Chapter 82 Luke

Chapter 82 Luke
Luke 

⛸️

The first thing I felt was the soft press of her lips against my shoulder, then my neck, then my jaw. A slow, deliberate trail of kisses designed to wake me up.

"Good morning, boyfriend," she murmured, her voice a low, husky whisper right next to my ear.

My eyes snapped open. For a split second, I'd forgotten. The box, the names, the pictures—it was all a bad dream. But then the memory crashed back down, and I had to force myself not to recoil. I had to put on the face. The mask. I turned my head, a practiced smile already stretching my lips. "Morning, girlfriend."

She chuckled, a low, satisfied sound. She propped herself up on an elbow, her hair a messy halo around her head, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "You know," she said, tracing a line down my chest with her finger. "When did you leave the bed last night? I reached over for you and you were gone."

My heart hammered against my ribs, but I kept my voice even. "Couldn't sleep. Went to the living room to watch the rest of the hockey game. I guess I passed out." It was the truth, mostly. Just not the whole truth.

"Ah," she said, her expression softening. "Poor baby. All that excitement wore you out." She leaned in and kissed me, a soft, lingering kiss that yesterday would have made my toes curl. Today, it felt like she was pressing a brand against my skin. I kissed her back, my lips moving mechanically, hoping she couldn't feel the way my entire body had gone rigid.

"Let's cook some breakfast," she said, throwing the covers off and standing up, completely comfortable in her nakedness. "I'm starving."

I followed her into the kitchen, my movements feeling stiff and unnatural. To her, it was just another morning. 

She was humming to herself, a happy, contented tune, as she pulled eggs and bacon from the refrigerator. She moved with an easy grace, her body brushing against mine as she reached for a pan, her hand lingering on my lower back for a moment too long. 

Each time she touched me, my body flinched. A tiny, involuntary jolt, a visceral rejection my brain couldn't control. 

I'd tense up, my muscles locking, a cold dread washing over me. 

Does she notice? I'd wonder, my mind racing. But if she did, she didn't show it. She'd just smile and keep moving, lost in her own little world of domestic bliss. It must not be that prominent, I told myself. She's just not paying attention.

Inside, I was dying. Every second was a struggle. The sizzle of the bacon in the pan sounded like a fire alarm. The smell of coffee, usually so comforting, turned my stomach. She chattered away about her plans for the day, some errands she had to run, a new play she wanted to teach me. I just nodded and mumbled responses, my mind a million miles away, locked in that closet with that box.

I was still trying to figure it out. 

Do I bring it up? Do I shatter this perfect, sunny morning with the ugly truth? Or do I let it go? Do I just swallow the poison, smile, and play my part? The thought of confronting her made my throat feel tight, my palms sweat. But the thought of letting it go, of pretending I didn't know, felt like a slow, soul-crushing death. 

I was trapped in a loop, weighing my future against my sanity, my dream against my dignity.

We sat down at her pristine kitchen table, two plates of perfectly cooked eggs and bacon before us. The morning sun streamed through the windows, making the whole room feel bright and warm. Bev took a bite of her food, a happy sigh escaping her lips. She looked at me across the table, her eyes full of a warmth that now felt like a lie.

"This is nice, isn't it?" she said, her voice soft. "Just us."

I picked up my fork, my hand feeling clumsy and foreign. "Yeah," I managed to say, the word tasting like ash in my mouth. "It's great." I took a bite, but I couldn't taste it. 

All I could taste was the cold, hard truth of what I'd found. 

All I could feel was the phantom weight of that lock in my hand.

After breakfast, she suggested a walk. "It'll be refreshing," she said, her smile bright and easy. "Get some fresh air."

We strolled through her neighborhood, a picture-perfect suburb with manicured lawns and identical houses. The sun was warm, the air was crisp, and all I could feel was a suffocating sense of dread. 

Every smile we exchanged with a passing neighbor felt like a performance. Every time her hand found mine, my skin crawled. 

She was talking about some neighbor's ridiculous lawn ornament, but her voice was just background noise, a meaningless hum against the roaring in my head. 

Refreshing? It felt like I was walking to my own execution.

Back at the house, the cycle continued. We changed into our swimsuits and got into the pool. The water was cool and inviting, but it offered no relief. 

She splashed water at me, her laughter echoing across the backyard, and I forced a smile, splashing back weakly. 

She swam up behind me, wrapping her arms around my waist and pressing a kiss to my neck. "You're so quiet today," she whispered. 

My entire body went rigid, a flinch so violent I was sure she'd feel it. But if she did, she didn't say a word.

After the pool, we took separate showers. I stood under the hot spray, scrubbing my skin until it was red, trying to wash away the feeling of her touch, the memory of the box, the sight of my own sleeping face in that photograph. It didn't work. The filth was on the inside.

We met on the patio for lunch. She'd made some kind of fancy salad with grilled chicken. She was in her element, talking animatedly about the scout from the NHL who was coming to watch our game in November. She was laying out tips and tricks, things to watch for, how to position myself to get noticed.

"...and that's when you make your move," she was saying, her knife cutting precisely through a piece of lettuce. "You show him you're not just a player, you're a strategist. You see the whole ice."

I just stared at my plate, pushing a cherry tomato around with my fork. I wasn't listening. The words were just sounds, empty and meaningless. My mind was still in that closet, my fingers tracing the outline of the lock. I just nodded and said, "Yeah," when it seemed like a response was required.

"...and that's when you really shine, Luke. Luke?"

Her voice cut through the fog, sharp and insistent. I looked up, blinking. She was staring at me, her head tilted, her eyes narrowed with concern. The mask had slipped. She'd noticed.

"Are you okay?" she asked, her voice softer now. "You're kinda off today. You've been a million miles away."

Panic flared in my chest. I had to think fast. "Just didn't get good sleep," I said, the lie tumbling out before I could stop it. "My neck is all stiff."

Her expression softened immediately, the concern replaced with a familiar, maternal warmth. It was so convincing, so perfect, it made me sick. "Oh, you poor thing," she cooed, reaching across the table to pat my hand. I fought the urge to pull away. "Why didn't you say something? We can go take a nap together right now. It'll be good for you."

The thought of being in that bed with her again, of her arms around me, of pretending to sleep while she watched me... it was unbearable.

"No, it's okay," I said, a little too quickly. "I'm fine. Really. Just need to wake up a bit."

She studied my face for a long moment, her eyes searching mine. I held my breath, waiting for her to push, to call me out. But then she just smiled, a slow, knowing smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.

"Alright," she said, picking up her fork again. "But if you start fading, you're letting me tuck you in."

I forced a nod and went back to pushing food around my plate. The reprieve was temporary. I knew that. The mask was back in place, but it was cracking. And it was only a matter of time before it shattered completely.

⛸️

By six o'clock, the facade of normalcy was becoming unbearable. "Let's go pick up some food or something for dinner," she suggested, her tone light, as if the day hadn't been a slow-motion torture session for me.

"Sure, why not," I said, the words tasting like poison. I was desperate for a change of scenery, for anything that might break the suffocating cycle of her perfect house.

We ended up at a bustling burger joint that was also a sports bar. The air was thick with the smell of fried food and the sound of multiple televisions broadcasting different games. It was loud, chaotic, and imperfect. 

For a moment, I felt like I could breathe. We grabbed a booth in a corner, and I ordered a plate of hot wings while she got a burger. We watched a hockey game on one of the big screens, the familiar rhythm of the game a small comfort.

"I'm going to stop by the bar," she said after a while, gesturing towards the crowded counter. "Need another drink. You want me to sneak you anything?"

I shook my head. "I'm good."

She nodded and slid out of the booth, making her way through the crowd. I watched her go, my eyes tracking her as she leaned against the bar, her back to me. 

She ordered a drink, and almost immediately, two men who were clearly her age, maybe older, moved to stand on either side of her. They were dressed in collared shirts, the kind of guys who probably worked in offices. I saw one of them smile, his teeth white against the dim light of the bar. He said something to her, and she laughed, tossing her hair back. She was flirting back.

A hot, sharp wave of jealousy and anger shot through me, so intense it was almost blinding. My hands clenched into fists under the table. They were looking at her like she was a prize to be won, and she was encouraging it. 

After all her talk about me being a man, about us being a unit, she was over there giggling with two strangers.

Before I knew what I was doing, I was out of the booth. I pushed my way through the crowd, my jaw set, my eyes locked on the two of them. I slid into the small space next to her, my shoulder bumping one of the guys.

"Hey," I said, my voice tight. "I was here first." I nodded towards the guy on her other side. "So you can go."

The two men exchanged a look, and then one of them let out a short, surprised laugh. "Damn," he said, grinning at his friend. "Your son here is protective, mam."

The word "son" hit me like a punch to the gut. My face burned with humiliation.

"Luke, stop it," Bev said, her voice sharp. She put a hand on my chest, holding me back. Her touch felt like a brand. She turned to the men, her smile gone, replaced by a cool, dismissive expression. "I'm sorry," she said, her voice dripping with an authority I hadn't heard before. "He's just a kid. I'm not interested. I'm in a relationship."

The two men's smiles faltered. They looked at me, then at her, and then, muttering an apology, they backed away and disappeared into the crowd.

Bev turned to me, her eyes flashing with anger. She grabbed her drink from the bar, threw some cash down on the counter, and then grabbed my hand, her grip painfully tight. "We're leaving," she said, her voice a low growl.

We didn't say a word as we walked out of the restaurant and back to her Escalade. The moment we were inside, with the doors locked, she let out a long, heavy sigh, leaning her head back against the headrest. 

She didn't look at me. She just stared straight ahead, her knuckles white on the steering wheel. The silence was heavier than it had been in the car the night before, charged with a new, dangerous energy. I had crossed a line. And I had a feeling I was about to find out just much it was going to cost me.

The silence stretched on, thick and suffocating. I braced myself, expecting the explosion. The cold fury. The lecture about my behavior, about embarrassing her in public. I replayed the scene in my head—my pathetic attempt to intimidate those men, the condescending laugh, the word "son"—and a fresh wave of shame washed over me. I had fucked up. I had acted like a child, and now I was going to be treated like one.

But then, she let out another sigh, this one different. Softer. She turned her head to look at me, and in the dim light of the car's interior, I saw something I wasn't expecting. It wasn't anger. It was... pride. A slow, dangerous smile spread across her lips.

"You know," she said, her voice a low, husky murmur that sent a shiver down my spine. "That was the hottest thing I've ever seen."

My brain screeched to a halt. "What?" I asked, sure I'd misheard her.

"You heard me," she said, her eyes gleaming with an intensity that was almost predatory. "Standing up for me like that. Putting them in their place." She reached over, her fingers tracing the line of my jaw. "You were more of a man in that single moment than either of them will ever be in their entire lives."

The shame was still there, but it was being rapidly replaced by a dizzying, confusing wave of... something else. Validation. She wasn't mad. She was proud. She saw me not as a jealous, impulsive kid, but as a protector. A man.

"I... I don't understand," I stammered. "I thought you'd be mad."

"Mad?" she laughed, a low, throaty sound. "Luke, baby, that was a test. And you passed. You showed them, and you showed me, that you belong to me. That you're not afraid to claim what's yours." She leaned in closer, her lips just inches from mine. "It's incredibly hot that you were protective of me like that."

My heart was hammering against my ribs, a frantic, chaotic rhythm. The world tilted on its axis. The box, the other names, the suffocating dread of the day—it all faded into the background, replaced by the overwhelming force of her approval. I was ready. I was ready to do whatever she wanted, to be whoever she needed me to be, just to keep that look in her eyes.

"Ready?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

"Yes, of course," she breathed, her lips finally meeting mine in a searing, possessive kiss. It was a kiss of ownership, a reward for my good behavior. When she pulled away, her eyes were dark with desire. "But," she added, her tone shifting back to that of a coach, a mentor. "We have to be more careful in public still. We can't have scenes like that. It draws too much attention."

I just nodded, my mind reeling. The logic was flawless. I was a man, her man, and our connection was too powerful, too special, for the outside world to understand. We had to protect it. We had to protect us.

She put the car in drive and pulled out onto the street, one hand resting possessively on my thigh. The anger and jealousy I'd felt at the bar had been transformed, purified by her approval into a fierce, unwavering loyalty. The box was still there, in the back of my mind, a dark, locked room. But for now, the door was closed. She had seen me, the real me, and she had chosen me. And in that moment, it was all that mattered.