Hold The Line: Inked 1

by SE Jakes

  Ah, fuck. He wanted to bury his head in his hands, or at least knock it against the table to offset his stupidity. But he stopped himself, because that’s not what Con needed. “Let me put more ink on you.”

  Con’s jaw tightened. Shrugged like it didn’t matter one way or the other, but fuck, it mattered so much. Quinn wasn’t shocked at the compliance, but he suspected that Con was. Still, the man lay on the bed, facing the TV, which blared loudly while Quinn’s needle buzzed over his skin.

  Halfway through, Quinn simply stared. “I didn’t mean…” He took a breath and started over. “I know the military necessitates a transient life, okay? I don’t want to take out my family shit on you.”

  Con was just lying there under the buzz of the gun, pretending he didn’t hear or that it didn’t register. Quinn had to just believe it had.

  It wasn’t until he’d finished for the night, wiped Con’s skin down with antibiotic gel and wrapped the arm for the next couple of hours to catch the weeping that Con turned off the TV and said, “It’s not the military. That’s actually been the most stable thing in my life. The hustling? I grew up traveling the country with my dad—that’s what we did. Rarely stayed in the same place more than a couple of days. We used to have maps, to make sure we didn’t hit the same town twice. We worked the country in circles.”

  The tension radiated off Con as he spoke.

  “Ah, Con. Shit.”

  “Don’t, okay? I can handle anything but pity. Especially from you.” Con faced him for the first time since they’d fought.

  Quinn brushed some hair from Con’s eyes. “When I fuck up, I own it.”

  “Guess we’re both a couple of fuck-ups,” Con said quietly.

  Quinn ran a hand down Con’s chest, trailed it lower and cupped Con’s cock when he got no argument. He got an invite, Con spreading his legs.

  For days, he’d been riding Con about the hustling. But traveling the country like this had to be bringing back memories for Con. Did Scott know about this? Did he do it purposely?

  Because obviously Con tended to spiral in situations like this. Hustling was what he knew, his coping mechanism. For a long time, according to him, it was all he had and he was good at it. Scott knew about his past, he explained, but not to the extent Con had just told Quinn.

  “Scott would never do this to you purposely,” Quinn said carefully.

  “No, definitely not,” Con agreed.

  Now that he knew Con’s childhood consisted of nothing remotely resembling a childhood at all, Quinn didn’t doubt that Con had suffered abuse, both physical and emotional. Coupled with the nomadic living situation and being forced to hustle pool for survival with a father who looked at Con as a meal ticket rather than a son, Quinn felt a righteous anger…and more protective of Con than ever. “You fought tonight.”

  “I started to. Stopped myself. I can’t just fight. I could hurt someone.”

  “Like yourself.”

  Con stared at him. “I do that every time I hustle. I’m used to it by now.”

  Chapter Eleven

  ‡

  The next morning, Con was a combination of relieved he’d told Quinn everything and fucking angry as shit that he’d done so. He didn’t like giving anyone the keys to his kingdom and that was the main wall Quinn was breaching—that insight into Con’s psyche wasn’t something he gave away often. Or ever.

  It was allowing Quinn to really get to know him. And the only other person in Con’s life who’d known him that well had been his father.

  He’d embellished his childhood—or lack of one—for his military reviews. That kind of shit could’ve gone into his psych evals, which would show him as law-breaking, possibly reveal that he’d never learned to draw a moral line that he wouldn’t cross.

  But he had.

  He could’ve been, at the very least, deemed unstable, with no parental figures to teach him right from wrong…although at this point, he didn’t know a Delta guy who wasn’t.

  But fuck, it bothered him. Which was why he’d gone out that afternoon and tried to get his head on straight by hanging out in the veterans hospital. But that had made things worse—the nurse told him there was a full moon coming, her way to explain why so many of the men who surrounded him with haunted eyes and half-full memories were acting so loony.

  Con wanted to tell her it had nothing to do with moons or tides or anything but their own goddamned demons. But he didn’t, just sat there while one after another, a vet would come sit next to him, rant and rave about some injustice long gone, and Con would listen. Nod. Sympathize.

  When he left, he stopped to sit on the bench that seemed to be a prerequisite outside all these places, a spot for families to sit and stare into space under the guise of collecting themselves.

  Not that there were ever a whole lot of visitors…at least not at the veterans hospitals he’d been to.

  Con spotted the father and son when they were far enough down the street not to be an issue. A part of him said to get the fuck up and walk away. A bigger part of him—that fucking stubborn part that ruined most things in his life that looked like they were taking a turn for the better—made him stay on that damned bench and watch.

  When they got close enough, he saw the young boy looking up at his dad like he was a god. And the father held a guitar case—Con’s father used to store some of his favorite pool cues in a case like that. And maybe it was nothing, friendly and innocent. Maybe there was actually a guitar in the case and they were learning to play together for fun and enjoyment.

  It didn’t matter. It never really did. He flashed to himself at that age, the hours of planning drilled into him. Pool, running numbers, and it was all things passed through his family for generations.

  And the buck was stopping here. Because no kids for him. He was it…the last of the line.

  All his life, Con had been asked, “How’d you learn to play pool like this?”

  Con would shrug. “Same way everyone does. Practice, one ball at a time.”

  He turned, went down the small alleyway behind the vet hospital and got sick next to one of the dumpsters.

  *

  Quinn knew that things weren’t entirely settled from their fight the night before, but he hadn’t expected Con to come back to the room looking pale and angry.

  He didn’t try to stop him from heading to the bathroom—he heard water running, for a long damned time. Long enough that he almost went in to check on Con.

  But he didn’t. And finally, Con came out and got dressed quickly, and began shoving his stuff into his bag. A familiar sight, and one they did around the same time every day before they got on the road.

  So that was a good sign, Quinn told himself. But hell, even as he tried to lie to himself, he’d known it wasn’t. “Almost ready to go?”

  “Yeah. But…this isn’t going to work for me,” Con told him bluntly. “I’m going to make my own way for the next few days. I need to.”

  Quinn remained calm, because that, more than anything, was what Con needed from him. “You’re still hurt.”

  “Yeah, but not about what you said. That’s not your fault. It’s something I’ve been struggling with my whole life, and it’s not going to end in one night.”

  “So what’s going on, then?” Quinn asked.

  “I know about loss, Quinn. Loss and hurt are a part of me I’ll never be rid of,” Con told him after a deep breath. “No way to compete with ten years.”

  “I wasn’t asking you to compete,” Quinn pointed out.

  “Yeah, I can see how you’d think that.”

  Oh no, Con wasn’t going to throw Gerry in his face—not now. “Fuck you, Con. You don’t know everything. You don’t know what I’m thinking or what I need.”

  “I know that. And that’s why I’m going to finish the trip on my own steam.”

  But your tattoo isn’t finished. It was all Quinn wanted to say, the only way he could think to keep Con with him.

  But he didn’t say that…didn’t a
rgue. Just let Con roll his bike out of the back of Quinn’s big truck and settle his bags, then his body on it. It roared to life, the way it had that very first night, making it too loud for Con to hear him.

  Not that Quinn would know what to say anymore to even attempt to stop him from going. So he didn’t say anything, and Con took off into the afternoon sunlight.

  Quinn would have no choice but to follow in his path, or make his own.

  Chapter Twelve

  ‡

  Today’s drive was a long one—eight hours. And fuck it. He wasn’t in charge of Con getting anywhere. All he had to do was finish the trip himself. It wasn’t like he was responsible for…

  Bring me my best friend. Scott’s words on the paper swam in front of his eyes.

  Fuck that. He’d tried. Con had told him to fuck off. What could he do? Hogtie him and throw him in the truck?

  Con might actually like that. But Quinn was getting off track, and it was too late already. So he’d gotten in his truck and he’d made it five hours before his phone rang.

  He barely heard it over the pounding music he’d been playing to drive out any and all thoughts of Con from his brain.

  But he glanced at it and recognized the number. Answered it as he turned down the radio and pulled over.

  “Quinn?”

  God, Con sounded terrible, and Quinn was unable to keep the demanded out of his voice when he asked, “Where are you?”

  “Somewhere in the U.S.”

  Con’s not great with following directions…keep him on track.

  Quinn fought a groan and reminded himself this was what Con had wanted. Except now, he seemed to want something entirely different.

  And since when do you follow anyone’s directions?

  Since he was trying not to fall for this guy, more desperately than he’d tried anything else in his life. “Is something wrong?”

  “No,” Con said defiantly, then, on the heels of that, added softly, “Yes.”

  Shit. “Where are you?”

  Con rattled off an address, and Quinn was putting it into his GPS. It was a hotel two hours behind Quinn, and west of him as well. What the hell had Con been doing? “Talk to me. Tell me what you want. What you need.”

  There was such a long pause, Quinn thought the line had been disconnected. But finally—finally—Con spoke, and clearly. “I need… Can you come get me? Please?”

  It was such a plaintive question, and humble. And yet, there was a sense that he knew Quinn wouldn’t deny him. “Of course I’ll come.”

  “Now?”

  “I’m turning the truck around,” Quinn assured him as he did so. “I’ll be there in a couple of hours.”

  “Okay.” And then, almost more to himself than Quinn, he said, “A couple of hours isn’t bad. I can handle two more hours.”

  “Con, fucking talk to me,” he demanded. “I’ll stay on the line until I get to you, if that helps. We don’t have to talk—you can just know I’m here.”

  Con let out a shaky breath that echoed in Quinn’s ear. “Why would you do that for me, after all the shit I said?”

  “Because I want to.” He paused. “I shouldn’t have let you go like that. Shouldn’t have listened to you in the first place.”

  “Probably not. I’m pretty convincing, though.”

  Quinn bit back a laugh. “Yes, you are. But I know the difference between someone doing something for attention and someone who means it. You mean it.”

  “Yeah, I did. At the time.”

  “Are you in trouble?”

  “I did get some guys pissed at me,” he admitted.

  “You played pool?”

  “Just a little.” Con paused. “Started thinking about my dad. How he lived. How he taught me to live, with no strings, no roots. Nothing and no one to hold me back. Except, what the fuck did that mean? I was his kid. So he didn’t ditch me…”

  “Con?”

  Con sighed. “I pushed you away because of Gerry.”

  “That was partially an excuse.”

  “Maybe. But you can’t deny that you’re not over him. You never will be.”

  For the first time ever, Quinn believed that wasn’t actually true. “Do you want me to be?”

  Con gave a short, humorless laugh. “I don’t know. Because I’m fighting an urge to run in the opposite direction.”

  “But you don’t want to.”

  “No. But it’s ingrained in me, Quinn. You have to understand that. And this trip wasn’t about us. It’s about Scott.” There was a pause and then Con added, “Just hurry, okay?” before he hung up.

  From that point, Quinn fought so damned hard not to go a hundred miles an hour to get to Con. He didn’t want to stop and call him, figured Con would get in touch if he needed to. Prayed that was the case, anyway. And when he finally got close to the hotel he got another set of coordinates from Con, a bit farther down the road.

  When he pulled up to the outside of the bar, he saw Con’s bike, the police officer and Con, in that order.

  Con wasn’t in handcuffs, so that was a good sign, he told himself to keep from exploding with fear and worry. Quinn got out of the truck and approached slowly, until the police officer said, “You must be Quinn.”

  “Yes. Is he…?” He stopped, because Con was asleep.

  “He’s drunk, which means he’s not okay. But no permanent damage. At least not from tonight. Just a little fight and some rowdy behavior.” The officer stood. “I served two tours myself. I’ve been there. So I couldn’t lock him up. Just promise me you’ll get him someplace safe.”

  “You can bet on it,” Quinn assured him. Shook the officer’s hand, then gently shook Con, enough to get him on his feet and moving into the passenger’s seat of the truck.

  Con rolled his head toward him once he was settled in and Quinn was putting the seatbelt across him. “Hey.”

  “Hey. Did you check into your hotel?”

  “I, uh, yeah, I did. Bag’s there.”

  “Okay, we’ll go pick it up. Key?”

  “Pocket,” Con said, shifted, like he was too tired to even go into his own pocket. Quinn fished it out, along with the keys to Con’s Harley.

  “Heal me,” Con told him.

  “I’m not a medicine man.”

  “Maybe to me you are.”

  Jesus. His throat tightened and he reached out, rubbed Con’s neck, kneading the tight muscles that shouldn’t have been there after Con’s bout of drinking. “Gonna make you fly…and then I’ll make you buzz.” He lifted up the sleeve of Con’s T-shirt and traced the healing tattoo with his fingertip. “You’re taking good care of it.”

  “We’ve only been apart for six hours. Feels like longer, though.”

  “Yeah, it does,” Quinn agreed.

  Con smiled, then his eyelids got heavy and by the time Quinn closed the door Con was out again. Quinn worked quickly to get Con’s bike up and into the flatbed. Once it was fastened and covered, he went back to the hotel. He got Con’s things, checked him out and found Con still sleeping peacefully.

  Quinn didn’t bother to wake him. He drove them a couple more hours and got them to where they needed to be.

  Chapter Thirteen

  ‡

  Quinn made short work of backtracking—it was amazing how much faster a trip actually went when he wasn’t half panicked out of his fucking mind. Con woke up just before they reached their destination, asked for some greasy fast food, and Quinn obliged him with a quick trip through a McDonald’s drive-through, which Con ate on the way to the new hotel.

  Con slid out of the truck and threw his garbage away. Quinn shouldered both their bags, even though Con tried to take them from him.

  “Let’s just get you in, okay?”

  “I’m all right, Quinn,” Con tried to assure him, and yeah, he’d slept some of the liquor off but okay would be the last word Quinn would use to describe him.

  Finally, they were alone in their room, Con leaning back against the pillows of the bigger of th
e two rooms Scott had once again picked for them, as per his itinerary, and Quinn sitting next to him.

  “So what happened?” Quinn surveyed Con. His knuckles were bruised, along with a faint mark on his cheek that would fade easily. “Pool?”

  “Yeah. And then…” He shook his head. “I wanted all of it to feel the same. And it didn’t. Not even close.”

  “The pool?”

  “That. And then I let someone bring me to a back room at a club.”

  Quinn’s blood ran cold with anger and jealousy, both of which were almost immediately replaced by concern. “Baby, did someone hurt you?”

  Con looked up at him gratefully. Confused, too. “No. Didn’t get that far. We just kissed but it wasn’t…right. It wasn’t at all, Quinn. What the fuck does that mean?”

  Instead of saying anything, Quinn pulled him in and kissed him hard. As Con sank against him, Quinn could practically hear the wheels turning in Con’s head.

  Because this? This was right. And Quinn knew neither of them had been prepared—or were ready—to think about what that meant.

  Fortunately, Quinn’s plans for Con at the moment didn’t involve any thinking. He had orders and he wanted Con to follow them.

  Con could. Did. Wasn’t too drunk to preclude that and it stopped Quinn’s momentary wash of guilt, because he never played drunk.

  Then again, he and Con were well past the point of playing.

  He helped Con strip, got him on his knees on the mattress, pulled him up hard so his back pressed to Quinn’s chest as Quinn first opened him, then fucked him mercilessly, telling him, “You ever go into a club without my permission? You know what I’ll do.”

  Con’s breath caught. He managed, “What? Tell me.”

  It was far more plea than order. “I’ll march you into whatever club it is and you’ll be naked. By my feet. If you want to be used by total strangers, I’ll make that happen, but you can be damned sure it’s me controlling it, not you.” At Quinn’s words, Con groaned. Quinn thrust, viciously pinching one of Con’s nipples at the same time while continuing, “You’d be plugged in preparation. And then I’d tie you face-down, take it out after you were stretched and tell everyone that your ass was open for business.”