Zero at the Bone

by Jane Seville

  The only place he did take Jack was to a nearby firing range. They went every few days and Jack was becoming quite handy with the guns in D’s personal arsenal, although he was still not allowed to shoot the Desert Eagle. Now D was teaching him about gun handling: how to get the weapon out of a hip holster fast, how to hold it, react with it, and really be comfortable with it as an extension of his hand. Jack was finding this much harder than just learning how to point and shoot.

  He tried not to ask about the scenarios that D was seeing in his head that led him to put Jack through these paces. He had a feeling he’d rather not know all the awful ways D imagined him being attacked, shot at, or otherwise interfered with.

  He stretched, hoping he wasn’t burning. He was wearing a strappy T-shirt, his early-summer tan all but faded away since leaving Vegas. He heard a few vertebrae crackle in his spine and decided a break was in order. He got to his feet and turned.

  D was lurking in the patio door, watching him, a beer dangling forgotten from his fingers. Jack just stood there and let him watch. D set the beer bottle on the railing and crossed the yard. He gazed off into the distance for a moment, then wordlessly held out his hand, keeping his eyes averted.

  Jack shucked off his gardening gloves and took D’s hand, puzzled. D turned away and led him back to the house, still silent. Jack followed along, feeling a bit foolish at being led by the hand like a child at the zoo, but something in D’s manner compelled his silence.

  D led him straight to the bedroom, shut the door (against whom, Jack had to wonder) and only then did he turn and look at him. He stepped closer, a look of forced concentration on his face, and grasped the hem of Jack’s shirt, pulling it off over his head in one swift movement. His hands ran up Jack’s sweat-damp chest and then back down again to his shorts, which he had off in a few seconds. Jack stepped out of them and let D guide him to the bed, shuffling backward so he wouldn’t lose eye contact.

  He let himself be laid down. D’s hands on him were possessive, each stroke and pull telegraphing mine, mine, mine. He stretched out on the bed, hands behind his head to better display himself, and watched as D stripped off his own clothes. When he was naked he met Jack’s eyes again, his expression guarded.

  Jack slid over to make room; D climbed onto the bed and propped up on one elbow at his side so he could look down at Jack’s body. He began to touch him when looking was no longer enough, maddeningly slow on his chest, his legs, his arms, D’s eyes blazing trails up and down him for his hands to follow. Jack stayed still; somehow he knew that was what was required of him just now. He lay quietly and just watched D’s face. He gave so little away that Jack had had to become expert at reading small cues. The slight clench near his temple, the pull at the corners of his mouth, the sag of his eyelids: this was all he had to go on, but what he saw told him that D needed something from him right now. He just wished he’d tell him what that was.

  With no warning, D left off his exploration of Jack’s body and rolled into him, his mouth claiming Jack’s hard and fast. Jack sucked in a sharp breath through his nose, his arms coming around D’s shoulders. He wound their legs together, angling his torso toward D so they could wrap around each other. This close was just not close enough. Jack clutched what he could of D’s short hair, D’s weight pressing him back into the pillows. He felt D’s hand between them; he tilted his hips and groaned into D’s mouth as he was penetrated, D surging up over his body, pressing forward with his hips socked tight between Jack’s legs, gripping D’s biceps hard as he propped himself up.

  D dropped his head into the crook of Jack’s shoulder, still eerily silent except for the rasp of his breath, rolling and thrusting like the tide against him, Jack letting himself go pliant to take him in as far as he could, his hands on D’s back. He itched to say something, do something. Push D over on his back and ride him until he begged for mercy, perhaps. But he didn’t. He just hung on and held him, cradling him in his body, one hand going to the back of D’s head.

  Suddenly, D stopped and lay still on top of him. For a long moment, they just lay there breathing. D drew back and met his eyes. “Jack,” he murmured, the name barely more than a puff of air.

  Jack nodded. “Harder,” he whispered.

  D reared back on his knees, pulling Jack’s hips with him to keep them connected. He hooked Jack’s legs over his forearms, shut his eyes and thrust forward once, hard and deep. Jack hissed, grabbing at D’s wrists. “Like that?” D breathed.

  Jack was almost too shocked that D was vocalizing something having to do with their sex life to respond, but managed to nod.

  D thrust forward again, his head lolling back, and then again, and again until he was pistoning fast into Jack, holding his legs up and apart, every muscle in his chest and arms standing out like carved marble. Jack was transfixed just by the sight of him.

  Before too long Jack’s head was lolling on the pillow, helpless grunts all the sounds he could muster; D took a few deliberate, shallow strokes right over Jack’s most sensitive spot and he arced as if electrocuted, coming with a strangled cry and feeling D follow him seconds later in typical silence. He lay there spent, gasping and watching his own chest vibrate with his heartbeat. D pulled out and turned partly away to sit on the edge of the bed, his legs over the side, his shoulders sagging. Jack felt like a limp dishrag, aching and hollow in all the right ways, shaking with adrenaline rush.

  He came back into himself little by little until he’d regained enough awareness to be concerned that D was sitting there like he’d just lost a puppy. He reached out and touched his thigh. “Hey. What’s up?”

  D sighed. “Sorry, doc.”

  “Sorry? Why?”

  D glanced at him quickly. “Went at ya kinda hard there.”

  “You don’t have to apologize for giving me what I asked for.”

  He sighed again, shaking his head. “It’s jus’….”

  Jack sat up and folded his legs under him. “What?”

  “Saw you out there in the garden. Looked so damn… fine,” he said, quietly. “Was like I hadta have ya, right then. Bubbled up like… I dunno, puke or somethin’.”

  Jack chuckled. “You sure have a way with words, D.”

  D turned halfway around and looked at him. “Never wanted nobody like I want you,” he said, swallowing hard. “And now it’s… I’m….” He trailed off, his eyes drifting toward the floor.

  Jack reached out and put a hand on his arm. “You’re what?”

  “I’m queer, ain’t I?”

  Jack smiled. “D, I have known a lot of men in my time, queer and straight, and I think I can state with some confidence that you are as gay as a spring parade.”

  D laughed, looking surprised at himself. “Shit.”

  Jack scooted up close behind him, linking his arms around D’s shoulders from behind and resting his chin on his shoulder. “Hey. It isn’t as bad as all that.”

  “A course not. I’m jus’ a fuckin’ gay hit man. Sounds like a setup fer a bad joke.”

  “You’re not a hit man anymore,” Jack said.

  D’s hand came up to rest on Jack’s forearm. “No, I ain’t.” He sighed, leaning his temple against Jack’s, then turned his head to the side, burrowing for Jack’s lips with a soft grunt. Jack craned his neck to meet D’s mouth, soft kisses and slow breaths, a gentleness in D’s touch that still felt like a surprise after all this time.

  D twisted around and drew Jack to him again, pushing him down onto his back and stretching out next to him; he rolled over and pulled Jack on top of him. Jack settled against him, their mouths opening to each other, warm richness against his tongue and the smell of D and himself, that toasty-skin smell D had found so alluring, D’s hands on his back and then on his ass, his legs parting so Jack slid snug between them. He felt D’s hips tilting….

  Jack drew back, blinking. D was looking back at him, face tight, eyes shuttered. He turned his head to the side and closed his eyes. Jack sagged into his arms, exhaling, his mouth agai
nst D’s ear. “You want that?” he whispered. He felt D’s short, shallow nod, his zigzag breaths like a scared rabbit against Jack’s chest, the pulse in his throat speeding. “You want me inside you?” Jack breathed, less words and more lips around air, wanting to make sure. That quick nod again. Don’t make me say it; just do it. Let me pretend I’m not asking for it.

  Jack dragged D’s mouth back to his to occupy himself while he pulled his brain back into coherence, hard rough kisses like fighting, D’s muscles tense like rope. Jack kissed his mouth, his face, his neck. It had been a long time since he’d topped for a man who’d never bottomed. The thought of doing this with D was both unbearably exciting and nerve-wracking. “You gotta relax,” he murmured. “Turn over.”

  D did as Jack asked and Jack rose above him, straddling his legs, and laid hands on him in long, smooth strokes like raking a Zen garden, lines and curves carved into the sand and into D’s flesh. He bent and kissed the nape of D’s neck then pressed the heels of his hands hard into the large muscles of his shoulders, his back, his arms, feeling the tension leave his body a little at a time. The ridges of scars passed beneath his palms. A knife wound here, some road rash there, markers in the haunted moor of D’s body, what it had done and what had been done to it.

  Jack leaned over so more of his chest was pressed to D’s back, his hands working over D’s outstretched arms, the flesh now loose and pliant. “Turn on your side,” he murmured. D hitched his hip beneath and turned; Jack settled behind him, one hand stroking southward around D’s ass, his fingers delving between the cheeks. He retrieved the lube and squirted some into his hand before returning to press close again, mouth on D’s neck and chest to back, guiding D’s breathing with his own.

  He wrapped both arms around D from behind and just held him for a moment, forcing down some performance anxiety. God, I can’t believe he wants this. I have to make it good for him, I have to.

  He didn’t need to be told that face-to-face would not be the best way for the first time. He gently eased D onto his stomach and crawled around behind him, grasping his hips in his hands. D let Jack pull him to his knees, but he kept his shoulders and face down close to the bed, crossing his arms and resting his forehead on them like he was hiding. Jack hesitated.

  “You don’t have to do this,” he murmured.

  D pressed back against him, his head turning slightly.

  Jack nodded. “Okay.” He applied more lube to himself and pressed up close. D exhaled when he felt it, the top of his head pressed to the bed, and Jack slid slowly inside. “Jesus,” he breathed, watching D’s body take him in. D was silent but still relaxed. When he was fully sheathed he just stayed still, eyes shut, hands stroking D’s flanks and concentrating on not losing it right then and there.

  He withdrew and surged again, D pushing back against him, his shoulders rising off the bed and his arms bracing his torso up, his head hanging down. Jack stared at the sheen of sweat shining on D’s back as he thrust, gently at first, smooth and steady. “Shit,” D groaned. Jack grasped his shoulder in one hand and snapped his hips harder, D’s responses urging him on faster than he would have gone on his own.

  Abruptly, D pushed himself upright, his back against Jack’s chest, his hips settling back into Jack’s lap as he fitted his knees between D’s spread thighs. Jack wrapped his arms around D’s chest from behind, their hips bucking and lunging in concert like they were riding tandem. D’s hands reached back and seized Jack’s hips, pulling him in tighter, his head lolling back into the hollow of Jack’s shoulder. Jack slid one hand down D’s taut abdomen and grasped him, heavy and hard in Jack’s hand. D clenched around him in a way that made Jack’s eyes go a bit crossed. “Jack…,” D gasped. “Fuck… gonna come….” Jack stroked him until he came over Jack’s hand, sagging forward. Jack held him fast around the waist, resting his cheek against D’s spine, all control lost until he toppled over the edge, spilling into D’s body with a strangled cry.

  They stayed like that, sitting folded together on their knees, breathing hard and coming back to the world. Jack pressed his forehead and then his lips to D’s back.

  D was shaking.

  Jack pulled out, slowly, and crawled around in front of him. He encircled him in his arms and drew them both down onto the bed, pulling the blanket up around their hips. D just lay there against Jack’s chest, his arms tucked around his own stomach.

  Jack said nothing. He just held him, one hand stroking the back of his head, where his brutally short haircut was giving way to soft curls. Jack was too overwhelmed to muster the ability to speak. In the haze of post-coital euphoria he wanted to tell D that he loved him, that he’d never loved anyone else, that he’d die for him or kill for him or whatever else people said when they didn’t think about it first, that he didn’t care what happened to him or the trial or his life as long as they could be together.

  So he shut his eyes and let himself fall asleep before any words could escape, words that shouldn’t be said, not now and maybe not ever.

  ~~~~~

  The nightmare came again, fucking sneaky bastard of a vision behind his eyeballs, blood and death, his little girl screaming, buried under the rubble, calling for her daddy to come save her. D tossed aside debris like it weighed nothing but more kept falling, her voice getting farther away, and then there was a hand on his arm, a hand he knew, and he turned to see Jack beckoning him away.

  No, I gotta find Jill.

  Jack’s smile like peace on the water. It’s okay, Jill’s safe. Come with me.

  No… but my baby… she’s out there hurt ‘n’ scared….

  She’s waiting for you back here.

  Jack took his hand and led him from the ruins but there was no way out. They wandered and wandered, D hearing Jill’s cries still, clapping his hands to his ears, but it didn’t stop the sound. Nothing stopped it.

  Cain’t ya hear it? I gotta help her! She’s cryin’ fer me!

  Hear what? Jack’s face blank. I don’t hear anything.

  Ya gotta hear her! It’s so loud… it’s getting louder….

  I can make it stop.

  Jack’s lips on his and all is quiet, all is peace, but now there are faces rising from the grass, grass like a meadow with trees and the faces are all around him….

  D jerked awake, hearing his own moans as they died out, hands on him shaking him. “Wha… the fuck….”

  Jack was leaning over him. “It’s okay,” he said, sounding eerily as he had in the dream. “You were having another nightmare.”

  D sagged back against the cushions. Motherfucker. “Shit,” he muttered, swiping at his damp brow. Jack was stroking his belly like you’d gentle a horse. “M’okay,” he grunted.

  “Jill again?” Jack said. D looked over at him. Jack shrugged. “You were saying her name, like you always do.”

  D nodded. “Same as always.” He sighed. “I wish it’d stop. Sorry if it’s botherin’ you. Cain’t be fun ta keep getting woke up by my damn nightmares.”

  Jack said nothing, just kept making slow circles with his hand. D looked up at him and saw tears in his eyes. “Jack… what?”

  He shook his head. “It’s nothing.”

  “C’mon, what?”

  Jack met his eyes. “It’s just… it was different this time.”

  “It was?”

  “Usually you thrash around, and call for Jill, and sometimes you cry a little.”

  “And?”

  Jack slid closer and laid his hand on D’s face. “This time, after you said Jill’s name….” He hesitated, his jaw working. “You called for me.”

  D said nothing. The look on Jack’s face was too much for him. He just let Jack snuggle close to him and keep his illusions, illusions he wished he could share.

  “D?” Jack said, after a long pause.

  “Hmm?”

  “Will you do something for me?”

  “What?”

  “Teach me to fight.”

  ~~~~~

  Jack was bounc
ing on the balls of his feet in the backyard, jabbing at the air like a boxer. D shook his head as he set out the pads he’d gotten at the sporting-goods store that morning. “Okay, Sugar Ray. We ain’t takin’ corners here.” He began buckling himself into the body pads.

  “You told me once what kind of fighting you use. Mango something?”

  D laughed. “Krav Maga.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “It’s Hebrew for ‘close contact.’ It’s an Israeli fighting style. Them Israelis don’t fuck around. I guess a couple thousand years a livin’ in a war zone’ll do that to ya.”

  “So how do I start? You going to teach me some fancy moves?”

  “There aren’t any.”

  Jack stopped bouncing and frowned. “What do you mean, there aren’t any?”

  “No forms, no choreographed moves. This ain’t a sport, like karate or judo. It’s survival. And it’s somethin’ different for everybody who learns it.”

  Jack was looking a little dubious. “Oh,” he said.

  “This ain’t sportsmanlike, Jack. Three basic principles. One, don’t care about how much ya hurt the other guy. Two, cause as much damage as possible and run, and three, don’t drag it out: do what you gotta do and get gone. Ya grab whatever’s handy, ya take the initiative away from whoever’s on ya, and ya turn the fight on yer attacker as quick as ya can.”

  “But… what do I do?”

  “Whaddya think? Punch, kick, poke, pull. Whatever you can think of. Go for the eyes, the crotch, wherever’s the most sensitive.”

  “That’s fighting dirty, isn’t it?”

  D straightened up. “You get that notion outta yer head right now, ya hear? That’s a buncha honor-soaked bullshit from them Eastern fightin’ forms. I ain’t sayin’ they’re bad, or worthless, but they’re clean-and-tidy sportsman’s fightin’. The quickest way ta get dead in real life is ta worry ’bout fightin’ ‘fair,’” he said, making air quotes with his fingers. “The only dirty thing you can do in a fight is let yerself get killed or hurt. All this assumes the other guy’s wantin’ you dead. You wanta not be dead? You better do whatever you gotta do ta make him dead, or at least hurt bad enough that he cain’t get ya. You wanna learn pretty moves and high kicks and worry ’bout yer honor? Go join a dojo. You wanna learn how not ta get dead? That, I can teach ya.”