fiction, c

[attr="class","imainie"] Whenever Nevada let his attention drift from the rambunctious blonde, he always ended up getting into some kind of trouble around the penthouse. It was a pattern that developed since the blonde first came to live with him. Nevada should have expected the mess when he emerged from his study after rereading his favorite novel for the seventh time. But he never learned, no matter how often it happened. His reaction never changed either. He was just as shocked as the first time it happened.

Nevada made his down the hall picking up the items strewn across the floor as he went along. So far, there was no sign of the blonde haired culprit. Not until he heard paper crinkling and pages turning coming from the bedroom did he find him. Peering into the open bedroom, he spotted him sitting with his back to the door with an assortment of clothes and blankets around him. His bed was lifted up like a yawning maw, its contents littered across the floor and in Angel’s hand.

The man couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He had been so confident that both the storage compartment of the bed and the locked chamber would keep anyone from every getting their hands on his journal. How wrong he was. Angel seemed to have gotten in with ease once he found out where it was. Nevada would have to make sure to invest in a lock that was Angel proof. “You have found it, now put it back. There is nothing that concerns you in that book.”

[attr="class","imainie"] Nevada never thought he’d see the day when he was demanding Angel put down a book; in fact, he didn’t think he’d ever see the day the blonde pick one up. He had always longed for the day when Angel would read. The thought of sharing some of his favorite books with his rowdy companion often crossed his mind. Of course, he dismissed them after the first time he offered Angel a seat in his study to read with him. Now, however, he wanted Angel to just put down the book.

All he received from his demands was a quick glance then Angel was back to reading his journal. How much had he already read? “You have no right to read that journal,” remarked the man. “What is written in those pages is private.” Nevada didn’t know why he bothered trying to reason with him. Angel wasn’t the reasonable type. He did whatever he pleased. The man had yet to find a tactic that worked against the blonde too. Did nothing work? “I insist that you put it back.”

[attr="class","imainie"] Angel didn’t so much as much as look up from the pages of his journal as if he were enthralled by what was scrawled on the aging papers. That was unlikely. He hadn’t shown any interest in learning anything about the white-and-teal haired man. As far as he was concerned, it was all out of spite and nothing more. The spiteful peal of laughter was the last straw. Nevada wouldn’t stand by and watch Angel make a mockery of his life. “That is enough.”

He crossed towards the blonde, reaching for the journal in his hands. Why had he ever scrawled a single word on those papers down? Why did he even keep it all those years, even adding to it? It was merely another lapse in his judgment, which he once thought was fairly sound. “This journal and your criminal history are hardly comparable. That is a private document, meant for my eyes only. Your missing persons file is posted for the world to see.”

[attr="class","imainie"] Angel didn’t give up the book easily though he didn’t make it much of a challenge to get it back either. It didn’t really matter to Nevada as long as it wasn’t in the blonde’s possession anymore. He didn’t really know how much he managed to read and there wasn’t much he could do about it. At least he had it back now. Angel couldn’t read anymore. Of course, Nevada would have to find a new hiding place or he needed to keep a better eye on the blonde.

He was considering other places to stow away his journal when he registered the name Angel called him by, a name he hadn’t been called for years. Angel had read that much in so little time? Nevada had really underestimated the tricky prostitute. “You are not to call me by that name.” He masked his shock beneath layers of indifference. “I am Nevada.” The more time he spent with the blonde, the more he was convince he was more than he could handle.

[attr="class","imainie"] Hearing his name roll of the captive prostitute’s foul tongue gave Nevada just a hint towards just how much the blonde now knew. Obviously the blonde hadn’t just got his hands on his precious secrets. Angel had more than enough time to read through and learn of the name he was given at birth. Did he know the reason Nevada chose to change it? How much did he know? The uncertainty put the man, who was used to always having the upper hand, on edge.

New situations were already stressful enough for the man. He didn’t think he could handle Angel’s newly acquired knowledge to the mix. Did the blonde need any more ammunition? He already had Nevada wrapped around his finger. All the stress Angel wasn’t doing Nevada any good. If he didn’t have a head of bleached white hair, would he find silver hairs beginning to streak through his natural, dirty blonde hair? He was beginning to think he would.

The extortionist pressed the heel of his head to his brow, feeling a throbbing in the middle of his forehead. He was beginning to think it was time for another vacation, yet he didn’t dare leave Angel unattended in the penthouse again. He stole a glance towards the blonde rolling on the floor. If he weren’t so strangely attractive, he was sure he would never have lost his advantage. Angel broke the strange trance he always seemed to put Nevada in as he raised up the clothes. “No.”

[attr="class","imainie"] Perhaps it was because of Nevada’s own naivety or maybe Angel’s performance was just that convincing. Either way, the extortionist fell for the feigned disappointment and the pouting. He watched the clothes fluttered in the younger man’s grasp as he rolled on the floor and flailed his arm. The thought of wearing them made a blush crawl across his cheeks. But for Nevada to wear them was something the blonde wanted. He couldn’t say bear to see him upset.

Try as he might to resist and to remain firm in denying Angel’s request, he couldn’t. So, despite his vow to never let those garments see the light of day, he reached out and grabbed them with a sign. “Very well. If that will make you happy then I will wear them. However, there will be no photography permitted and I will not wear them for more than five minutes. Understand?” He stood still with Angel handing off his frame, moving only when he felt the blonde’s warm tongue graze the flesh of his ear.

[attr="class","imainie"] He was a fly caught in a spider’s web, a deer ensnared in a hunters trap. No matter how hard he tried to escape, it would always end the same. Angel would have his way and Nevada would be wound tighter around the blonde’s little finger. The more he tried to resist, the tighter Angel pulled the strings. It was suffocating yet he could bring himself to hold any ill feelings towards the prostitute. After all, Nevada brought it on to himself. He blackmailed the blonde into living with him.

Was that really what love was? The books he read, which made his heart feel light and warm, had never held much truth in reality yet he always hoped one thing would: the love stories. But he was wrong. Maybe it was just his approach that made things so skewed. Things always seemed to work out in the book he read. He thought that maybe they were working out between him and Angel. A nagging in the back of his mind told him otherwise. He was just being used and manipulated.

Nevada snatched the silky garments, feeling less energy and more weight in his limbs. “Very well,” replied the man without so much as a glance at Angel. He never forgot what Angel said the day he confessed. Even if Angel had made it seem like he missed Nevada when he had returned from his vacation, the blonde never spoke those three special words. Why would he? Nevada pondered that question as he worked the buttons of his shirt loose, one by one.

The fabric folded away from where the buttons once held it cinched in place, revealing the white scars against his tanned skin. His fingers brushed against them thoughtfully. Sometimes they ached when it rained. He dropped his shirt from his shoulders and pulled on the blouse, no longer able to look at the scars. Nevada couldn’t stand the memory of what caused them and what they in turn caused. His face had been tinted red while he took of clothes and put on ones swore not to wear again.

Once he had pulled the skirt on too, he loosened his hair from the neck of the shirt and turned to face Angel. “Are you satisfied?” He asked flatly, probably more so than usual. Angel may have been having a ball, uncovering his secrets and mocking him for mistakes he made. It wasn’t fun for him. He ran his fingers over the cover of his journal while he waited for Angel have his fill. He should have hidden it better. Angel didn’t know how to keep a secret.