“Zoo York. Nice,” Griffin said, running his hands over Michael’s board. “But your back trucks are too tight.”
“I know. Turns for shit right now. The king pin’s stuck. I’m going to have to get a drill—”
“Where’s your skate key?”
“In the drawer.” Griffin opened the bedside drawer and pulled out the key. Michael watched as Griffin used his impressive arm strength to dig in the tool and pop the stuck king pin. Carefully he adjusted both trucks.
“This good?” Griffin asked. Michael sat up and turned the trucks.
“Perfect. Thank you.” Michael met Griffin’s eyes and smiled. Griffin didn’t say anything at first.
“You could come with me, if you want. To a bout. My team’s awesome. Roller derby’s like BDSM on wheels.”
Michael nervously bit the inside of his cheek. For some reason he felt as though he’d just been asked out on a date.
“Can I come watch you ref sometime?” Michael pictured Griffin in tough referee gear and really liked the image.
“Of course. But when I ref you have to call me Patriarchy. That’s my derby name.”
“I’m there.”
“I’ll even let you blow my whistle,” Griffin said as he handed Michael his skateboard.
Michael laughed and blushed as he flipped the board to inspect the deck.
“Jesus Christ,” Griffin said and grabbed Michael’s arm. “What the hell happened?”
Michael’s blood turned to ice. He’d been so relaxed talking with Griffin he’d forgotten to cover his scars. Michael tried to pull his arm back but Griffin didn’t let go.
“It’s nothing,” Michael said, holding his other arm to his stomach.
“That is not nothing. Tell me what happened to you.”
A knot formed in Michael’s throat. “Um, I had a bad day a few years ago.”
“Bad day?”
“I slit my wrists in the sanctuary of my church. Father S saved my life.”
“Saved your life? You almost died?” Griffin’s eyes went wide with horror.
Slowly Michael nodded.
“Goddammit. I really like hating your priest. Now I can’t anymore,” Griffin said, finally letting Michael’s arm go.
Michael laughed a little as he crossed his arms over his chest.
“I’m sorry.”
Griffin shook his head. When he looked at Michael again, it was with new eyes. Something glowed in them, burned in them, something he’d never seen before. Whatever it was, Michael liked it.
“You’re okay now, right? No more bad days?”
Michael nodded, relieved Griffin didn’t ask him a bunch of questions about that day or why he’d done it, the way some people did.
“Yeah, I’m okay. I promise. One day at a time, right?” He put his skateboard back down on the floor. “Plus Father S said if I ever hurt myself again, he’d kill me.”
Griffin gave him a little half smile and shook his head.
“Seriously. I loved hating him. Fuck.”
“Why do you hate Father S so much?” Michael asked as he lay back down again.
Griffin started to answer but Jamison appeared in the doorway with a cooler.
“Thank you, Alfred,” Griffin said, taking the supplies. “There’s a thousand dollars in the cookie jar. Go buy yourself something pretty.”
“I will purchase a firearm and shoot you with it,” Griffin’s butler said, bowing elegantly. “Master Griffin.”
He left the room and Griffin opened the cooler.
“Shirt off. On your stomach. Show me the damage,” Griffin ordered.
Michael pulled off his shirt and tossed it on the floor. Griffin whistled at the sight of Michael’s naked back. Michael knew what he saw—his entire back covered in small round red-and-brown bruises.
“Gets better,” Michael said. “Thighs.”
Griffin reached out and pulled the sheet down his legs. On the back of Michael’s legs from the edge of his boxers to the bottom of his thigh were bright red parallel welts.
“That sadistic bitch caned you?”
Michael nodded.
“Badass. Well, we know where the ice goes then.” Griffin opened the cooler and carefully placed two ice packs on the back of each of Michael’s thighs. Michael sighed with relief as the ice immediately silenced the screaming heat of the welts. “And for the back bruises, liquid vitamin K. Top-secret bruise-fighting goo. Ask any woman whose ever had plastic surgery, i.e. my mother.”
Michael grinned as Griffin poured out some of the white lotion onto his hands.
“I’m going to rub this in,” Griffin warned, “and it’s going to hurt but you’ll heal a lot faster, okay?”
“Okay,” Michael said, tensing as Griffin shifted from his chair to the bed and sat right next to Michael. Michael didn’t fear more pain. Pain was fine by him. He tensed for other reasons, namely having Griffin’s body so close to his. Michael had on nothing but plaid boxer shorts, and Griffin wasn’t just on his bed, he was in his bed about to touch him.
Griffin laid his hands gently on the center of Michael’s back and slowly kneaded. Michael sighed with bliss as Griffin’s touch sent subtle thrills throughout his back and shoulders. His bruises ached but the pleasure of Griffin’s hands on him trumped any pain. With long, even strokes, Griffin rubbed the vitamin K over Michael’s sides, up his spine all the way to his neck and down to the small of his back again.
“I know. Turns for shit right now. The king pin’s stuck. I’m going to have to get a drill—”
“Where’s your skate key?”
“In the drawer.” Griffin opened the bedside drawer and pulled out the key. Michael watched as Griffin used his impressive arm strength to dig in the tool and pop the stuck king pin. Carefully he adjusted both trucks.
“This good?” Griffin asked. Michael sat up and turned the trucks.
“Perfect. Thank you.” Michael met Griffin’s eyes and smiled. Griffin didn’t say anything at first.
“You could come with me, if you want. To a bout. My team’s awesome. Roller derby’s like BDSM on wheels.”
Michael nervously bit the inside of his cheek. For some reason he felt as though he’d just been asked out on a date.
“Can I come watch you ref sometime?” Michael pictured Griffin in tough referee gear and really liked the image.
“Of course. But when I ref you have to call me Patriarchy. That’s my derby name.”
“I’m there.”
“I’ll even let you blow my whistle,” Griffin said as he handed Michael his skateboard.
Michael laughed and blushed as he flipped the board to inspect the deck.
“Jesus Christ,” Griffin said and grabbed Michael’s arm. “What the hell happened?”
Michael’s blood turned to ice. He’d been so relaxed talking with Griffin he’d forgotten to cover his scars. Michael tried to pull his arm back but Griffin didn’t let go.
“It’s nothing,” Michael said, holding his other arm to his stomach.
“That is not nothing. Tell me what happened to you.”
A knot formed in Michael’s throat. “Um, I had a bad day a few years ago.”
“Bad day?”
“I slit my wrists in the sanctuary of my church. Father S saved my life.”
“Saved your life? You almost died?” Griffin’s eyes went wide with horror.
Slowly Michael nodded.
“Goddammit. I really like hating your priest. Now I can’t anymore,” Griffin said, finally letting Michael’s arm go.
Michael laughed a little as he crossed his arms over his chest.
“I’m sorry.”
Griffin shook his head. When he looked at Michael again, it was with new eyes. Something glowed in them, burned in them, something he’d never seen before. Whatever it was, Michael liked it.
“You’re okay now, right? No more bad days?”
Michael nodded, relieved Griffin didn’t ask him a bunch of questions about that day or why he’d done it, the way some people did.
“Yeah, I’m okay. I promise. One day at a time, right?” He put his skateboard back down on the floor. “Plus Father S said if I ever hurt myself again, he’d kill me.”
Griffin gave him a little half smile and shook his head.
“Seriously. I loved hating him. Fuck.”
“Why do you hate Father S so much?” Michael asked as he lay back down again.
Griffin started to answer but Jamison appeared in the doorway with a cooler.
“Thank you, Alfred,” Griffin said, taking the supplies. “There’s a thousand dollars in the cookie jar. Go buy yourself something pretty.”
“I will purchase a firearm and shoot you with it,” Griffin’s butler said, bowing elegantly. “Master Griffin.”
He left the room and Griffin opened the cooler.
“Shirt off. On your stomach. Show me the damage,” Griffin ordered.
Michael pulled off his shirt and tossed it on the floor. Griffin whistled at the sight of Michael’s naked back. Michael knew what he saw—his entire back covered in small round red-and-brown bruises.
“Gets better,” Michael said. “Thighs.”
Griffin reached out and pulled the sheet down his legs. On the back of Michael’s legs from the edge of his boxers to the bottom of his thigh were bright red parallel welts.
“That sadistic bitch caned you?”
Michael nodded.
“Badass. Well, we know where the ice goes then.” Griffin opened the cooler and carefully placed two ice packs on the back of each of Michael’s thighs. Michael sighed with relief as the ice immediately silenced the screaming heat of the welts. “And for the back bruises, liquid vitamin K. Top-secret bruise-fighting goo. Ask any woman whose ever had plastic surgery, i.e. my mother.”
Michael grinned as Griffin poured out some of the white lotion onto his hands.
“I’m going to rub this in,” Griffin warned, “and it’s going to hurt but you’ll heal a lot faster, okay?”
“Okay,” Michael said, tensing as Griffin shifted from his chair to the bed and sat right next to Michael. Michael didn’t fear more pain. Pain was fine by him. He tensed for other reasons, namely having Griffin’s body so close to his. Michael had on nothing but plaid boxer shorts, and Griffin wasn’t just on his bed, he was in his bed about to touch him.
Griffin laid his hands gently on the center of Michael’s back and slowly kneaded. Michael sighed with bliss as Griffin’s touch sent subtle thrills throughout his back and shoulders. His bruises ached but the pleasure of Griffin’s hands on him trumped any pain. With long, even strokes, Griffin rubbed the vitamin K over Michael’s sides, up his spine all the way to his neck and down to the small of his back again.
