Grudge (Virtue & Vice Book 5)

by Cait Forester

  Maybe that was something he’d gotten in the corps. Maybe it was something he always had. Martin didn’t know.

  It took about twice as long to get back to Taggart’s little house as it did to get halfway to the park. Taggart had to work to get up the stairs, but he made it, and unlocked the door. He glanced over his shoulder. “Want to come in for a beer? Or, just water or something?”

  Martin hesitated.

  “It’s okay,” Taggart sighed. “You got shit to do. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “No,” Martin said, “I can. I’ll come in for a bit.”

  Taggart nodded, a smile playing on his lips a bit. “Alright. My place is a little small. Kinda messy.”

  Taggart’s idea of messy wasn’t apparently Martin’s. The place was exceedingly spare. In the living room that the front door led into was only a raggedy looking recliner, a futon couch, and a television on a simple box-stand that looked like it was a particle board get up from Target. The kitchen was similarly basic — one small table with two chairs. One pot and one pan were on the stove.

  When Taggart opened the refrigerator to retrieve two beers, Martin got a look at it — mostly empty, except for a six pack and a few plastic containers that might have had leftovers in them.

  “Yeah, I’m kind of used to not having much,” Taggart said when he saw Martin looking the place over. “I get a check from the corps each month, but having too much stuff just makes me feel, I don’t know, cramped.”

  “When you said ‘messy’ I envisioned more . . . mess,” Martin said.

  Taggart shrugged. “I don’t know. Seems like the sort of thing you say just in case. Angie always does.”

  Martin took the canned beer that Taggart offered. Two cans hissed at the same time as they opened them, and Taggart held his out. Martin tapped his against Taggart’s.

  “So, how long have you been in this place?” Martin asked. He couldn’t think of anything else.

  “Since I got back,” Taggart said. “Angie found it for me. Once I was out of surgery and back in the States, I stayed with her for a few days but . . . got a little stir crazy.”

  Taggart was putting all his weight on his right leg, so Martin wandered back into the living room and took a seat on the futon, hoping it would encourage Taggart to sit as well.

  “How’s your leg?” Martin asked as Taggart followed.

  “Hurts like a bitch,” Taggart admitted. He looked from the empty space on the futon to his chair, and ultimately sat in the chair.

  Grunt scuttled over to it when he sat and tried to scramble up. Taggart leaned down to scoop the puppy off the floor and into his lap, where Grunt promptly flopped down and closed his eyes.

  What else was there to say? Martin sipped his beer — cheap, practically water, which was surprising; he’d figured Taggart for a heavier drinker.

  “So what did you do in the Marines?” Martin finally asked. “I realize we haven’t really talked about it.”

  Taggart frowned. He opened his mouth slightly, and closed it as his eyes drifted away from Martin. He stared for a moment at the blank television until he apparently found his voice. “Nothing all that interesting.”

  It occurred to Martin just then that Taggart might well not want to talk about his time in the military. Not after what happened to him. It wasn’t like he didn’t know about Taggart’s diagnosis — it was in his file. “Sorry,” Martin said. “I shouldn’t have asked, it’s not any of my business.”

  Taggart’s eyes focused on Martin again, and he grimaced before he took a sip of his beer. “You’re okay. It’s kinda hard, is all.”

  “Like, painful?” Martin asked.

  Taggart shook his head and scratched his arm idly. “Not like you’re thinking.” He put his hand on Grunt, stroking his fur slowly. Grunt gave a satisfied little sigh, and rolled onto his side.

  “I miss it,” Taggart said softly. “That’s some shit, ain’t it? The worst, hardest years of my life and sometimes I wake up and I think I’m still there for a second. And I’m relieved. Then I realize my bed isn’t a bunk, and it’s too comfortable, and there’s no gunfire in the distance from some insurgents making a move, or just the firing range. It comes back to me that I’m here, back home.”

  Taggart sucked in a shaky breath, and forced a smile. “I’m a fucking mess, right?”

  “I don’t know,” Martin admitted.

  Taggart sighed and shifted a bit. When he did, he winced, and massaged his knuckles into his leg.

  “Why don’t you let me give your leg a little work,” Martin said. He looked for a place to set his beer, and settled on the flat wooden arm of the futon couch.

  “You don’t have to do that,” Taggart said, waving a hand. “You’re not here to work, I just —”

  “Don’t argue with me, Tag,” Martin sighed. He stood. “Your muscles are warm right now, it’s a good time for it, and I don’t mind. Plus, it’s my fault. I should have insisted we drive.”

  Taggart grunted, and peered up at Martin as if he were about to argue or just outright refuse.

  Instead, though, he shrugged, and eased the sleepy Grunt off of his lap and down onto the floor. He leaned forward, and glanced up at Martin before he held a hand out. “Might have to . . .”

  “Sure,” Martin said, and took Taggart’s hand to help him up.

  When Taggart was standing, he looked around. “On the floor? Or, the futon comes out.

  Martin looked at the futon, which was only about knee height. “How high is your bed?”

  Taggart rubbed his neck. “I don’t know. Waist high? It’s pretty small.”

  “Bigger than the massage table at work?” Martin asked.

  Taggart shrugged, and nodded. “Sure, I guess.”

  “Let’s go there.”

  “I’m kinda sweaty, and I probably smell a little ripe,” Taggart said. “Maybe you don’t want to get too close.”

  Martin laughed, and waved Taggart toward a small hallway which was the only available direction for a bedroom to be. “Go. Believe me, I can handle a little sweat. You wouldn’t believe how some of my other patients show up.”

  Taggart bobbed his head, and picked up his cane. He hobbled toward the hallway, limping each time he put pressure on his prosthesis.

  Martin followed, and found Taggart’s bedroom to be every bit as spare as the rest of his house. There was a twin bed, positioned in an odd way near the middle of the room, about a foot from the nearest wall. There was a short, four drawer dresser and a small table near the bed, but other than that the bedroom was as spare as every other room in the house.

  “Like I said,” Taggart muttered. “I don’t keep a lot of stuff.”

  “I can see that,” Martin said. “Just like at the hospital, doff the leg and lay down.”

  Taggart sat on the edge of the bed, and set his cane against the side table. He paused, though, and cleared his throat. “I kinda have to take my jeans off to get to the leg.”

  “Oh,” Martin said. “Right. Do you need help?”

  “No,” Taggart snorted. “Just, not that it bothers me or anything but . . .”

  Martin raised his eyebrows and waited —but it caught up to him before Taggart had to clarify. “I’ll just step out a second, if you want.” He shook his head quickly, kicking himself. “Sorry, no. I’ll just step out.”

  He turned and scurried out of the room, closing the door too loudly behind him.

  Now was the time to examine his motivations. Taggart was in pain. Martin was his PT. He just happened to be here. This was no different than being at the hospital.

  He repeated that to himself a few times until it felt like it was more true than it seemed the first time.

  “All clear,” Taggart called.

  Martin took a long breath and opened the door again.

  Taggart was inside, his prosthesis leaned against the side table alongside his cane. He was in a pair of boxer briefs — less than Martin would have considered proper, but possibly better than briefs or
boxers.

  As he approached, Taggart shuffled sideways just a bit to make room. The bed was lower than the massage tables at work, and bending over would have been a chore, so Martin gave Taggart an appreciative nod and sat down. He looked around once he did.

  “I don’t suppose you have any kind of lubricant?”

  “Beg pardon?” Taggart asked.

  Martin’s face grew hot. “Jesus, I meant like — lotion, or oil, or something so I can work on your leg. Sorry, it’s just what we call it at work, I didn’t mean —”

  “In the side table,” Taggart chuckled. “There’s oil.”

  Martin leaned, and pulled the drawer open. When he did, he did his best to ignore the washcloth next to the bottle of baby oil. It was not freshly cleaned. He snatched the bottle out and closed the drawer, but it was hard to look at Taggart when he straightened up.

  Taggart cleared his throat. “Forgot that was still in there,” he muttered.

  “It’s cool,” Martin said, forcing a casual tone. “You’re not the only guy with a kit by the bed.”

  Martin squeezed some of the baby oil into his palm, set the bottle aside, and rubbed his hands together before he put them on Taggart’s leg and spread the stuff around. The muscles under the skin were still hot, and the moment Martin applied pressure, Taggart’s leg twitched and his breathing grew deeper, more controlled as he focused on not holding his breath.

  It was methodical work, and for a little bit, Martin managed to get focused enough on it that it really was like being back at the hospital. When he’d worked over the main muscles, he tested the tension of the problem tendon along Taggart’s inner thigh and found it so tight it reminded him of a steel cable. “You really know how to wreck my work,” he muttered. “Leg up.”

  Taggart raised the leg with some effort, and some assistance. Martin eased it out, away from Taggart’s body, stretching the tendon that ran to his groin as he pressed his palm into it and focused on the tiny sensations of tissue giving up the fight and relaxing. A bit at a time, his palm sank deeper into the tissue, and he shifted the pressure up a hand width at a time toward Taggart’s groin.

  Taggart’s breathing became more labored, and his leg shook a bit. Martin eased off, waited, and then applied pressure again, slowly, until the tendon itself gave a few satisfying twitches, relaxing more each time.

  At the last bit, as Martin pressed the blade of his hand into the uppermost part of the tendon, Taggart sucked in a slow breath and blew it out through tense lips. Before all the breath was gone, he gave a small groan.

  Martin had kept his eyes far from the bulge under Taggart’s underwear for the entire process, and was proud of himself for having done so. Now, though, as Martin inadvertently hit some sensitive nerve, that bulge stirred.

  He should have stopped. Taggart didn’t speak. Martin swallowed, and pressed the blade of his hand deeper, giving the leg a final press as he did.

  Taggart’s breath changed instantly, becoming choppy, and his abdomen trembled. He groaned again, and his bulge swelled until the outline of a half-stock erection was visible, straining gently, for now, against the cotton cage.

  The scent of Taggart’s sweat became suddenly overwhelming, a clean musk that filled Martin’s nostril. He inhaled, just by reflex, and his own cock started to grow. His hand drifted closer to Taggart’s groin, massaging more gently. Taggart made a small sound, one that Martin almost couldn’t believe — a whimper of need, desperate and vulnerable. It flipped switches and dug into Martin’s brain, overriding whatever sense of professionalism and propriety he’d been clinging to.

  Martin dug his fingers gently into the hollow at the top of the tendon, into the sensitive spots just to either side. A wet spot blossomed onto the gray fabric where Taggart’s cock head pressed against it.

  If either one of them had spoken, it would have broken the spell.

  But neither of them did. Martin’s throat was frozen, and he swallowed the sudden excess of saliva as he drew his hand away, and slipped his fingers under the leg of Taggart’s underwear. He kept up his gentle massaging, and worked his way slowly in, until the tips of his fingers brushed the tight skin of Taggart’s balls that had clenched up into a mound despite the heat.

  Taggart gasped quietly, and rocked his hips forward. Martin stroked the sensitive spot again, and Taggart spread his legs more, begging silently for Martin to keep going.

  A little deeper, and Martin found Taggart’s cock. He trailed a finger along the underside of it, and it swelled and strained against its prison. God, Taggart smelled amazing. Martin’s chest rose and fell quickly, his heart pounding.

  He pulled his hand out of Taggart’s boxer briefs, and Taggart’s hips relaxed, dropping suddenly, as if he were released from some invisible thread. There was something disappointed in the way it happened, and for the next few heartbeats, Martin did think to himself that he should stop.

  Instead, though, he hooked his fingers under the elastic, and drew it back.

  Taggart’s hand moved quickly. He grabbed Martin’s wrist. When Martin looked up, Taggart had lifted his head and there was a questioning, almost tortured look in his face. His eyes were wet. “I don’t want your pity,” he whispered.

  And like that, the spell broke. Some invisible force withdrew, and Martin’s head cleared. He let Taggart’s underwear go, and Taggart let go of Martin’s wrist.

  They both sat silently for a moment.

  “I should go,” Martin said. When Taggart didn’t answer, he stood up. He had to reach into his pants to adjust himself from the painful bend in his cock.

  “Wait,” Taggart breathed. He pushed himself up onto his elbows. “Please, Martin. Look —”

  “You don’t have to say anything, Tag,” Martin said quietly. “I shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry. Things are really hard right now. Difficult, I mean; Jesus. I mean that I’m stressed and . . .” He sighed, and shook his head to rattle the right words into place.

  “I’m really sorry about everything I did to you,” Taggart said. His voice was weak, thick with emotion, and he closed his eyes for a moment, squeezing them shut against some inner pain. When he opened them, he licked his lips, and his voice was stronger. “There’s no excuse, so I won’t make any. I was a worthless son of a bitch and I didn’t understand anything that was going on in my head. I was hard on you because I was scared about what I thought when I looked at you. I couldn’t stay away from you, but I couldn’t just admit what I was feeling — what I wanted. And I took it out on you like if I could somehow convince myself you were . . . that I was better than you. I don’t know. That maybe it would go away. But it didn’t.”

  Martin stood there, stunned and hurt, and wishing that what he felt was some kind of relief or forgiveness. All that really happened, though, was that all of those old feelings came rushing back. He was angry. Not just at Taggart — but at himself for still wanting to tear off their clothes and press himself against Taggart’s hard body. To feel the weight of Taggart holding him down, and taking him. The quagmire of warring impulses tore at him from opposite sides, and he felt his eyes burning with imminent tears.

  “I don’t deserve anything from you,” Taggart went on. “Not even your help. I don’t know why you didn’t just turn around and walk out on me on day one. But I,” He closed his eyes again, and shook his head slowly. “Fuck me. I want . . . when you touch me I . . .”

  Taggart began to breathe hard, shuddering breaths. He opened his mouth to suck in lungfuls of air like there wasn’t enough in the room.

  “Tag?” Martin said.

  Taggart pushed himself up the rest of the way, and pulled his right knee to his chest. His body shook. “God damn it,” he whispered.

  “Tag, what’s happening? Are you okay?” Alarm bells rang in Martin’s head, and he sat back down on the bed. His hands hovered just a few inches from Taggart, paralyzed by uncertainty. He didn’t know the first thing about this sort of attack, if that’s what it was. “What do you need, Tag?”
>
  “Can’t breathe,” Tag whispered.

  Martin bit his lip, and rested one hand gingerly on Taggart’s knee, the other very, very lightly on the back of his head, stroking his short hair down to his neck like he would a dog. It was the only thing he could think of.

  Taggart flinched from his touch, and Martin started to draw his hand away.

  “No,” Taggart said. “Please.”

  Still hesitant, Martin put his hand back on Taggart’s neck, and resumed his slow strokes.

  It took a few minutes, but gradually, Taggart’s breathing evened out, became more controlled. Taggart relaxed his hug on his leg, and let his arms slide down until his fingers were lightly threaded over his ankle. He turned his head against Martin’s touch, until Martin’s palm rested against his cheek.

  Taggart opened his eyes, and looked into Martin’s. There was shame, and fear, and need, all twisted together in the lines around his eyes that suddenly made him seem so much older than he really was.

  They pulled at Martin, and he was leaning in before he realized it was happening, so slowly that he only noticed when his face was inches from Taggart’s. Taggart’s leg slid down, and his hands came and tugged Martin the rest of the way.

  When they kissed, Martin’s chest ached, and Taggart’s grip tightened on Martin’s arms, holding on to Martin for dear life as he fell some great distance. His pull became more insistent, and then they were moving, Taggart drawing Martin on top of him as he laid back onto the bed.

  It was like falling into some endless depth.

  Their lips pressed against one another, and Taggart’s tongue slipped between Martin’s lips. Hunger consumed Martin’s body, all conflicts suspended in that moment, and he slipped his hands up between them to grasp Taggart’s head, clawing at his buzzed hair. Taggart’s arms wrapped around Martin’s body and crushed them together. They panted into one another’s mouths, and Martin could feel Taggart’s heartbeat thudding inside his chest, matched to the throbbing in his own ears.

  Taggart’s fingers dug into Martin’s back, and clawed their way down his spine until they found his jeans and slipped under them to grasp at his ass. Martin gasped as those strong hands worked, and his hips bucked forward, grinding against Taggart’s cock.