Page 21 of Anchored

The master held his arm out, and Daniel blanked his face before settling on the cushion next to him. This close, the man made Daniel feel tiny, fragile, even though he was no such thing. At least the master kept his arm to himself, laid across the back of the couch several inches from Daniel’s shoulders.

When the master smiled at him and said, “Lean back, relax,” Daniel was actually glad to have the beating as an excuse to keep that arm several inches away: “It hurts my back,” he said, and the master seemed to accept that at face value.

The movie was . . . well, stupid, frankly, though the master seemed to find it sidesplittingly hilarious, and even Daniel was willing to admit that maybe he was just too tense for this level of silliness. Besides, the current running underneath it wasn’t funny at all, and after that scene with the king and the “I didn’t vote for you” peasants, it was no wonder to Daniel why he’d never been allowed to watch the movie before. The real wonder was why the master thought this appropriate viewing. Was he trying to tell Daniel something? Or was he actually as dense as he sometimes seemed?

Then the damn movie got even less funny when, some endless stretch later, the master dropped his arm onto Daniel’s shoulders in the middle of a particularly loud guffaw and yanked him close.

“This just never. Gets. Old!” the master said between laughs, squeezing hard enough to make Daniel squeak and not stopping until they were practically snuggling, Daniel curled in toward the man, his head smushed against master’s shoulder and his face nearly turned into the master’s neck. Then the vise let up and his master’s arm curled gently around his head, petting his hair and tracing his earlobe with a finger. “Having a good time, Daniel?” he asked, nuzzling his nose against Daniel’s scalp.

“Yeah,” Daniel lied, the sound muffled by the master’s shirt. He felt a little shiver run through the master when his breath puffed against the man’s neck, and then the master’s other hand crept onto his thigh, began to stroke back and forth, coming a little closer to his groin on each pass. Daniel didn’t dare pull away, but nor did he open up to him.

“I thought you’d appreciate the bit about the coconuts,” the master said, his voice dropping in a way that might have been coldly dangerous or hotly sensual. Daniel thought it was the second, but he knew how easily it might become the first, especially since he had no idea what the master was talking about.

“Uh, yeah,” he said again, hoping it would be enough.

The master’s hands stilled on his body, the one around his head fisting in his hair and tugging until Daniel looked him in the eye. He wasn’t smiling anymore. Not even close. But it wasn’t anger Daniel saw in its place—no, it was that same strange mixture of bluster, hurt, and confusion he’d seen at dinner, that he was so ill equipped to deal with in any way.

“You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you.” The words were flat and accusatory and even, Daniel thought, wounded. Daniel tried to drop his gaze, but the master’s fist tightened in his hair until he winced (and then loosened, he noticed, immediately), holding him still.

“No, Master,” he sighed. “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to lie. I’ll just . . .” He slid out from under the master’s arm, off the couch and to his knees, and started to unbutton his shirt. Lying was never less than five with the strap at NewWorld, sometimes as many as twenty if the lie was particularly egregious. Given the shape he was currently in, even one would set him screaming, but he deserved this. Deserved this and more, the way he’d been—

“What are you doing?”

Daniel’s fingers stilled on a button. The rest of him froze, too; even his breath caught in his lungs.

“I lied, Master.”

“Yes, and?”

“And . . .” God, he could barely bring himself to say it. If the master hadn’t planned to beat him, he certainly didn’t want to give him any ideas. But he was waiting, impatient for an answer, and Daniel would not lie a second time. “And I assumed you’d wish to punish me.”

A loud sigh behind him, then a foot nudging his hip. “Get up. Turn around, look at me.”

And there it was, that same expression all over again—except worse this time, with outrage and horror piled atop the rest.

“And for God’s sake, button your damn shirt. I’m not— I don’t—” The master pulled off his glasses, scrubbed his face with both hands, put them back on. Picked up the remote to stop the movie, then tossed it on the couch as if he were mad at it and not Daniel. “You know what?” He stood, clearly angry, and Daniel couldn’t help it, he took a single step back. “I’ve seen this movie a thousand times. The end is stupid. I’m going to bed.”

Daniel watched him leave, mouth open, the metallic taste of adrenaline strong on the back of his tongue. The master’s bedroom door slammed so hard the clock fell off the wall. Daniel hung it up again with shaking fingers. It was only 8:15.

For a while, Daniel was able to pretend all was well. He retrieved the remote from where the master had thrown it, flipped through the channels until he came across some terrible reality show about a deaf couple with three not-deaf kids who walked all over them like they were slaves instead of parents. The little brats didn’t even know sign language. It wasn’t long before the whole thing grew unbearable, and he shut it off, picked up the Economist instead, and started reading where he’d left off.

But his mind kept turning back to the master, to the closed door at the end of the hall. What would happen when he went through it tonight? Could he wait until the master was asleep and then tiptoe in? Would he get away that easily, or was the master a light sleeper? Or worse, was the master waiting for him? Should he just go, get it over with? When had Japan gotten a new prime minister? He really hadn’t been paying attention this week, had he?

“You should go to him.”

Daniel looked up, startled, to see Jane returning the DVD to its case and putting it back in the cabinet. How long had she been standing there?

“He can’t possibly want me around,” Daniel said into his magazine. “He thinks I hate him.”

“Well, then.” Jane stepped close and plucked the magazine from Daniel’s unresisting fingers. “It’s time to go disabuse him of that notion, don’t you think?”

She was right. He knew she was. If the master meant to punish him, it would be foolish to try to delay it. And if the master meant to use him, making him wait would only lead to more anger, frustration, alienation, and hurt—which would make it so much worse for Daniel when it finally happened. He was exploiting the master’s kindness, stretching the master’s patience too thin. Rather than rejoicing in his master’s clear desire to arouse and interest Daniel, he was taking advantage of it, being deliberately obtuse, closing his eyes and—like a child—thinking that would somehow make the world go away.

But that didn’t work when I was eleven, and it sure as hell isn’t going to work now.

When Jane pulled out a vacuum cleaner and started banging his feet with it, he took the hint and left for the master’s bedroom.

Uneasy with barging in, he knocked first, only opening the door when the master shouted, “For God’s sake, stop knocking and just get in here!”