’t know. Bonnie, he decided. The pain in his chest intensified. Stole his breath. Made his vision swim.

Ben flinched when the phone rang, automatically hitting talk without looking at the name. He needed a distraction. Something to pull him out of the past. “Yes.”

“Benjamin? Did I wake you?” It was early afternoon but he heard the slow drag of his mom’s voice. She must have started early today, drowning out her life in a bottle. It was amazing how well she could fake it. There’d never been a question about Angelica Worthington. She was the model politician’s wife. Played the perfect mother. No one ever heard the alcohol in her voice like Ben could. All it took was one word for him to feel it there.