The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The Offer

by Wrestlr

1.

“I said, on your feet.”

Seemed like just moments ago, exhausted, Jack closed his eyes. Despite the nagging pain from the half-healed bruises covering his lower back, the cold, the uncomfortable concrete bench on which he lay, sleep overwhelmed him quickly.

With his eyes closed, he saw a warm living room, maybe a hearth with a fire crackling behind a grate. The smell of turkey and stuffing, something cinnamon too, radiated from the kitchen where his mother—no, boyfriend—yes, his handsome dark-haired boyfriend was cooking. Soon his boyfriend would call to him—Dinner’s ready, sweetheart—and then Jack would sit at the table and feast until the gnawing emptiness inside him was sated.

“Hey. Get up. You can’t sleep here.”

Through the window, he saw snowflakes drifting down, blanketing the front lawn and shrubbery.

“Hey! Wake up.”

Someone was complaining at him from outside the room, but he couldn’t see who. No matter, because if he concentrated, he could focus on the room. He could make it real. He wanted it to be real. He shivered from the seeping cold and moved closer to the fire. But its heat felt weak, getting weaker. Stupid fire, he thought. He picked up the sweatshirt, thick and warm and soft, a bright blue that matched his eyes—everyone said so—and pulled it over his head. He still felt chilled, but the sweatshirt was comforting. He looked around this room and smiled, finally safe.

Something, somebody, poked his shoulder—then again, harder. “Hey! I’m talking to you. Wake up. You can’t sleep here.”

Jack jerked. The voice from outside suddenly was right in his ear. His eyes snapped open, and his dream vanished. He blinked, turned his head up, and managed to locate the source of the voice—a flashlight beam in his face, the abrupt blur of a silver badge, a blue uniform. Crap! he thought, a cop. Jack struggled to sit up. He squinted at the cop’s face, trying to make out the words. The cop’s expression was unreadable, his eyes flint-sharp in the argon streetlight. Can’t tell what color they are, Jack thought.

Cloud-breath from the cop’s mouth meant he was saying something. Jack blinked again, clearing his head and concentrating though the cold. He had planned to avoid the police, thought maybe this churchyard would be a safe place to finally get a night’s sleep. Someone must had seen and reported him, or maybe the cop had spotted him. The cop must be telling him to move along, the standard cop line. Jack tugged at the thin jacket he wore, disoriented by the memory of a soft, warm sweatshirt.

“Sorry,” Jack mumbled, stumbling slowly to his feet through the aching cold that stiffened his very bones. ”Fuck!“ he cursed as his blanket slipped from his numb hand and landed in the slushy snow at his feet. That was the only warmth he had, a threadbare piece of material he had stolen from Goodwill when the clerk turned her back, and now the damned thing was wet.

Jack leaned down to retrieve it, only to see the ground spinning quickly toward his face. Strong arms grabbed him, prevented him from planting himself face-first in the snow. Jack twisted out of the cop’s grasp quickly—the man might be a cop and wear a badge, but no one touched him. Not anymore. Jack knew what men would want from him. He was young and he was pretty. He had learned quickly in the last week what men wanted from him. He dodged enough of it after he left home.

“How old are you?” the cop asked, sounding concerned but looking very much in control.

“Eighteen,” Jack lied immediately. He took a step back; his leg hit the bench on which he had been lying. He nearly stumbled. The cop stepped with him, looming large despite being about Jack’s height.

The cop frowned. “No—no, you’re not. How old are you really?”

Jack knew he was shaking so hard even the cop would see. He hoped the cop would blame the cold. Carefully Jack lifted the blanket, damp and icy, trying to create a barrier between himself and the policeman’s intense gaze. Jack willed his teeth to stop chattering.

The officer waited for his answer.

“Seventeen,” Jack finally said, “but I’ll be eighteen in a couple of days.” He hoped knowing he was nearly eighteen would give the cop reason enough to leave him alone and not call Family Services. He wanted to shout at the cop, Go away—I’m not hurting anybody.

“Dylan,” the cop said, holding his hand out as if he wanted to shake Jack’s. Jack was confused, waiting for the flash of handcuffs, and he dug his fists deeper in the wet blanket he held. Who the fuck was Dylan? Then Jack’s cold-addled brain realized—the cop was telling Jack his name. What kind of name is Dylan for a cop? Jack thought. It sounds more like a porn star’s name.

The cop, this Dylan, did not move his hand, just held it there in the air between them. Finally Jack reached his cold hand out and shook the officer’s. The warmth and texture of the officer’s leather glove felt strange around Jack’s skin.

“And you are?” the cop prompted.

“Jack,” he muttered, careful to give only his first name. The cop did not push him for his surname, just nodded and pulled his hand away.

“So, Jack, what’s your story? Why are you lying on this bench outside in this churchyard on the coldest night of the year?”

The officer was not shouting or scolding; he seemed just to be making conversation. Still, Jack immediately felt himself turn defensive. “I ...” Jack stopped, assessing the lies he could spin. Which of the stories he used would persuade this cop to leave him alone? Nothing crystallized as right for this situation. Jack sensed something about this cop, who seemed not much older than he was, a small-town officer who was not trying to intimidate him like a city cop would have. This officer was not part of the system in the same way as the city cops who said he should just go home. I don’t have a home, not anymore, Jack remembered bitterly. He was too tired and cold to lie convincingly, so he told the truth. “I can’t be at home right now,” he said, wincing as the cop’s gloved hand gripped his jaw and turned his head. The cop shone his flashlight on Jack’s face, assessing the bruises over and around his left eye and down his jaw line, painful where the cop’s grip accidentally pressed them.

“Who did this, Jack? Was it someone in this town?” The officer’s tone spun a safe haven for sharing secrets, protective, insistent, and not very cop-like.

Jack shied away from the man’s hand, an icy uncertainty pinching his skin as he contemplated being in the dark churchyard on his own with this man. The cop seemed friendly enough, but was that just an act? Cautiously, trying not reveal his intentions, he looked to his left and then to his right. If he was going to run, he needed a head start—being held or cornered would take that head start away. To his right, dense shrubbery gave no exit. To his left, a gate led to a small cemetery and shadowy grave stones. That was his best bet. He shifted his weight, ready in an instant to push himself away, run the five steps, and vault the gate. His legs shook with the added tension, and he knew he would probably fall immediately on the icy walkway. Still, any plan offered more hope than no plan.

Meanwhile, the cop waited for Jack’s answer.

“I fell,” Jack said firmly, the same line he had used most of his life, the same line that always earned him looks ranging from pity to doubt to disgust when he said it to people he panhandled for money to buy a burger and to cops who harassed him for loitering. He was not expecting much from yet another man in authority.

The cop evaluated him—“Uh huh”—but did not push for more information, just nodded at the statement. He took a step back and away, and Jack felt relieved. The officer spoke directly into his radio: “I’m at the church. Nothing to worry about. I’m heading home now. See you tomorrow.” Static broke the snow-deadened air, and a tinny voice acknowledged the radio message with a series of codes and a single name, Dylan. The cop looked back at him. Jack gauged that the cop was now two steps away from him. That increased his chances of reaching the gate if he had to run.

The cop said, “You can’t sleep here. I’ll find you a room for tonight, and we’ll deal with the rest in the morning.”

Jack’s eyes widened. He was not going anywhere with any stranger, not unless he was under arrest. This cop was going to find him a room? Probably some no-tell motel where the cop would expect Jack to show his “gratitude” sexually ... Shit! No way was that happening. Jack barely got away safely two nights before from a proposal wrapped in a far better promise of hope than what the cop was giving him. Jack was finished with being gullible.

Pulling himself to his full height, he tightened his lips, determined. He was not swapping one hell for another—no way.

“No. Thanks, but no. I have to be at the bus station first thing in the morning.” He tried to keep the hopelessness out of his voice, tried to sound confident around his chattering teeth. He mapped out the words in his head, and he knew exactly what he was going to say. He wanted the cop to think he had a reason for being on a bench in the snow on a cold winter night. The cop would have to respect that. It was a free country.

“Okay, Jack,” the cop sighed. “You’re making this difficult. It’s late, it’s cold, it’s been a long day, and I really want to go home. We can do this one of two ways. Option one is, you come with me voluntarily, get a decent meal, a shower, and maybe some warmer clothes, and then you can sleep tonight in a warm bed. This can be all your own choice. Option two is, I make it official and arrest you, then force you to go.”

Jack looked around desperately, at the small church, the graveyard, the bench, the snow, and back at the young-looking cop in front of him. He was so screwed. The strength in his legs was failing. The ice beneath his feet climbed his long limbs, bringing insistent pain. He had run for a week, managed to keep ahead of everything and everyone, and he only had two more days until he could stop running. Why was his body choosing now to give out?

“So,” the cop continued, “I haven’t got all night—and I really don’t want to spend my day tomorrow standing over your frozen corpse, filling out paperwork, and explaining your death to the coroner. What’s your choice?”

Jack knew this was a no-choice situation. He knew the cop knew it too. He straightened as best he could, the pain of the deep bruises across his lower back burning back to the usual level, despite the cold that had started to numb the tenderness slightly.

“Okay,” Jack said quietly, surrendering. After all, this was a cop. Was it so wrong to want to be warm for just one night? “Just don’t arrest me. And ... not a cell, okay?” he asked cautiously.

The officer—Dylan—turned and started walking away from the bench. “Nope, not a cell and you’re not under arrest.”

“You promise?” Damnit! Jack swore—could he sound more like a whiney little kid? No way the officer would think of him a responsible adult in control of his life now.

The cop stopped and looked back at him, pushing his hands into the pockets of his thick jacket. Jack found himself looking at it enviously. “I promise,” the cop said. He turned, clearly expecting Jack to follow, which he did.

Jack stumbled on the icy path in the same thin sneakers he had been wearing when he was thrown out one week ago. He cursed under his breath that the cop’s boots afforded him surer footing on the ice when Jack had to scramble to keep up. All this stumble-slipping-tripping behind the cop like a lost puppy was pathetic, humiliating. At the same time, Jack knew he could not outrun the cop if he decided to just get the hell away from the officer. He had nowhere else to run anyway. His only choice was to follow as best he could.

They walked in silence for several blocks through the cold, empty streets, past a town square and a clock built into the wall of a small library. The clock announced the time was twelve-fifteen. The cop stopped at a small mom-and-pop convenience store with a Closed sign in the window, checked the door, and peered with his flashlight beam into the emptiness inside. Jack just watched, scuffing his sneaker against a ridge of ice on the sidewalk. Then the cop led Jack toward a row of similar houses, to the large house at the far end. The front drapes were partially open and Jack could see lights on, bits of a suburban living room, the promise of warmth welcoming them as they tramped up the cleared pathway. The officer stamped snow off his boots by the front door, let himself in, and gestured for Jack do the same and follow.

Jack hesitated. He could feel the warmth from inside, smell something like home-cooking. Still, this cop was asking him to enter a house. No one would know Jack had gone into that house with this cop. With a stranger.

The cop beckoned Jack through the door. Jack took a breath and stepped over the threshold.

“Dylan?” The new voice belonged to a good-looking man about the cop’s age, in a tee-shirt and shorts, who appeared from the brightly lit hall. “Late shift ran later than usual? And you brought a visitor.”

Dylan stripped off his jacket and hung it on a peg. “I told him he could sleep in the guest room tonight.” The cop pulled off his gloves and heavy boots. “Ike, this is Jack. Jack, Ike.”

“Hi,” Jack said, but pointed his eyes at the floor. He was not in acceptable condition to be meeting people. He had not bathed in three days. He knew he smelled rank, and his hair was a greasy mess.

“Come on in, baby,” the new man, Ike, said. Jack bristled at being called baby, one of his father’s favorite insults—thinking, I’m practically an adult, not a baby—but Ike seemed to have meant no offense. “Is that all you’re wearing outside on a night like this? Just hang your jacket up there and leave your sneakers on the mat to dry.”

The warm air prickled his frozen face and hands almost painfully, and Jack blinked at the sudden change as the door shut behind them. Fear twisted his stomach into a momentary ache—he had not been shut inside by doors for a week. He feared this place would feel like a prison.

The cop, Dylan, guided him into a living room where a gas fire hissed and crackled behind the grate. They stood warming their hands. Jack got his first good look at the man who had pulled out of the churchyard. Without the bulky coat and cap hiding the details, Dylan was Jack’s height, solid and muscled, dark-haired. His eyes are chocolate brown, Jack realized, answering his own question from the churchyard. Dylan’s uniform looked good on him, fitted him close and neat. Jack hated uniforms and the power they represented, but the cop did not look officious, not like the security guards in the parks or the shadowed doorways where Jack had been sleeping. Dylan did not look harried or suspicious or hard. The contradiction unnerved Jack.

Dylan’s voice was deep and confident. “Jack also needs some chow and some clothes.” He did not make excuses for bringing a stranger to his house, and in return, this Ike guy did not seem all that surprised.

“Follow me, baby,” Ike said to Jack. He winced at baby again and wondered if calling other men baby meant Ike was gay. If so, did that mean Ike was Dylan’s boyfriend? “You can get yourself cleaned up, and then we’ll feed you.” Ike did not wait for him, but at that point the thought of a clean bathroom, an actual toilet, and maybe a shower was enough to overcome Jack’s hesitation. Ike had smiled at him, but Jack was disorientated, exhausted, and in pain. Staying on his feet required all his concentration, leaving little energy to return the smile.

Ike led Jack upstairs and to the end of the hall—a bedroom. The guest bedroom, Jack surmised. “Bathroom’s on your left,” Ike told him. “Go get yourself cleaned up. When you’re done, come downstairs and I’ll have some food ready for you.”

Jack spent the next hour in a daze of blessedly hot water in the shower. The bathroom door did not lock, but the lure of a shower was too great. The last time he had managed to clean himself up was three days ago in the bus station rest room, using water that drizzled suspiciously brown from the tap. Now, soap and shampoo seemed miraculous. The steam and spray thawed him. He soaped and re-soaped. Heaven, Jack decided.

When he finally emerged, scrubbed newborn-pink and nearly scalded, he pulled an oversized fluffy towel from the rack and dried himself. He finally felt clean for the first time in a week. He wiped condensation from a section of the mirror with the towel. He stared at himself in the mirror, tried to see himself objectively. For the first time in days, Jack was seeing himself in something other than a shop window. He knew he had lost weight, had felt it in his jeans that refused to sit right, but in the mirror he saw a shadow of himself, beaten, exhausted, and so damn skinny. His body had always been slim, as he hit his growth spurts and shot up, but lack of food over the last week had left his frame nearly gaunt. His tired eyes and gray-tinged skin made the thinness even more noticeable. At least his hair was clean, the blond dark with water and finger-combed back from his face. His blue eyes seemed to pop out of his face—they were bloodshot, smudged underneath with lingering purple bruises. He looked pathetic. He felt pathetic. In a week he had been changed from a suburban teenager struggling with studying into a stereotypical street kid, and the suddenness of the change scared him. He did not want to be this nearly broken version of himself that he saw in the mirror.

A new disposable razor, shaving cream, toothbrush, and toothpaste sat on the counter. Jack’s beard was still too adolescent-straggly to need shaving daily, but he hadn’t shaven in a while. He lathered up and razored away the thin stubble on his cheeks and chin. He had not used a toothbrush in a week, and the familiar taste of mint toothpaste seemed so ... home. Not my home, he reminded himself, since the cop had only promised one night.

Jack reached for his clothes and froze. His clothes were gone. Somebody—Ike or Dylan—had snuck into the bathroom while he showered and taken his clothes. They saw me naked, Jack thought, panicking, and cursed himself for letting down his guard. He should have noticed the intrusion, should have been smart enough to keep watch. Where his clothes had been, someone had left a neatly folded stack: tee-shirt, sweatshirt, sweatpants. The sweatpants were warm, dry, and felt soft on his clean skin. He pulled on the tee-shirt, then the sweatshirt over his towel-dried hair and looked at the mirror. The sweatshirt was nearly the same blue as his eyes, though darker.

He knew he had to go and face the cop and the cop’s—what was Ike, the cop’s roommate, lover? Whatever, Jack knew he could not stay in the bathroom forever. Cautiously he opened the bathroom door, half- expecting the cop to be waiting outside with handcuffs. The bedroom and the hallway outside the bedroom door was empty, but that did not make Jack feel less nervous. He crept barefooted down the hall, following the voices toward the kitchen. Apparently Ike and Dylan had been talking about him, because when the bottom stair squeaked under Jack’s foot, the silence was immediate and felt to Jack somewhat uncomfortable.

Jack walked into kitchen. The officer was sitting at the table, a mug in his hands, looking in the bright light too impossibly young to be a cop.

Ike popped open the door to the microwave oven. “Look at you. You cleaned up well. Don’t worry about your clothes—we’ll get them washed for you tomorrow morning. Chicken okay with you, baby?” he asked Jack as he transferred a plate to an empty place at the table.

“God, yes,” Jack said quickly, wincing at his loss of control and then realizing what he had said. He may have turned away from God for leaving him to be beaten and rejected by his father, but he knew he should not risk offending these men in case they were religious. He should watch his mouth. “Sorry, sir,” he blurted quickly. “I mean, yes, chicken will be fine.”

The cop found this amusing and snorted, “Sir,” with a quiet disbelieving chuckle.

Ike smacked the officer’s shoulder. “Not a word out of you, Dylan. Some people still have manners.” To Jack he said, “Just call me Ike, not ‘sir.’”

Jack nodded. The food smelled heavenly, a generous baked chicken breast and leg covered in sauce, piles of veggies. His stomach growled and he tore into the food. Ike and Dylan watched as he ate, but Jack didn’t care. They were probably both sitting and judging him for how he looked and where the cop had found him, but he would worry about that after he finished shoveling pieces of chicken down his throat and into the bottomless pit inside him.

Ike turned to Dylan and pretended everyday conversation. “Dylan, baby, are you off duty now?”

“Until tomorrow morning. I work the day shift.”

“Go change out of your uniform. That’ll give me and Jack here a chance to talk.” Jack lifted his head at this, a forkful of beans halfway to his mouth. The talk. Shit. He was so screwed.

“Back in five,” Dylan said firmly. Jack looked at him, saw the warning in the cop’s expression: Don’t cause trouble. Jack nodded slightly to the cop to show he got the message, watched as the broad-shouldered man left the kitchen.

“So, baby, I’m guessing you aren’t here by choice?” Ike watched him intently. Jack wondered what Ike saw when he looked at him, and he felt embarrassed. He knew old and new bruises covered his face, only partly concealed by still-damp blond hair. He knew he looked younger than nearly eighteen and was often mistaken for much younger. He did not know how to handle this situation.

“No, sir,” he finally said, biting another slab of chicken. If he chewed a mouthful of food, maybe he could get away with not saying anything at all. He had listened to enough lectures at home to be able to tune them out.

“Dylan says you’re nearly eighteen, and that you haven’t told him much except your first name.”

Damn. His surname. Ike wanted to know his surname. Jack guessed it did not matter much now, since there was no way he was going home. In only two more days he turned eighteen. That did not give the cop long enough to track down his family, and in two days Family Services would not be able to touch him. Still, Ike had not actually asked for his surname, had simply made a statement. Jack decided to ignore the implied question.

Ike asked, “Do you have a family? Can you tell me why you’re not home with them?”

“My family, they ... My dad doesn’t want me in the house anymore.”

“Why is that? Drugs? Alcohol?”

Jack closed his eyes briefly, considering his options. Did Ike think this was Jack’s fault? On the other hand, Ike did not know Jack—why would he not think this was Jack’s fault? Should he lie or tell Ike the real story? Ike kept calling him baby, which made Jack think Ike was gay, but would Ike want to hear the real situation? Other people had asked, but they turned out not to want to really hear. What if Jack misjudged the situation?—Would they push him immediately back out on the street? Should he tell Ike about the strict ex-Army father who felt lessons were best learned through plentiful corporal punishment? Now that Jack was warm and clean and had dealt with most of the ravenous pit in his stomach, exhaustion pulled at him, made concentration difficult. He did not want to lie, disliked lying unless he had to. He decided to use the easy option and tell just the truth. “No, it’s because I’m gay.”

“That’s why you ran away?”

The food sat unsteadily in Jack’s stomach. “No. I didn’t exactly run away. They tried to fix me, but it didn’t work. I didn’t want it to work. So my dad threw me out.”

“I see,” was all Ike said.

“Thank you for the food, sir. I appreciate your help, and your—uh—Dylan’s.” Jack pushed his body up, feeling jabs of pain in his legs as he stood, and turned around, stopping only because the officer was blocking the doorway. The man was fresh from the shower, nearly naked except for a pair of dark blue boxer shorts, with his dark hair spiky and his chocolate eyes alert. While he looked less like a cop and more like a normal guy, Jack found him even more intimidating like this, with his muscular chest tensing as he leaned in at Jack.

Jack was determined to leave. They would not want him under their roof now. At least he had gotten a hot meal in his belly, and he was damned if he was going to give back the warm sweat-clothes. He gauged the front door, calculating distance, speed, and direction for an escape. He could probably outrun the cop if he had a good head start since the other man was standing in the hallway with bare feet. Jack’s feet were bare too, but he only had to find his shoes and jacket, and then he would be gone into the night. Jack tried to push past, but the cop refused to step aside.

“Ike? Did he do something? Are you okay?” Dylan ignored Jack.

“It seems Jack’s parents threw him out because he’s gay,” Ike said simply. Jack stepped back from the cop to gain maneuvering room. Something like anger flickered across Dylan’s face. Shit, Jack thought immediately, here it comes. The cop brought up a hand, and Jack cringed from the imminent blow. Instead, the cop laid his hand on Jack’s shoulder, gripped it reassuringly, and appeared to ignore the fact that Jack had cowered back in fear.

“That happens a lot,” the cop said, his face not revealing any expression, “but in this house, it isn’t a problem. Everybody living here is gay.” He paused, letting the message sink in. He released his grip on Jack’s shoulder.

“Oh,” was all Jack could find to say.

Dylan said, “Being gay isn’t going affect your stay with us. Okay?”

Jack twisted to look at Ike, still sitting at the table. Ike nodded his agreement. The situation felt surreal, like some chick-flick with exceptionally pretty people being exceptionally nice to young runaways. He blinked, eyes widening as it all sank in.

Ike rose and put Jack’s empty plate in the sink. “I’m going to go to bed, Dylan. Why don’t you and Jack talk?”

Jack felt nervous tension quiver through his body. What the hell was he supposed to talk about with this nearly naked cop?

Dylan headed for the cabinets. “You got any room left in your stomach for hot chocolate? With marshmallows or without? I like mine with just a little bit of cinnamon too, if that’s okay with you?” He started pulling out the ingredients.

Well, this is going well, Jack thought, frowning, trying to make his exhaustion-addled brain figure out the situation. Hot chocolate was too big a temptation to pass up. “Uh, with marshmallows, I guess.”

“Excellent choice.”

Soon the smell filled the kitchen. Dylan led Jack into the living room and waved for him to sit on the couch too. After considering for a few seconds, Jack sat down next to Dylan, keeping as much space between them as the couch allowed. Dylan sipped his mug of chocolate and scratched at his bare abdomen, just beside his navel and the patch of hair that surrounded it. Jack pretended not to notice, pretended not to be fascinated by the way the hair trail disappeared into Dylan’s boxers and not to be curious about the mound those boxers barely concealed. Jack looked away quickly, fearing he was seconds away from throwing an erection the sweatpants would not disguise.

“Ike seems nice,” Jack said.

“Yeah, he’s great.”

“He keeps calling me ‘baby.’”

“Yeah. He calls everybody ‘baby.’ You’ll get used to it.”

Is he your boyfriend?”

“No. Just a friend and roommate. I’m single. Ike is too, if you’re interested.”

“Uh ...”

Dylan seemed to find Jack’s embarrassment amusing and snorted out another chuckle.

Dylan said. “All the guys living here are great. I’ve been here the longest, nearly six years, since I was about eighteen and a half. Ike’s been here around four years. There’s usually six or seven guys living here. The guy who owns this house doesn’t care about the gay thing. Honestly, I think he likes that we’re all gay.”

They sat in silence. Jack tried to work out why, as an officer of the law in this sleepy small town just outside the metropolitan suburbs, Dylan had decided to help an underage kid he found on the street. He tried to work out how he came to find himself sitting on a couch drinking hot chocolate in a house where several gay men lived. Exhaustion kept shutting down his brain. Jack decided to change the subject.

“So, you’re a cop?” Jack mimicked the way Dylan had asked him questions.

“Yep. Graduated from the policy academy about a year ago. It’s a good job. I’m the rookie, lowest rung on the ladder, so I get all the shitty shifts, like working the late shift tonight and being back on duty at eight o’clock tomorrow morning, but, yeah, it’s what I wanted to be since I was your age.”

“Dylan, can I ask you a question?” Dylan nodded, so Jack blurted, “How old are you?”

“I’m twenty-four. I have a job I love, and great roommates too—they’re practically like family to—”

Jack winced. Why did just the mention of family twist his insides? He decided he needed to get over that reaction but still found himself automatically in self-protection mode, pulling his knees up and wrapping an arm around them.

“I’m sorry, Jack. I didn’t mean to—”

“No, it’s okay. It’s your life. It sounds cool.”

“The guy who owns this house—he’s kind of picky about who he lets stay here, so I can only promise you this one night. But if he likes you, he can be generous. He paid for my college and police academy tuition, even helped me get a job with the local department. In the morning you can meet him. If he likes you, maybe he’ll offer to let you stay too, but I can’t make any promises. Or you can go, if that’s what you want. That’s all up to you.” Dylan stood up and took Jack’s empty mug out of his hands. “It’s late, and I have to be on duty in a few hours. I’m going up to my room to get some sleep. You ready to turn in? You can find your way back to the guest room?”

“Yeah,” Jack murmured, feeling his brain starting to shut down at the mention of sleep. He felt both relieved and disappointed that Dylan had not offered to let Jack sleep with him.

“Okay, then. Off to bed with you.” Dylan carried their mugs to the kitchen.

Jack stood and pushed his exhausted body toward the stairs.