CHAPTER 6

"You missed a spot. Right there. Behind the ear."

Benjamin didn't look up from the cracked porcelain of the sink. He just squeezed the plastic bottle harder, the viscous, ink-black sludge oozing through his gloved fingers. It smelled like ammonia and burnt bridges.

"I got it, Liv," he muttered.

"You don't have it. You're shaking." Olivia reached for the bottle, but he jerked away, a glob of dye splattering against the floral wallpaper of their cramped bathroom.

"I said I got it!" His voice cracked, a jagged, raw sound that bounced off the tiles. He stared at his reflection. The golden-blonde hair—the 'Golden Retriever' crown that Jonathan had supposedly found so 'addictive'—was disappearing under a layer of synthetic darkness. It looked like oil. It looked like the truth.

"It’s just hair, Ben," Olivia softened her voice, her hand hovering near his shoulder but not touching. "You don't have to erase yourself just because that prick couldn't keep his hands off his ego."

"I'm not erasing myself." Benjamin scrubbed a smudge of black off his forehead with a rough towel, the skin turning a raw, angry red. "I'm burying him. The kid who brought tarts. The kid who thought a senior at St. Jude’s had a heart. He’s dead. He died at the gala."

"Ben..."

"Where are the boxes?"

"In the hallway. I got the heavy-duty tape."

Benjamin turned off the faucet, the water swirling down the drain in a murky, gray vortex. He walked out of the bathroom, his head dripping black streaks onto his shoulders. In the middle of his small bedroom, his life was laid out in piles.

The whisks. The stainless steel bowls. The aprons—one with a flour stain that looked like a thumbprint. His mother's recipe book, the spine taped a dozen times.

He didn't wrap them in bubble wrap. He didn't tuck them in gently. He threw them into the cardboard box. Clang. The metal hit the bottom. Thud. The book followed.

"You're going to want those later," Olivia said from the doorway, her arms crossed. "You love baking. Don't let him take that too."

"I don't love it. I was just auditioning for a role I didn't get." Benjamin grabbed a roll of packing tape and ripped a long, screaming strip of it. He slapped it across the top of the box. Then another. And another. He didn't stop until the box was a mummified block of brown paper and adhesive.

He shoved it into the back of the closet, behind his winter coats and a pair of broken cleats.

"There," he breathed, his chest heaving. "Done."

"You still have the black dye on your neck, Ben."

"Leave it." He sat on the edge of the bed, his hands hanging between his knees. "Let it stain."

The cherry blossom tree at the center of the St. Jude’s quad was losing its petals. They drifted down like pink snow, coating the stone benches and the manicured grass.

Jonathan Hayes stood at the edge of the shadow cast by the thick branches. He wasn't wearing his blazer. His tie was loose, the top button of his shirt undone—a level of disarray that would have been unthinkable two weeks ago.

He stared at the spot where the grass was slightly trampled.

“I made lemon tarts today. They’re still warm.”

The memory hit him like a physical blow to the stomach. He could almost smell the vanilla. He could almost see the way Benjamin’s eyes had crinkled, the way his nose had scrunched up when he laughed.

Jonathan moved closer, his boots crunching on the fallen blossoms. Near the root of the tree, half-hidden by a discarded candy wrapper, lay a small, circular object.

He knelt. His knees hit the damp earth, but he didn't care about the stains on his five-hundred-dollar trousers.

It was a lemon tart. Or it had been. Now it was a dried, shriveled husk of pastry, the yellow curd turned a sickly, darkened brown. A bird had pecked at the edge. It was crushed, a fragment of a dream left to rot in the mud.

Jonathan reached out. His fingers trembled as they closed around the cold, crumbly mess.

"Jonathan? Is that you?"

He didn't look up. He knew the voice. Eleanor Foster.

"We’re heading to the lounge. Andrew’s got a new bottle of rye. Come on, the 'Ice Prince' shouldn't be playing in the dirt."

Jonathan’s grip tightened. The tart disintegrated in his palm, turning into a fine, bitter dust. He stood up slowly, his back as straight as a spear.

"Go away, Eleanor."

"Oh, don't be like that. The bet’s over. The school’s already moved on to the next scandal. Did you hear about the headmaster’s daughter and the—"

"I said go away." Jonathan turned.

Eleanor flinched. The look in his eyes wasn't just cold; it was lethal. It was the look of a man who had looked into the sun and was now going blind in the dark.

"Fine. Suit yourself. Stay here with the ghosts." She huffed and walked away, the click of her heels sounding like a countdown.

Jonathan looked at his palm. The dust of the tart was smeared into the lines of his skin. He didn't wipe it off. He brought his hand to his face, inhaling. There was nothing left but the smell of damp earth and decay.

The school felt like a graveyard. The hallways were too wide. The silence in the library was too heavy. Every time a door opened, he expected to see a yellow hoodie. Every time he heard a laugh, his heart skipped a beat, only to settle into a dull, leaden throb when it wasn't that laugh.

He was starving. Not for food. Not for the expensive scotch Andrew kept offering. He was starving for the noise. For the warmth. For the person who had looked at him and seen something other than a price tag or a motorcycle.

The cafeteria at St. Jude’s was a cathedral of glass and ego.

Jonathan sat at the center table, the usual circle of vultures surrounding him. He hadn't touched his tray. The organic salad was wilting under the fluorescent lights.

"So, I heard he’s actually leaving," a girl two seats down whispered, leaning in toward her friend. "Transferring to some public school in the city. Can you imagine? From St. Jude’s to... that?"

"Well, he had to, didn't he?" the friend giggled, tossing a strand of hair over her shoulder. "I mean, after the video leaked. I saw his face when Andrew played it. He looked like he’d been gutted. It was hilarious."

"I heard he dyed his hair black. Trying to act all edgy now that he’s lost his 'Golden Boy' status. As if that changes anything. He’s still just a scholarship charity case who got humped and dumped."

Clang.

The sound of a silver fork hitting a porcelain plate silenced the entire table.

Jonathan didn't look up. He was staring at the girl who had just spoken. His face was a mask of pale, unmoving stone.

"Repeat that," Jonathan said. His voice wasn't loud. It was a whisper that carried the weight of a falling guillotine.

"What? Jon, it’s just—"

"Repeat. What you just said."

The girl swallowed hard, her throat working visibly. "I just... I said he was a charity case. I mean, it’s true, isn't it? The bet was—"

"The bet," Jonathan stood up. The chair screeched against the marble floor, a piercing, agonizing sound. "The bet was a mistake. But you? You’re a parasite."

"Jonathan, hey—" Andrew started, reaching for his arm.

Jonathan flicked his arm away, his eyes never leaving the girl. "If I hear his name come out of your mouth again—if I hear any of you even breathe a syllable about what happened—I will make it my personal mission to ensure your family’s applications to the Ivy League find their way into a shredder. My father sits on three boards. Do you want to test me?"

The cafeteria was silent. Three hundred students sat frozen, forks halfway to their mouths.

"He’s gone," Jonathan’s voice cracked for a split second before hardening into ice. "But I’m still here. And I’m bored. Don't give me a reason to entertain myself with your lives."

He walked out. He didn't look back. He didn't see the shocked expressions or the way Andrew’s eyes narrowed in calculated fury.

He only saw the image of Benjamin in the penthouse.

He remembered the weight.

Benjamin had been beneath him, his legs wrapped tightly around Jonathan’s waist, his heels digging into the small of Jonathan’s back. The bedsheets were a tangled mess of white linen and heat.

"Jonathan... ohh... wait..." Benjamin had gasped, his head lolling back against the pillows.

"Don't wait," Jonathan had growled, his hands sliding under Benjamin’s hips, lifting him higher. "Look at me. Open your eyes."

He’d pushed into him then—slow, a deliberate invasion that made Benjamin’s breath hitch in a jagged, broken moan. The fit was perfect. It was a crushing, wet heat that made Jonathan’s vision blur. He felt the salt of Benjamin’s sweat on his chest, the two of them sliding against each other in a rhythm that felt like a war and a prayer at the same time.

Benjamin’s hands had searched for purchase, finding Jonathan’s shoulders, his nails leaving faint red crescents in the skin.

"Suck it," Jonathan whispered, leaning down.

Benjamin didn't hesitate. He took Jonathan into his mouth, his tongue swirling with a desperate, clumsy hunger that made Jonathan’s knees weak. He watched the boy's eyes—blown wide, pupils swallowing the blue—as he worked him. The sound of it, the wet, rhythmic friction, filled the quiet room.

When Jonathan pulled him back up, his cock was dripping, the air hitting the wet skin with a sharp chill. He flipped Benjamin over, pushing him down into the mattress. Doggie style. He grabbed Benjamin’s hair, pulling his head back to expose the line of his throat.

"You’re mine," Jonathan hissed, his voice a low, primal vibration.

"Yes! Fuck, yes!" Benjamin screamed, his voice raw.

Jonathan pounded into him then, his movements no longer graceful. They were visceral. Hard. He felt the literal weight of his own body pressing Benjamin into the bed, the mattress creaking under the strain. He watched the way Benjamin’s back arched, the way his legs shook as he neared the edge.

Benjamin’s eyes were held up to the ceiling, glazed and unseeing. "Jonathan! I'm... I'm gonna..."

"Cum for me, Benji. Do it."

They went over together. A violent, shattering release that left Jonathan shaking, his forehead pressed against the back of Benjamin’s neck. He felt the warmth of Benjamin’s release against the sheets, the sticky, messy reality of it.

Afterward, the hangover of the intimacy had been heavy. Jonathan had stayed on top of him for a long time, his weight grounding them both. Benjamin’s limbs were trembling, his skin stinging from the friction, a lingering warmth radiating from where they were still joined.

"I love you," Benjamin had whispered into the pillow.

And Jonathan hadn't said anything. He’d just closed his eyes and listened to the sound of Benjamin’s heart slowing down.

Now, sitting in his car in the school parking lot, Jonathan felt the phantom weight of that night. It felt like a stone in his chest.

He pulled out his phone. He opened the messages.

Jonathan: I'm sorry.

Jonathan: Please.

Jonathan: I can't breathe in this place without you.

He stared at the screen. The messages were marked as Read. No reply.

He looked at the black screen, his own reflection staring back at him. He looked like a stranger. He looked like the man he’d spent his whole life trying not to be—his father.

He started the engine. The roar of the car was too loud in the quiet lot.

He didn't drive toward his penthouse. He drove toward the city. Toward the cheap apartments and the public schools and the scent of ammonia and black hair dye.

He stopped at a red light. Beside him, a bakery was closing up for the night. A woman was putting a tray of lemon tarts into a glass case.

Jonathan gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned a bloodless white. His jaw creaked. He wanted to scream. He wanted to smash the window and take every single one of them.

The light turned green.

He didn't go home. He drove to the address Olivia had mentioned in her threats. He parked across the street, the engine idling.

He saw a figure in the second-floor window.

The hair was black. It was short, choppy, and looked wrong. The boy was leaning against the glass, looking out at the rain. He didn't look like a Golden Boy. He looked like a shadow.

Jonathan’s hand reached for the door handle. His heart was a frantic, trapped thing in his ribs.

"One more time," he whispered to the empty car. "Just one more time."

He stepped out into the rain. He didn't have an umbrella. He didn't have a plan. He only had the crushing, agonizing realization that the thirty days were over, but his sentence had just begun.

He walked toward the entrance of the building. He stopped at the buzzer.

Parker - 2B

He reached out his finger. He hesitated.

From the floor above, a window opened. A box was thrown out, hitting the pavement with a heavy, metallic clank.

Jonathan looked down. The box had split open.

A whisk. A stainless steel bowl. An apron with a flour stain.

And a small, handwritten note, soaked instantly by the rain.

Property of nobody.

Jonathan knelt in the wet gravel, his hands closing around the cold metal of the whisk. He looked up at the window, but the shadow was gone.

"Benjamin!" he shouted into the storm.

The only answer was the sound of the city and the rain washing the last of the lemon scent away.

Suddenly, the front door of the building swung open. It wasn't Benjamin.

It was Nathaniel Price. He was wearing Benjamin’s old yellow hoodie.

"He doesn't want to see you, Hayes," Nathaniel said, his voice flat and full of a new, dangerous confidence. "And if you don't leave, I'm going to finish what you started at the junkyard."

Jonathan stood up, the whisk still clutched in his hand like a weapon. "Where is he?"

"He’s inside. With me." Nathaniel smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. "You had your thirty days. Now it’s my turn."

Jonathan’s vision went red at the edges. He didn't think about the No Contact order. He didn't think about the expulsion.

He took a step forward.

"Get. Out. Of. My. Way."