Chapter 1
Authors Note: This is a "sneak peek" of the first chapter. This is roughly edited, has not been beta read, and is and will be subjected to change! Hope y'all enjoy :)
A corrective emotional experience is a strategy, often employed in therapy, in which the person re-experiences an old, unsettling conflict but with a new ending.
His body rocked from the force of the thrusts. He was silent, but his partner was loud, obnoxiously so, as he grunted in Lux’s ear. The room was hot—too hot—and he couldn’t concentrate on anything else other than the beads of sweat that appeared on his date’s hairline. He was already mildly disgusted. Sex was a bit of an issue for him. It had been since…
No.
He couldn’t think about that now. He wouldn’t think about that now. He needed to stay present.
He needed to focus on how his body felt.
He tried to focus on how, when the clumsy man on top of him slowed down a bit, it started to feel good and not like someone was constantly jabbing him in the same spot over and over and over.
He wanted to focus on anything but the sweat that was beginning to roll down his partner’s forehead to his cheek.
Fuck.
He couldn’t focus on anything other than the fact that this man was sweaty and the room was hot and he wanted to feel good, but he fucking couldn’t.
“Stop, stop,” Lux rushed out. He was going to be sick. He did not know if it was because he drank more wine than he normally did or if it was the sex. “I’m going to be sick.” He scrambled to push the man off him and lunged from the bed, stumbling in the dark towards what he hoped was the bathroom. Fortunately, it was. Unfortunately, it was in complete and utter disarray, which didn’t help the overwhelming feeling of being dirty and disgusted with himself. He had a bone breaking grip on the toothpaste caked sink. As he lowered his head, lilac curls fell over his shoulders, the ends stopping short of dragging in the filthy basin. He was shaking, his body trembling as he struggled to catch his breath.
Breathe. You’re okay. Breathe.
Lux squeezed his eyes shut, slowly counting to ten, then twenty. He felt his body relaxing, his ragged breath becoming even as his grip loosened.
You’re okay. Everything is fine. You’re fine.
He turned on the tap, splashing cool water on his face to calm his nerves. When he lifted his eyes, fear locked them in place. His reflection was there, only it wasn’t. He was younger, maybe nineteen. Time seemed to bleed together when they were in a relationship. Lux’s hair is shorter—shoulder length—and he loved it.
He felt the hand in his hair, the fingers tightening and causing little flashes of pain to prickle across his scalp. The shears opened close to his ear, the sound of metal sliding against metal finally making him break. He cried. Or he thought he did. Maybe Lux told him how much his hair meant. He couldn’t remember if he fought. He probably didn’t. He was tired of fighting. Black fluttered around him, the ringlets drifting to his lap and sticking to his tear-stained palms.
“Much better. See how handsome you look? My gorgeous boy.”
A loud knock on the bathroom door snapped Lux out of his stupor, dragging him back from the past. He wiped the water from his face and tossed his hair over his bare shoulder. His grip on the door tightened as he inhaled a slow breath. He was leaving. He wasn’t going to stay for pity sex. He didn’t have to. He was better than that. He didn’t owe this man anything.
That was what he told himself as he opened the door. It repeated in his mind as his date grabbed his arm, stopping him from getting dressed. It became a little quieter when the man begged him to, “let me finish”. He said no. Softly. But it was still loud enough for his date to insist as he was pushed to his knees.
He never asked.
He took.
I’m in control here.
And once he convinced himself that he was in control, that he had the upper hand because his date asked him instead of making him, Lux was able to swallow the thick bile rising in his throat and let himself go. All under the guise of,
I’m in control.
***
“Dude, you look kinda bad,” Rhys pointed out as he slid a cocktail in front of Lux. There was a small wrinkle between his pinched eyebrows, and the corners of his full mouth were turned down. Bronze eyes briefly scanned Lux’s face before zeroing in on the love bite blossoming on his neck.
Lux ignored Rhys’s stare, doing his best to keep shame from manifesting on his cheeks in burning circles of red. “Gee, thanks,” Lux deadpanned. “When I come to the bar, I want to get shit-faced, not insulted. Do your job,” he playfully snapped.
“I don’t come to your place of business and tell you how to do your job, now do I?”
Lux folded his arms over his chest, his left eyebrow arching. “Do you even remember where I work?”
“It’s funny that you believe there’s even the slightest possibility that I would forget anything that’s important to you.” Rhys leaned against the counter opposite the bar, crossing his legs at the ankle and tossing his long locs over his shoulder.
“I would hope you’d remember, at the very least, where your best friend of twenty-three years works.”
“Ah,” Rhys exhaled. He pushed away from the counter to lean against the bar, questioning in a teasing voice, “Now we’re best friends?” Deep dimples flirted with his left cheek, his eyes beaming as he looked at Lux.
Lux wasn’t stupid. He noticed how Rhys’ eyes softened whenever they spoke to one another. He ignored it, though. There was no use in bringing it up. He reached out, pushing Rhys away by his face. “I’ve changed my mind.” A disgusted sound rumbled in the back of Lux’s throat. He snatched his hand away, standing up on the rungs of his stool and leaning forward to wipe his palm on the sleeve of Rhys’ shirt. “Must you behave like a child?!”
Rhys’ raucous laughter preceded him snorting, “You’re cute when you’re angry.”
“I’m not angry. I’m disgusted. And don’t tell me I’m cute.”
“I’ve been telling you that you’re cute for the past twenty-three years and you never say thank you,” Rhys argued, a pout coloring his tone.
“One would think that after the first few times I didn’t thank you, you’d stop lying to me,” Lux joked, attempting to shift the conversation.
It didn’t work.
Rhys’s tone became serious, the playful whine long gone. “I’m not lying. You have to kn—”
A group of women walked up to the bar, interrupting the conversation to place drink orders.
Lux was grateful for them. Rhys’ bar was on his way home and he often decided to take a detour in his walk of shame, hoping a couple of cocktails and a shot would erase the terrible dates, and the even shittier hook-ups, from his mind. Usually they did, but tonight, it wasn’t working. When Rhys returned, Lux ordered a stronger drink.
“Your date must have been terrible if you’re having a Long Island iced tea.”
His skin heated up as if his date was still touching him with calloused fingertips. He shuddered, shaking off the ghost of damp palms, and glared at Rhys, his gray eyes stormy. “Why do you always assume the dates go badly?”
“Because you never stay with the nigga for more than one night. I’m your longest relationship and that’s saying a lot because you hate my ass.”
Lux couldn’t help but smirk. “I don’t hate you.”
Rhys pursed his lips, cooing, “Aww.”
“I loathe you.” Lux cackled as Rhys’ face fell. He groaned loudly, “It was so awful. He insisted on cheap food and even cheaper booze. His apartment was a mess, the air conditioning was broken, and he was so sweaty.” Lux’s head thumped forward onto the bar. He continued to whine, his voice muffled, “His hands felt like sandpaper. And he kept trying to pull my hair. Why? Why do the gods hate me?”
“But you stayed?”
That one question was like a kick to his gut. His stomach churned with regret. Tears of shame pin-pricked the corners of his eyes, his explanation sounding as weak as his voice. “He asked me to,” Lux softly responded. “I-I’ve never been asked to stay.”
Rhys’ sigh was loud, his overwhelming concern heavy. “Why do you put yourself through this?”
Lux knew he wasn’t asking this question to be an asshole, but that did little to nothing to ease the hurt that was taking root in his chest. He took a few seconds to compose himself. When he raised his head, his expression was stoic, feigned nonchalance resting perfectly on his face. “Corrective emotional experiences. But I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”
Something not quite akin to anger and barely bordering on hurt flashed in Rhys’ bright eyes. The red undertones in his brown skin deepened as he struggled to hold back his emotions. “I understand more than you think, Lux. I took you to and from the hospital on multiple occasions. I helped you move in the middle of the night.”
“If you understand then stop asking me stupid shit,” Lux snapped. Rhys recoiled, pushing back from the bar to put distance between them. Lux sighed heavily, his eyes rolling as he tucked a strand of hair behind his pierced ear. “Sorry,” he muttered. Clearly, and with more conviction, he continued, “It’s getting better though. I can close my eyes and not see his face anymore. It’s working.”
“It’s dangerous, is what it is,” Rhys pointed out. “You hook up with random guys. You go back to their place the same night you meet them. You force yourself to go through the motions, then the next morning, you hate yourself. You withdraw for days. You won’t talk to me. You don’t go to work. You barely eat when you do this. How exactly is this helping?” His voice was strained, his eyes pleading for a logical answer.
I’m taking back what was stolen from me. I’m in control. Me. Not him. Not anymore.
Lux deflected, “You sound like a jealous lover.” He leaned forward, placed his elbows on the bar and rested his chin on his fist. He fluttered thick lashes and asked, in a sickeningly sweet voice, “Jealous, Rhysend?”
Without missing a beat, Rhys asked, “If I say yes, then what?”
Lux’s brow knitted together as he looked at his childhood friend. “What do you mean?”
“Hey, Rhys, there’s a customer that’s ordered something called an ‘Adios, Motherfucker’. I have no clue how to make that,” one of the other bartenders interrupted.
Rhys turned his back to respond, thankfully temporarily distracted. As he prepared the drink, he timidly questioned, “What if I am jealous? Then what? What changes?”
“I—” Lux started, his mouth falling open. Wordlessly, he closed it, the tension between them thickening.
Anyone that knew them would say that this was a long time coming; that they were long overdue for the “define the relationship” talk. Lux would tell them that they were stupid. That Rhys deserved... better... than him. He deserved better than someone who couldn’t fuck without getting physically ill. Lux finally broke the silence, whispering, “If you’re jealous, you’re dumber than I thought.”
Rhys shook his head. “Whatever. Next time you do your walk of shame, skip my bar.” He turned, heading towards the end of the bar with the drink.
“Rhys, wait,” Lux called out. Rhys stopped, his steps faltering, but he kept his back turned. A million thoughts ran through his mind—Don’t go. I’m not worth it. Stay. I’m broken beyond repair. I want you. You deserve so much more than me—but all Lux could say was, “I will.”
