No Way Out Read online

  “I’m afraid that’s not possible.” As usual, Randy answered for him.

  Shylor dropped his eyes, feeling hope spin away. He wouldn’t mind getting away from the house. That happened all too seldom anymore. And generally the places where Randy took him, when he did deign to take him anywhere, were clubs for people who enjoyed the same sort of lifestyle Randy did. And when they went to those places, Randy insisted on being addressed as Master or Sir, although that rule was not enforced at home.

  Rules. Always about the rules. Until Shy had come to live with Randy, he’d never really lived by any. Since that time, he’d done nothing but.

  “I see. You’ll come over, won’t you, Shy?”

  So casual. So inviting. Visiting one’s neighbors. That’s what normal people did, didn’t they? They got on with the people who lived around them, were friendly and helpful. Had actual conversations.

  But Shylor didn’t consider himself to be normal. He didn’t deserve to have real discussions with real people. He didn’t deserve anyone’s friendship. And he knew he would never have it.

  Everything he was, he owed to Randy. His self-worth was tied up in Randy’s ownership. He belonged to Randy, and had ever since his mother had sold him to the businessman.

  “I can’t.” He forced the words out stiffly.

  Maybe his punishment would be lessened now.

  Shy fought to control the trembling that threatened to overtake his limbs and exacerbate his current situation. The moment of hope had passed. Wyatt would go, and that would be the end of that. Randy would never allow him near again, that much Shylor knew. But he had other things to think about.

  Like enduring whatever punishment Randy chose to inflict.

  So caught up was he in thoughts of Randy’s retaliation that the sound of Wyatt’s voice startled him, and he froze in place.

  “Well, another time then, Shylor.”

  Didn’t he understand no when he heard it?

  “That is, if your dad doesn’t mind.”

  Oh. My. God.

  Shy was conflicted. Part of him wanted to giggle so badly he could taste it—what he wouldn’t give to sneak a look at Randy’s face, which was undoubtedly very flushed. The other part was appalled. A bad situation had just become worse.

  Let Randy explain the truth. Shy wasn’t about to touch the subject for love or money. If asked, the best answer he could offer was “it’s complicated.”

  “I’m not his father.”

  Oh yeah, Randy was upset. His voice had just assumed glacial proportions of the Titanic variety.

  “Oh, sorry. I just assumed.”

  That was bound to help. Not.

  Shylor didn’t think Wyatt seemed sorry at all. In fact, he sounded rather amused. Shy wanted to see for himself. He knew better than to look, knew it wasn’t in his own best interest. But, at this point, he was pretty well fucked anyway, so why not? He cocked his head slightly and peeked. Sure enough, Wyatt was grinning at him. Shy dared not offer a smile in return.

  A fist bump was certainly out of the question.

  Get out of here now, while the getting’s good. A feeling of panic welled in his breast. He wasn’t sure what Randy might do to Wyatt, provoked in that way. He knew Wyatt had no idea what Randy was capable of or he wouldn’t taunt him like that.

  “We have to go. Thank you for stopping by, Mr. Finley. Now, if you’ll excuse us….”

  This time, no doubt, the mispronunciation was deliberate.

  Shy didn’t need to be told twice. He scrambled to his feet, ignoring the vibrations from the butt plug that raced along his nerve endings. At least he could excuse the wet state of his shorts on his occupation and none would be the wiser.

  “Have a nice day.” Wyatt’s voice was so cheerful, so good-humored. But why shouldn’t it be? He could come and go as he pleased, couldn’t he? Make his own rules. “See you later, Shy.”

  Shy warmed inside, but he never looked, never responded. He kept his eyes cast down, knowing Randy watched. Even so, he felt Wyatt’s withdrawal as his shadow ebbed from view.

  “Inside! Now!”

  “Sh-should I put everything up first?” Even Shy’s voice trembled.

  “Yes! And be damn quick about it!” Randy snapped. “I’ll be timing you.”

  For just a moment, Shylor dared to hope that Randy would restrict himself to verbal recriminations. Being yelled at, he could deal with. But Randy’s next words put an end to that idea.

  “I’ll be in the Blue Room.”

  That did not bode well.

  But there was nothing to be done for it. Before Randy had time to stalk to the front door, Shy was in motion, emptying the bucket he’d been using, rinsing out the rags and laying them out to dry. Rolling up the hose. He knew the drill, and he didn’t dare deviate from it.

  Shy wasn’t sure what to expect when he opened the door to the Blue Room. Anything was possible. Taking a deep breath, he walked into the barren room, empty at the moment but for a single chair.

  Randy was pacing back and forth, a sure sign of his agitation. “Father? Ha! If he only knew… if he could only see.” He stopped and pointed one well-manicured finger toward Shy. “You know the rules. You do not talk without permission.”

  Shylor nodded. He’d discovered years ago that debating any point only produced more pain.

  “How dare he? How dare you? Ungrateful little bastard.” Randy darted toward him, his slap landing full across Shy’s cheek. Unprepared, Shy’s head bounced back. His long blond hair flew into his face, but he made no move to brush it aside.

  “Strip,” Randy commanded in a heated voice, and Shylor hastened to obey, carefully setting every piece of clothing aside. He didn’t want to give Randy any more of an excuse for violence than he already had. While he got undressed, Randy left the room, returning quickly, and not empty-handed.

  When he spotted the rope, Shy knew it was going to be one of those nights. The only question was what position would he be tied in, and what would Randy choose to do to him then?

  Randy wound the rope around Shy’s wrists, then dragged him to the chair, yanked on the rope, and forced him to sit. He suspended Shy’s hands behind the chair until they just touched the edge of the seat. Shy’s back strained unnaturally across the top of the chair, taut as a bowstring as Randy trussed him, running the rope in a loop about his neck, and then down the front of his body.

  Shy wondered what Randy had in mind. Usually he tied him the other way, to allow himself access to Shylor’s hole. This way, even with his ass suspended over the seat, Shy didn’t see that working out. So what then?

  Randy reached beneath Shy and pushed against the plug. Shy shivered. So he was leaving that? Randy slid a cock ring over Shy’s hardness and stroked it roughly. Then he slid the blindfold into place, and Shy’s world went dark.

  Now it would come. The beating… the whipping… the fucking… whatever Randy decided to mete out, even if Shy couldn’t see it coming. He held his breath and counted….

  “Think about your transgressions. I’m going out.”

  The door slammed, and silence fell.

  Chapter Two

  MORE THAN a week went by before Wyatt was able to turn his attention to the strange case of Shylor and Randy across the street. Not that he’d forgotten about Shylor. Far from it—the blond occupied a large percentage of his waking thoughts. But real life had a cruel way of intruding itself. Wyatt was kept fully occupied, what with final exams, preparing his portfolio in hopes of receiving a showing, and dealing with a broken pipe in the kitchen, which had burst in the middle of the night and made quite the mess. Tests and painting and plumbers, oh my!

  The same night he’d met the strange couple, Wyatt had noticed the car that Shylor had labored over for so long was missing from the driveway. Randy must have taken Shy out. That was something, he supposed. A reward for all his hard work. Even if the poor guy had to spend it in the company of the unpleasant older man. Randy had certainly not made a favorable impression o
n Wyatt… but Shy had.

  He’d noticed, when they first met, that Shy’s eyes were just as blue as he’d imagined they were. He’d held the color in his mind’s eye, painstakingly mixing the paints on his palette until he recreated the exact shade.

  Wyatt wanted to know more about Shy, learn what made him tick. He needed to know what the relationship was between those two. They had to be lovers, sure, that was more than obvious, but still…. Why were they even together? There must be a story there. Wyatt didn’t feel any love vibrations between them, and that concerned him. Granted, he’d not spent all that much time as an observer of their situation. Perhaps he was jumping to conclusions.

  Gut instinct told him he wasn’t.

  He wanted to bring a smile to Shy’s face, ease the strain he saw there, bring him a bit of genuine joy. Or even a whole lot. But how could he with the Keeper maintaining such a tight rein on him? Was that a public face he wore, and perhaps in private he relaxed, and things were more agreeable, less tense?

  Wyatt wanted to believe that was true, but his head screamed at him that something just wasn’t right there. Call it his artist’s instinct. That thing that helped him see what others didn’t. He’d been a student of human nature too long, attempting to bring it to life on his canvas, not to have gained some insight. And all his senses told him Randy wasn’t what he seemed to be, and that life in the house across the street was skewed in some way.

  Well, common sense told him the man had to work sometime, didn’t he? Of course he did. Wyatt would bide his time and strike when the moment was right.

  The following Wednesday, Wyatt rose and made himself a pot of coffee. Not having any more classes until the summer session was a welcome break. He sat in the kitchen, sipping at the liquid heat, listening to an early-morning talk show on the radio. Normally he enjoyed the scathing humor of the two hosts, who often played against one another and spun tunes between witty repartee. But when one of them joked about there being rain in the forecast, Wyatt decided maybe he’d cut the grass before he couldn’t. Good old St. Louis weather. Turn your back on it and it changed. Not always for the better.

  The homeowner, Mr. Masterson, had a zero-turn lawn mower in the detached garage at the back of the house that was almost brand-new. It was a sweet ride. Wyatt enjoyed the orderly progression of its finely honed blades as he cut the lush zoysia into aesthetically pleasing rows, following the contour of the yard. It gave Wyatt a chance to get some fresh air, as well as the illusion he was exerting himself physically, while a myriad of pictures turned over in his mind.

  Every single one of the images had bright blue eyes and a heart-stopping smile. He just knew if he could coax Shy into smiling for him, the result would be spectacular. Worthy of a painting.

  What he wouldn’t give to be able to put such a vision on canvas.

  He finished cutting the grass before any sign of precipitation raised its ugly head. Wyatt brushed his arm across his forehead, wiping at the sweat he’d worked up. Glancing across the street, he realized the sedan was missing.

  His chance was now. Should he take it?

  Hell yeah. But first, he needed to rid himself of the stank of perspiration. He jumped into the shower and quickly scrubbed away the offending grime, then toweled off. Trying not to overthink things, he settled for a pair of camel shorts that he knew were flattering to him and showed off his slender legs, and a favorite T-shirt emblazoned with the image of Leonardo da Vinci.

  He ran a quick brush through his curly mop, figuring it would dry well enough on its own, shoved the house key into one pocket, his wallet in the other, and locked the door behind him. Just as he started down the front walk, a familiar melody wafted toward him. Wyatt had to smile. He’d know that music anywhere. The ice cream man was coming.

  That was it! He snapped his fingers at the scathingly brilliant idea he’d just had. It seemed forever until the large colorful truck turned down his street. Probably got held up by the children on the next block, wanting their own creamy treats. But it approached at last. Wyatt was the only person waiting for it. No surprise there.

  “What’ll you have?” the driver asked.

  Not knowing Shy’s preference, Wyatt bought two cones—one chocolate, one vanilla, to be safe. He had just enough change to cover his purchase. He thanked the vendor and crossed the street with confidence.

  An artist bearing gifts.

  He approached the door, juggled the cones and rang the bell, then waited.

  SHYLOR WAS responsible for keeping the house spotless, despite the fact that Randy could well afford to have a housekeeper. But he pushed the duties off onto Shy, who reasoned that it was a privacy issue. Randy didn’t want anyone to see the Blue Room or any of his assorted toys.

  The trainer’s name was Tony, and he came twice a week, on Randy’s schedule, and never went beyond the decked-out gym in the lower level, which had its own entrance at the rear of the house.

  The dietician, Joanna, was a tight-lipped young woman who seldom showed up in person, sending her menus to Randy by email. Her meals were strictly portioned, every calorie accounted for. It was up to Shy to see they were cooked to Randy’s satisfaction. Shy didn’t care for the regimen, didn’t see any reason he should follow such a diet, but he didn’t question Randy’s orders. Those were the rules, and he obeyed them.

  Despite his best efforts to put him out of his mind, Shy’s thoughts often returned of their own volition to the handsome man who lived just across the street. Wyatt Findley. The name rolled off Shy’s tongue when he daringly whispered it to himself. In Randy’s absence, of course. Although he was sure they’d never be allowed to see one another again, he couldn’t stop thinking about him. In his mind’s eye, Shy dressed him in white armor, seated him upon a prancing black steed with blazing eyes. Made him into someone who’d carry Shy away, release him from his prison of shame. A prison of his mother’s making.

  But such daydreams were futile and only led to an ache in his heart that nothing could assuage, not even the furtive touches of his own hand, secretly masturbating in the bathroom to the image of Wyatt. Scouring any trace of his actions afterward, carefully masking the telltale scent with the bleach Randy insisted he use. Putting Randy’s rules to good purpose.

  The night they met was still fresh in Shy’s mind. Time had crawled with infinite slowness as he’d been tied to the chair, unable to move, the butt plug in place as a reminder of what his purpose in life was. To pleasure Randy. To be ready for him whenever Randy wanted him. To wait through the times when he did not. Such as tonight.

  At first he figured Randy would leave him tied up for a short while to drive home the lesson, then come back and fuck him hard. Any moment he expected to hear the key in the lock of the Blue Room, feel Randy’s presence, even if he couldn’t see him, thanks to the blindfold.

  But he didn’t return. After a while, Shy realized he wasn’t going to. At least not for a good long time. This was his punishment. If he was lucky, it wouldn’t get any worse. There were far more awful things than being tied up.

  Shy dozed off and on during the night, but never for long, invariably startling himself awake. His muscles ached, and he longed to stretch them, to find another position, but that was impossible. He was helpless until Randy chose to return. And even then….

  What if he didn’t return? Shy pushed the thought aside as ridiculous. No way would Randy abandon his house and his possessions. They meant too much to the older man. And Shy was one of those possessions. Randy would not allow him to come to harm—he had too much time and energy invested in his training.

  Had Randy ever loved Shy? At first, Shy had deluded himself that was the case. But now? Not so much.

  But what if something happened while Randy was out? What if someone broke into the house? Would the intruder free Shylor or take advantage of his helplessness to loot the house? Or, worse still, what if the house caught fire? Shy would be unable to do anything other than go up in flames.

  Would that be his
chance for freedom?

  Reality hit home when Shy was awakened from a fitful sleep by the sound he’d been anticipating, and a drunken Randy had stumbled into the room, demanding Shy service him. He’d fumbled with the knots, releasing him. Shy fell from the chair, his limbs unable to respond, despite Randy’s belligerent orders. Randy had kicked him when he didn’t immediately leap to attention, and Shy bore the blows without complaint. Once the blood returned to his extremities, they’d gone to the bedroom. He went down on Randy, and pretended that it was Wyatt he held in his mouth, Wyatt whose cock he gave pleasure to.

  Without thinking, he whispered Wyatt’s name into Randy’s flesh as he felt him come. “What did you just call me?” Randy asked, and Shy held his breath in horror, but Randy rolled over and fell asleep without another word. The next morning, it was obvious he had no memory of the incident, and Wyatt’s name never passed Shy’s lips again. At least, not in Randy’s presence.

  He had just started the dishwasher when the doorbell sounded. Probably a delivery for Randy. Those weren’t uncommon. Clients often sent gifts to the house. Randy welcomed them, although he was adamant about not allowing those same clients onto the premises. He wined and dined them elsewhere. A favored few even received invitations to Randy’s favorite clubs. At those times, he frequently commanded Shy’s presence, and he would accompany Randy and do whatever he told him to do.

  He opened the door, expecting to see the retreating back of a delivery driver in brown uniform—they didn’t require signatures and seldom waited to acknowledge receipt—but was startled to find the object of his wet dreams standing on his doorstep, bearing two ice-cream cones, wearing a sunny smile.

  Shy’s heart stopped, his eyes widened in panic. Oh God, what if Randy came home….

  “Get out of here,” he whispered in desperation.

  OF ALL the reactions Wyatt had anticipated on his short trek across the street, hearing Shy tell him to go away wasn’t one of them. Shy looked so… afraid… but why? Was Randy’s hold on him so tight he feared Shy even talking to another person? Or was it Wyatt in particular?