Power Bottom
Power Bottom
Jeremy Jenkins
Contents
1. Luke
2. Adam
3. Luke
4. Adam
5. Luke
6. Adam
7. Luke
8. Adam
9. Luke
10. Adam
11. Luke
12. Adam
13. Luke
14. Adam
15. Luke
A Note from the author
Newsletter
Also by Jeremy Jenkins
Luke
My silver engagement ring glittered on my finger as I inserted Adam’s thick metal credit card into the machine.
The stout cashier’s eyes flicked up to meet mine, full of questions.
I put on what I hoped was a confident smirk, donning a look that said, Yeah, I know I’m buying three gay BDSM books right now. What are you going to do about it?
His eyes went down, and his mustached bristled as he neatly tucked each book into a rectangular bag.
I grabbed the bag with a crinkle and then left the bookstore with a jingle of the bell.
Once outside, I was lost in a whirlpool of noise and movement as the continuously shifting machine that was New York City thrummed to life around me.
I could see my breath puff out in front of me and rise into the sky like cotton balls. Luckily, I was wrapped in winter clothes — fashionable ones, of course, and mostly immune to the chilly air.
An ambulance whined down a street a little further away, and I looked up to see it whiz by.
I frowned.
Every time I saw one of those things, it meant Adam could be in some kind of police fight. Every time I saw one of those things, I felt the old, familiar anxiety monster stir in my gut, raking its claws on the sides of my stomach.
As I set off down the sidewalk, I fished my phone out of my coat pocket and sent a quick text to check-in.
How is your day going?
I waited in silence for a response. The city didn’t stop it’s obnoxious noises around me, making me feel powerless and sending the fluttering in my stomach into overdrive. Anxiety whirled to life within me, and for the first time in months, I felt it threaten to take me down.
I ground my teeth together and leaned against a wall, trying to soothe myself. If Adam were here, he’d have me count how many women were wearing red coats that walked by, or the number of pigeons a man was feeding near that park bench on the other side of the street.
But it was no good; the worry was taking hold.
When you have anxiety, worry is more than everyday worry. Worry is a threat from your brain as if it could point a finger and say, “you’re next.”
My heartbeat was picking up speed as I tried to steady my breathing. It started to work, but then another ambulance’s siren sounded in the distance.
I had to get out of here; I had to find somewhere quiet just to breathe.
My phone screen was blank. Adam usually responded instantly if he could, but that wasn’t always possible when he was out on one of his cop missions or whatever. Since we’d moved to New York City, it always seemed like he was out saving lives.
I tried to clear my head of my needy thoughts, but I could only concentrate on halting the rapidly-approaching anxiety attack.
As I began to breathe heavier and more controlled, strangers were starting to stare at me.
That only made it worse.
A third ambulance siren sounded nearby, the loud cacophony rattling my brain.
The corners of my vision were speckling to white as the black-clad herd I was walking with pressed forward down the street. I felt small and helpless, lost in the current. My brain was twisting reality to torment me, my thoughts pouring out of my head with hyper-speed like an avalanche.
Everyone is judging you. You don’t belong here. Without Adam, you’d be nothing. What if Adam’s dead?
Then, as if were custom-making images specifically designed to bring my worst fears to life, I saw Adam’s massive, burly form in his police uniform spread out on a gurney.
Tears began to bead at the corners of my eyes.
I blinked, and my mind made up another one: Attending Adam’s funeral, his loving family surrounding me, weeping.
Icy tears rolled down my face as I tried to calm down my overactive amygdala, but it was too late. It conjured an image of me, all alone in our brownstone in this big, scary city without Adam.
The fears snowballed, and white fireworks exploded across my vision as my heart raced like a hummingbird’s wings.
There was an opening in the crowd beside me. I ducked across the flow of people into an alley, sinking against the wall.
Breathe, Adam’s voice echoed in my head. Just breathe.
I buried my head between my knees and sucked in air slowly, even though everything in my body was crushing me with desire for more air, faster. It took considerable control to fight the urge to take in more breaths; to try to fill my body with the cold wind that powered this hurricane of panic.
As I stepped into the alley, the city noise dulled into a low, distant roar. I slowly began to come out of the attack. My breathing began to slow, and my vision was turning crisp again. I became conscious of the filth of the alley, the distinct smell of garbage hovering below my nostrils.
Adam is okay; he’s just working, I said to myself. Adam is okay; he’s just working.
I clung onto that phrase like it was a life vest, pulling me out of the dark waters of my mind.
The crest of the panic had passed, and now I could hit my brain with logic. Instead of picturing Adam injured or dead, I purposefully conjured up images of him being the hero to someone, kicking down doors and arresting bad guys. He wouldn’t be alone, either. He’d be there with his partner or, depending on the situation, more of the squad.
He was never alone like I was.
I squeezed my eyes shut, then opened them to see a middle-aged woman standing in front of me.
Her hair was a chestnut color with a white streak, pulled back into a ponytail. Her face was old,