Unholy Desire: Sinful Natures 3

2. Aaron

2

AARON

The natural scent of Ezra—fresh fallen leaves after a rain storm—swarmed the inside of my old SUV within seconds of us being shut in together. A blast of frigid air conditioning didn’t lessen the longing from the memory of drawing him deep into my lungs even as a kid.

Add in my body’s awareness of him being in close proximity, and I once again thanked myself for thinking briefs when dressing to pick Ezra up at the airport.

I asked about his flight, hoping senseless chatter would get my mind off the need that had slammed into me when our gazes had met in the baggage claim area. All those teenage hormones I hadn’t understood at fourteen had come back with the force of a hurricane, swirling inside me like rushing wind.

Ezra had been one of my best friends, even though he’d been Dad’s first. My protector, my shoulder to lean on, my hero.

In my mind, he’d been my and Dad’s third musketeer, and we’d been inseparable until he’d left for the Ukraine as a missionary in order to lead lost souls to Christ.

Then he’d married the woman who’d kept him away from us, and the connection he’d had to the US lessened with each passing year.

“How’s your dad doing?” Ezra asked after brushing off a conversation about his too-long flight over the Atlantic.

Since Ezra would see for himself within twenty minutes, I didn’t bother holding back the truth. “Parkinson’s has turned him into a miserable bastard.”

Ezra didn’t admonish me like he’d have done if I were a fourteen-year-old boy.

“But I understand why,” I continued. “He’s bound to a wheelchair. Losing his mind.” I turned onto the highway leading us home. “Knowing that doesn’t make it any easier to deal with him.”

“How are you holding up?” Ezra’s soft voice always soothed me as a kid, and I found myself smiling at how effortlessly he set me at ease.

“I’m hanging in there.” Barely, some days, but what choice did I have? I couldn’t afford to put Dad in a home, not that I would even if we had the money. Doing so would harshly point out my weakness I’d fought for years to turn to strength.

“Do you get out much? Make time for yourself?” Ezra sat still, his hands on his thighs which I forced myself to not focus on but failed. Wide palms I wanted on my skin. Strong fingers my body ached to feel inside.

My d**k pressed against its prison.

I cleared my throat. “I hit the gym every morning long before he wakes up, work there for a few hours too. Church is my other two hours of freedom.” The latter because Dad could watch the service livestream at home which freed me up to escape the house.

As for the church destination for those precious moments without responsibility…I wasn’t sure where God’s and my relationship stood, but the worship brought me a sense of comfort. And hearing Pastor Welker’s sermons gave me and Dad something to discuss for the rest of the day since he would be jolly and talkative for a change—even if I didn’t believe much of the drivel shared from the pulpit.

“It appears you know what you’re doing at the gym,” Ezra said, and I caught a hint of a smile in his voice.

He appreciated my body. f**k, did that thought flood me with a shot of adrenaline.

“I might have an addiction,” I admitted, finding it hard to keep my voice level.

“Is that because you were bullied in high school?”

He’d guessed half of the reason I worked out until exhausted six days of the week. Having been seen as a weak kid, I’d focused on becoming stronger. The other reason for my intense workouts the previous three years came about from a need for release—from pent-up anger toward my dad and not being allowed a life.

Or much of anything else for that matter.

A stockpile of bills sat on Dad’s desk at home, ones I struggled to keep us from drowning beneath, so even if I had the freedom to go out once in a while, I couldn’t afford to.

“Yeah.” I agreed to the bullying suggestion as I took an exit to grab some KFC, Dad’s favorite food. Sitting down to fried chicken for dinner would make him happy for the rest of the evening, and leftovers for lunch the following day assured that mood would stay. “Thanks for coming into the high school when Drew first kicked my a*s,” I repeated what I’d already said dozens of times before but couldn’t help revisit.

It was the day Ezra went from friend to hero since Dad hadn’t been able to leave work.

Fucking Drew Bradley had called me a fag even though I hadn’t been aware of my own sexuality at that point. Between him and his two buddies, I’d ended up with a broken nose, arm, and three ribs.

And the asshole, being from money and the principal’s nephew, hadn’t even gotten suspended.

Ezra clasped my shoulder, sending shots of electrical currents through my entire body, jerking my d**k inside its prison. “I wish I could have done more.”

I hadn’t told him why I’d gotten my skinny a*s handed to me—or spoke of the times afterward when Drew used me as a punching bag, but twice more before Ezra went to the Ukraine, he’d seen the bruises on my body.

“You never shared why that boy hated you so much.” He removed his hand from my shoulder, a sense of loss and coolness rising.

“It’s been so long, I don’t even remember,” I lied. No one except for my good friend Zeke had known, and even then, he’d guessed at my s****l orientation—and I hadn’t confirmed.

As far as our church believed, desiring a man led to the pits of hell. Bad enough or even f*******n in more accepting eyes because he was Dad’s best friend and had a few years on me. Not that I gave a s**t. But like my religious dad, Ezra would see me as an abomination, nothing but a perversion.

Or would he? The look I’d given him while walking to the parking garage…the flick of his tongue over this lower lip…did Ezra have secrets of his own?

My heart thumped a little harder as I pulled up to the drive through and placed my order.

“He’s still a sucker for KFC, huh?”

I grinned, finally glancing over at Ezra while waiting for our bucket of chicken. The lines of grief around his eyes remained smoothed out, and I found myself wanting to keep him that way. “I would get it for him every night if it wasn’t so damn bad for his heart.”

“And expensive.” Ezra eyed me as though he knew about Dad’s and my situation. “Phillip told me you’re struggling to make ends meet.” His lips downturned fully again, and I inwardly cursed my dad.

“Things are tight, yeah, but nothing I can’t handle.”

A lie with only being able to work three hours a day. But I couldn’t have Ezra thinking I was deficient in any area.

“I insisted on paying rent for the next three months, so hopefully those funds will help you get caught up.”

I doubted as much but wasn’t about to state the truth. “Thanks, Ezzie.”

Ezra barked out a laugh, and my heart squeezed in my chest over his rich baritone chuckle. “I haven’t heard that nickname in—”

“Fifteen years,” we said at the same time, mine sounding more like a question.

His laughter died away along with my smile as we stared across the console at one another. Hazel eyes flicked over my face, settling on my mouth for a heartbeat longer than was appropriate for a man of God.

And I would know. I’d sown my so-called wild oats.

Perhaps I am wrong about his thoughts on homosexuality aligning with the church—

A horn blared from behind us, igniting another shot of adrenaline to rush through my blood. I let off the brakes and pulled up to the drive through window.

Two minutes later, a record for Dad’s favorite restaurant getting my order into my hands, I took a right out of their parking lot.

“Dad’s not the same man from fifteen years ago,” I told Ezra, needing to prepare him for what he would find when we arrived at home.

“I could hear the difference in his voice. Softer rather than boisterous like I remember. It’s been a while since we spoke on the phone.”

Three years.

And I didn’t have to wonder why. Ezra had always been a driven man, hell-bent on being a missionary, winning souls from the pits of hell, and receiving his crown in glory.

He’d put God first, leaving everything behind, including his best friend and the young teen who’d adored him.

I still do.

Even though he’d abandoned me and stopped calling once he’d married. My love and desire for Ezra wouldn’t ever change no matter the twinge I sometimes felt over his departure from our lives.

I glanced over again, loving the silver in his beard and hair. He’d been handsome before he’d left for the Ukraine, and the years had only aged him like a fine wine.

My mouth watered.

Tightening my grip on the steering wheel, I turned back toward the road. “The decreased facial expressions will be the biggest physical change you’ll see—outside of the wheelchair and loss of muscle weight,” I said. “He can’t stand very well by himself, definitely can’t live alone. Mornings are the worst. Lots of stiffness. Rigidity.”

“And you take care of him all on your own?”

I nodded, looking both ways before crossing the intersection into our neighborhood.

“You truly have a servant’s heart.”

Ezra didn’t know my innermost thoughts—and I wouldn’t ever share what would out me as the spineless, selfish asshole I was.

“The woman who lives next door to us comes and sits with him if I need to head out for an extended period of time, but that’s rare,” I said, staying away from his misconception of what kind of person resided inside me.

“And how is his mental health?”

“He’s irritated a lot. Depressed, but understandably.”

“I can imagine I would be in a constant state of prayer to do what you do.”

“I’ve found the best way to handle his aggressive behavior is to remain calm. Reading scripture to him helps lessen his aggravation.”

“He’s always been a fervent soul.” Ezra’s tone suggested respect and love.

“Same as you,” I pointed out.

He turned his focus out the passenger window and didn’t reply.

I assumed part of the grieving process Ezra went through included questioning God, but I would have no such thoughts when it came time for Dad. The day he breathed his last, I would get the chance to breathe again.

Sacrificing oneself, especially at a young age, didn’t inspire joyful emotions. The Bible commanded people to serve each other in love, but obeying that one was no easy task. I hated how my life had changed when I’d become a caretaker, even though Dad had been my friend as much as my father. I could admit to myself the truth of feeling overwhelmed. Oftentimes depressed. But no one else would ever learn I was anything less than the steady, selfless rock that I portrayed myself to be.

Yes, I loved Dad—but I also wouldn’t be completely heartbroken when he passed.

The pit of my stomach hollowed out as it always did when I thought of the near future. With how quickly Dad’s health had declined due to Parkinson’s, his doctor didn’t expect him to live out the year which would put me pretty much on my own since I’d lost touch with old friends—and Zeke had moved back to Boston. It’d been Dad and me for three years…so yeah, I would miss him.

I pulled into the driveway and filled my lungs with one last deep inhale of Ezra’s warm scent to rid my mind of Dad’s outburst at his last doctor’s appointment when we’d been given the dire news. It had been a dark day for him, and his mood had remained sour until learning of Ezra’s return.

“Ready?” I asked, pulling Ezra’s gaze off the front of our house that hadn’t changed much in the years he’d been gone.

“Yes.” His firm conviction came through in the single worded answer…but I wondered what all he’d meant beyond meeting Dad.

Because his tone invoked so much more.

Unable to help myself, I grabbed hold of his knee and nodded. Letting him know I was ready too.