The night air was cool against his skin, carrying the sharp scent of cut grass and the distant hum of highway traffic. Dan's house loomed ahead, two stories of brick and lit windows, bass thumping through the walls like a second heartbeat. James stood at the edge of the lawn, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets, watching the silhouettes pass behind the curtains.
He didn't want to be a girl. He knew that. The thought had circled him all week, a moth at a bulb, and every time he tried to swat it away it came back, wings brushing against the same tender place. Jamie was a taunt. Jamie was what they called him to cut him down. But somewhere between the cafeteria and this lawn, the name had started to feel like something else. A possibility. A question he wasn't ready to answer.
"James?"
Mackenzie's voice was soft beside him, her hand finding his elbow. She'd worn a dark green top tonight, something that made her hazel eyes look warmer, and her hair hung loose past her shoulders. She looked nervous, and beautiful, and completely out of place.
"We don't have to go in," she said. "We can leave. Say you're sick."
He shook his head. "I said I'd come."
"You don't owe them anything."
No. But he owed himself the answer. He just didn't know the question yet.
"It's fine," he said, and he started walking toward the front door, her footsteps hesitant behind him.
Inside, the party hit him like a wall. The smell of cheap beer and body spray, the crush of bodies in the hallway, music that vibrated through the floorboards. Red plastic cups everywhere, some overturned, some abandoned on the windowsills. A girl in a crop top laughed too loud near the stairs, and someone's phone flashlight swept across the dark living room.
Dan found them before they'd made it three steps inside. He emerged from the kitchen, a beer in each hand, that familiar smirk already in place. Barry was right behind him, lean and hungry-eyed, cracking his knuckles like a warm-up.
"Well, well. The guest of honor." Dan's voice cut through the noise, loud enough that a few heads turned. "And he brought a date. How sweet."
Mackenzie pressed closer to James, her fingers gripping his sleeve. "We're not staying long."
"Sure you are." Barry stepped around them, blocking the path to the door. "Come on, loosen up. It's a party." He held out a red cup. "Drink."
James looked at the cup. The liquid inside was pale, carbonated, probably beer. He didn't drink. He'd never liked the taste, or the loss of control that came with it. But Barry's eyes stayed on him, and Dan had draped an arm across Mackenzie's shoulders like he was claiming territory, and the pressure was a weight he could feel in his chest.
"Just one," Dan said, his voice dropping into something almost friendly. "Show Mackenzie you can have fun."
Mackenzie shook her head, but her protest was swallowed by the music. James took the cup. The plastic was cold, wet with condensation. He lifted it to his lips and drank. The beer was bitter and thin, but he forced it down, three long swallows, and when he lowered the cup, Dan was grinning.
"There we go. Knew you had it in you." He clapped James on the shoulder, hard enough to make him stumble. "Barry, get them another round."
The next hour blurred. Someone pressed another cup into his hand, and then another. The music got louder, or maybe his head got softer. Mackenzie laughed somewhere to his left, a sound he loved, but it was pitched higher than usual, looser. He saw her take a shot at the kitchen counter, Barry's hand on her lower back, guiding the glass to her lips.
James leaned against the wall, the wallpaper cool and slightly damp against his shoulder. The room swayed a little. He blinked, trying to find Mackenzie in the crowd, but she'd slipped out of sight.
He pushed off the wall and moved through the bodies, past a group of girls taking selfies by the stairs, past a boy passed out on the couch with a beer can balanced on his chest. The living room was brighter, spillover light from the kitchen illuminating a cluster of people around the TV, something with explosions playing on mute.
And then he saw her.
Mackenzie was sitting on Dan's lap. She was in the big armchair near the fireplace, her legs draped over one of his thighs, her head tilted back as she laughed at something he'd said. Dan's hands were on her waist, fingers splayed across the fabric of her green top, and she wasn't pushing them away. She wasn't even noticing.
James stopped in the doorway. The room was warm, too warm, and his hands were numb around the empty cup he still held. He watched her tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, the same nervous gesture, but now it was directed at Dan. She was giggling, drunk and careless, and Dan was leaning in close, his mouth near her ear, saying something that made her blush.
James's throat closed. He should walk over. He should say something. He should tap her shoulder and remind her that she was his, that they were together, that this wasn't okay. But his feet stayed rooted, and his voice stayed locked, and the shame rose up in him like heat from a radiator.
He was too shy. Too weak. Too scared of what would happen if he stepped into that circle and Dan turned those cold eyes on him. He was a coward standing in a doorway, watching his girlfriend get felt up by the guy who'd been tormenting him for years.
Hands closed around his wrists from behind, yanking his arms behind his back. The cup dropped, bouncing off the carpet with a wet thud. James gasped, forward momentum stopped by a grip that was stronger than it looked.
Barry pressed against his back, chest to shoulder blades, breath hot on his neck. "Easy there, Jamie. Don't want to interrupt the show, do you?"
The name. Barry's voice wrapped around it like he owned it, and something in James's stomach flipped. Not anger. Not fear. Something else. Something that made his knees feel soft.
Barry's fingers dug into his wrists, holding them in the small of his back. It wasn't a painful grip, but it was firm, unyielding, and James found that he wasn't trying to pull away. He was standing still, letting himself be held, letting Barry pin him in place while Dan's hands slid higher on Mackenzie's waist.
"Look at her," Barry whispered, his mouth brushing James's ear. "She's not thinking about you. She's not thinking about your stupid poetry or your soft hands. She's thinking about him."
James's eyes stayed on Mackenzie. She was leaning into Dan now, her head on his shoulder, her fingers playing with the collar of his letterman jacket. A low laugh bubbled out of her, drunk and easy, and Dan's hand slid from her waist to her thigh, squeezing once.
"See?" Barry's grip tightened, just a fraction. "You're not even here, are you, Jamie? You're just watching. That's what you do."
James's breath came shallow. Barry's body was warm against his back, lean and wiry, and he could feel the rise and fall of Barry's chest, the steady rhythm. He should be angry. He should be fighting. But the alcohol had softened his edges, and the shame had hollowed him out, and there was something in being held like this—pinned, helpless, forced to watch—that felt almost like relief.
Like permission.
Barry shifted, one hand releasing his wrist to grip his jaw, turning his head so he couldn't look away. "Eyes front, princess. You don't get to hide."
Princess. The word hit him like a slap and a caress at the same time. His skin flushed, heat spreading from his cheeks down his neck, and he felt the exact moment his body stopped pretending. He sagged, just slightly, his weight dropping back against Barry's chest.
Barry noticed. Of course he noticed. His grip on James's jaw loosened, fingers sliding down to rest on his collarbone, and his voice dropped even lower, intimate and cruel. "That's it. That's the real you, isn't it, Jamie? You like being told what to do. You like being held down and made to watch."
James didn't answer. He couldn't. His throat was locked, his heart hammering, and the truth of it was a bruise he'd been carrying for years, finally pressed.
Across the room, Dan pulled Mackenzie closer and kissed her. It was a slow, open-mouthed kiss, the kind you gave someone when you weren't worried about being interrupted, and Mackenzie's hand came up to grip his jacket, pulling him deeper. She didn't pull away. She didn't say James's name.
The floor tilted. The room swayed. And James stayed exactly where Barry held him, watching, not fighting, feeling the hot shame and the stranger thing underneath it—the thrill of being made to submit, the relief of giving up the fight.
Barry's lips brushed his ear again. "Good boy."
The words sank into him, warm and terrible. His eyes stayed on Mackenzie and Dan, on the kiss that was still going, on the way her fingers tangled in Dan's hair. But his mind was somewhere else, in the space between Barry's hands and his own stillness, in the name that was no longer just a taunt but a door he was standing in front of, hand on the handle, ready to step through.
Jamie.
He closed his eyes, just for a second, and let the name settle. And when he opened them again, Mackenzie was pulling back from the kiss, her eyes finding his across the room. There was a flicker of recognition, then confusion, then something that might have been guilt. But Dan's hands were still on her, and Barry's grip was still tight, and James—Jamie—didn't move.
He waited. For what, he didn't know. For Barry to let go, for Mackenzie to stand up, for the room to stop spinning. But none of those things happened. The party kept going around them, music thumping, voices rising, and James stayed pinned in the doorway, held by Barry's hands, watching the girl he loved kiss another boy, and feeling, for the first time in weeks, like he was exactly where he was supposed to be.
Dan's hand found Mackenzie's chin, tilting her face up toward his. "Get us something from the kitchen, babe. I'm thirsty."
Mackenzie blinked, slow and booze-soft, her fingers still tangled in the collar of his jacket. "What?"
"Kitchen. Grab me a beer." He patted her thigh, once, a dismissal wrapped in affection. "Go on."
She stood, unsteady on her heels, and smoothed down her green top. Her eyes swept the room—past the couch, past the TV, past the doorway where Barry held James pinned—and found nothing that stopped her. She turned and walked toward the kitchen, her hair swaying against her back, and disappeared through the crowd without a single glance at the boy who loved her.
James watched her go. The space where she'd been sitting on Dan's lap was still warm, probably. He could feel the shape of her absence like a hole in the air, and the fact that she hadn't seen him—hadn't even looked—settled into his chest like a stone dropped into deep water.
Barry's grip shifted. One hand released his wrist, and James felt the absence of that pressure like a loss, a strange hollow where the restraint had been. But then Barry's hand landed on his waist, fingers splaying across his hip, and James's breath caught.
The same place Dan had touched Mackenzie. The same possessive spread of fingers.
Barry's thumb traced a slow arc across James's hip bone, pressing through the fabric of his jeans, and his voice dropped to that intimate whisper again. "You see that, Jamie? She left without even looking for you. You're not on her mind at all."
James's throat worked. He wanted to say something—that she was drunk, that she'd come back, that this didn't mean anything—but the words wouldn't form. Barry's hand was warm and firm, and the pressure of it was doing something to his insides, loosening something he'd kept tight for years.
"But I see you." Barry's fingers curled, gripping his hip like he owned it. "I've always seen you, haven't I? The way you shrink. The way you look down. The way you let things happen to you."
His other hand came up to James's chest, palm flat against his sternum, feeling the rapid beat of his heart. "Right here. I can feel it. You're scared, and you're something else too."
James's eyes stayed fixed on the empty chair where Mackenzie had sat. The fabric of the armchair was dented where her weight had pressed. Dan was still lounging, one ankle crossed over his knee, watching them with a lazy, satisfied smile.
Barry's hand slid down from his chest, tracing his ribs, his waist, the curve of his hip, following the same path Dan's hands had taken on Mackenzie's body. The imitation was deliberate, exact, and James felt it in every nerve—the way Barry touched him like he was something to be claimed, something soft and yielding.
"You're prettier than her anyway," Barry murmured, his lips brushing the shell of James's ear. "Softer. Easier."
The heat started low in his belly, a slow coil of warmth that spread downward, and James felt it with a surge of horror and recognition. His body was responding. Of course it was. The shame, the helplessness, the way Barry's hands moved over him like he was something delicate—it all fed something he didn't want to name.
He felt the first stirring of arousal, a thickening in his jeans that he couldn't hide, couldn't stop. His face burned. His breath went shallow. And Barry, pressed against his back, felt it too.
Barry's hand stilled on his hip. For a long second, nothing moved. Then Barry's laugh came low and warm against his neck. "Oh. Oh, Jamie. Look at you."
James wanted to die. He wanted the floor to open and swallow him, wanted to be anywhere but here, hard and trembling in Barry Voss's grip while Dan watched from across the room. But he didn't move. He couldn't. His body had made its choice, and the choice was to stay exactly where he was, pinned and discovered.
"You're hard." Barry said it like a discovery, like a gift. His hand slid from James's hip down to his thigh, fingers pressing into the muscle. "You're hard because I touched you. Because I held you down and made you watch your girlfriend kiss another guy."
James squeezed his eyes shut, but that only made it worse—the darkness amplifying every sensation, Barry's breath, Barry's hand, the throb of his own blood.
"Don't hide." Barry's voice was soft, almost kind, and that was the most terrifying thing about it. "I told you. Eyes front."
His hand on James's thigh squeezed once, then slid upward, brushing the inside of his leg, stopping just short of where James needed—and didn't want—to be touched. The anticipation was unbearable. James's hips twitched, a tiny, desperate movement, and Barry laughed again.
"Look at you. Desperate. Pathetic. Perfect."
Dan stood up from the armchair, stretching like a cat. "Having fun, Barry?"
"So much fun." Barry's hand stayed on James's thigh, thumb tracing a slow circle. "He's very responsive."
Dan crossed the room, his footsteps heavy on the floorboards. He stopped in front of James, close enough that James could smell the beer on his breath, the sweat on his skin. Dan's eyes traveled down James's body, pausing at the obvious bulge in his jeans, and his smile widened.
"Well, well. Look what we have here." He reached out and tapped James's cheek, a sharp, playful slap. "Jamie's got a secret."
The name again. It landed differently now, heavier, more real. Jamie was the one who got hard when Barry held him. Jamie was the one who watched his girlfriend get kissed and felt relief instead of rage. Jamie was the one standing here, trembling and aroused, waiting for permission to breathe.
Dan's hand dropped, and he turned to Barry. "Mackenzie's getting another drink. Keep him busy." He walked toward the kitchen, leaving them alone in the doorway.
Barry's grip tightened on James's thigh. "You heard him. We've got a few minutes." He pushed his hips forward, grinding against James's ass, letting him feel exactly what this was doing to Barry too. A hard length pressed through denim, and James let out a sound—a whimper, high and involuntary, that he couldn't swallow.
"That's right," Barry breathed. "Make those pretty sounds."
His hand moved up from James's thigh to his ass, cupping the curve through his jeans, squeezing once, hard. James's knees buckled, but Barry's grip held him upright, fingers digging into the meat of him, possessive and rough.
"You've got a nice ass, Jamie. Ever been told that?"
James shook his head, a tiny motion, his face burning.
"Well, you do. Shame to waste it on those baggy jeans." Barry's hand slid over the curve again, tracing the seam. "Maybe we should do something about that."
James's cock throbbed, trapped against his thigh, achingly hard. Pre-cum was soaking into his boxers, a damp spot spreading that he knew Barry could feel if he reached just a little higher. He should stop this. He should pull away. He should remember that he had a girlfriend, that these were the boys who had tormented him for years, that this was wrong.
But his body leaned back into Barry's touch, and his head fell forward, and he let himself be held.
Barry's hand left his ass, and for a moment James felt the loss like a physical ache. Then the slap came—sharp, loud, stinging through the denim—and James jerked forward, a gasp tearing out of him.
The sound echoed in the hallway. A few heads turned, but no one stopped. No one cared. At a party like this, a slap on the ass was nothing. Just boys being boys.
Barry's hand soothed the sting, rubbing in slow circles. "Good boy. You took that so well."
James's eyes were wet. He could feel the tears building, heat behind his lids, and he didn't know if they were from shame or something else entirely. His ass burned where Barry had hit him, a warm, spreading ache that settled into his bones.
"Now," Barry said, stepping back, and the loss of his body heat was a cold shock, "go get us more drinks."
James blinked, turning to face him. "What?"
"Drinks." Barry's pale green eyes were sharp, amused. "Kitchen. Beers. Three of them. You're our errand boy now, Jamie." He smiled, all teeth. "Go on."
James stood frozen, caught between the order and his own scattered thoughts. His jeans were still tight, his cock still hard, and the idea of walking through a crowded party like this—exposed, pink-cheeked, carrying drinks like a servant—made his stomach flip.
"Now," Barry said, the word soft and final.
James moved. His legs carried him forward, through the living room, past the couch and the TV and the clusters of laughing strangers. He felt Barry's eyes on his back, knew he was watching, and the knowledge made his skin prickle with heat.
He passed a girl in a sequined top who glanced at him and looked away. He passed two guys doing shots at a fold-out table. He passed a couple pressed against the wall, the girl's leg wrapped around the boy's waist, and he didn't look away fast enough, saw the way his hand gripped her thigh, and felt the echo of Barry's touch on his own body.
The kitchen was bright, fluorescent lights buzzing over linoleum counters covered in bottles and cups and a half-eaten bag of chips. Mackenzie was there, leaning against the counter with a red cup in her hand, talking to a girl James didn't recognize. She laughed at something, her head tipped back, and when she saw him her smile flickered.
"James. Hey." She straightened, tucking her hair behind her ear. "I was looking for you."
A lie, and they both knew it. But James didn't call her on it. He couldn't. His voice felt far away, buried under everything that had just happened.
"Getting drinks," he said, and the words came out flat, hollow.
She nodded, her eyes scanning his face. "You okay? You look—"
"Fine." He opened the fridge, grabbing three bottles by the neck, the glass cold and wet in his hand. The cool air hit his face, and for a second he closed his eyes, letting it wash over him.
When he turned back, Mackenzie was still watching him. There was something in her expression—concern, maybe, or guilt—but she didn't reach for him, didn't ask again.
"Dan's waiting," he said, and the words tasted like ash.
He walked past her, out of the kitchen, back through the crowd, the bottles clinking together in his grip. His cock had softened, finally, the cold and the movement and the distance combining to dull the ache. But the heat was still there, banked like coals, waiting for Barry's next touch to flare back to life.
Barry was where he'd left him, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. His smile when he saw James carrying the bottles was slow and satisfied, a cat watching a mouse return with its dinner.
"Good boy," he said, and the words landed in James's chest like a key turning in a lock.
James held out the bottles. Barry took two, leaving one in James's hand. "That one's yours. Drink up."
James looked down at the bottle. The label was wet, peeling at the corner. His reflection stared back at him from the brown glass—blurred, distorted, someone he almost recognized.
Jamie.
He twisted off the cap and drank, the beer bitter and cold, and when he lowered the bottle, Barry was watching him with those pale green eyes, and the party roared on around them, and somewhere in the kitchen Mackenzie was laughing without him, and James—Jamie—felt the last thread of resistance go slack.
"There he is," Barry said softly, and reached out to brush a strand of hair from James's forehead. "There's the real you."