Free I Am The Wind by Sarah Masters Page B

now, after hours of dissecting everything, it was that word— maybe —that had started the ball rolling, his spiral into panic getting a firm grip, ending with me being put down here, him creating the ruse of needing me to help him haul logs upstairs for the fire. Except there weren’t any logs. Wasn’t anything down here at all back then except the toilet in the corner. He told me he was sorry, that he couldn’t let me leave, and if I liked him as much as I’d said I did the night before, he’d fuck me, make me feel good. I wouldn’t need for anything.
    He’s been hurt in the past, I get that—what else could it be?—but keeping me here isn’t going to solve anything, is it? If he gets caught, he’ll be in deep shit and then some. I don’t want him in trouble. I want to help, get him talking, make him open up so I can understand why he’s doing this. Help him to trust again, have him see I’m not going anywhere, that when I do leave, to go to work— if I ever get another damn job—I’ll come back. It’s got to be worth a shot, worth the hard work. Let’s face it, I’ve got fuck all else to do with my time. No job, again, rent paid by the social.
    He stalks over to the hacksaw, stands in front of it with his back to me. Is he thinking of using it? What’s it doing down here anyway? It’s the only thing here apart from the toilet, the rickety wooden table and chair, and my steel bed he brought down a few hours after he locked me inside.
    “You going to use that?” I ask, thinking it’s better to know what’s coming my way if I can.
    “Not on you, no, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
    I had been, and relief weakens my legs. My knees jolt, and I brace myself for toppling forward and cracking my head on the concrete. Lifting my arms, I hold myself steady on the wall beside me, heart tickering nineteen to the damn dozen.
    “What do you use it on then?”
    I’m pushing it, talking to him this way, especially if he turns out to be some nutter in the end, but what have I got to lose? I live in a crummy bedsit—doesn’t matter if they discover I’m gone and rent it to someone else, and no one gives a shit about me. Mum, the last time I spoke to her, when she found out I’m gay, kicked me out and told me never to come back. Never to darken her door again, filthy little bastard that I am. I have no other family, it had just been me and Mum all along, so me going missing will hardly cause a stir, will it?
    Maybe that’s why I don’t mind being here. At least he wants me.
    “Wood,” he says. “For the fire.”
    “Can I see the fire? Sit in front of it? It’s kind of cold down here, and when you brought me back, you know, the other week, I didn’t get to see the living room.”
    He doesn’t turn around, doesn’t even flinch, and I get to wondering what he’s thinking. What’s a good-looking guy like him playing at, doing something this mad?
    “Look, man.” I dare to walk towards him. I glance at the door, can run out of here right now if I have a mind to, but I ignore it, instead refocusing on him. On his back, the rigid set of his shoulders. The way they seem to be shaking. “I’ll stay, I promise. No one needs to know you’ve locked me down here. I’ll be staying, won’t I? It’d be like you invited me here and whatnot, yeah? We can forget all…this.”
    He spins to face me, cheeks wet, eyes watery. “I don’t believe you. Everyone leaves me in the end.”
    I open my mouth to protest, but he prevents any words coming out by lifting his hand.
    “But you can come and sit by the fire. I don’t like the thought of you being cold now the season’s on the turn.”
    He walks to the door, jerks his head at me to indicate that I follow, and fuck, I follow, with every intention of sitting in front of that fire.
    In the living room, the blaze crackling, we sit in silence. It’s often like that with us. Minimal conversation, some nice, easy fucking, his big warm hands all over me,