He thought about Wayne‘s sneering retorts when he‘d half-heartedly tried to change the dynamic of their twisted relationship before the whole thing blew up.
You‘re just a piece of ass, Tyler, Wayne had told him. A piece of ass who knows his place, which is at my feet and on your knees. Got it?
How Tyler had chafed at this—rejecting it in his heart and mind, while at the same time craving the biting lick of the lash and the feel of Wayne‘s sharp palm on his ass. It was this conflict—this uneasy balance between humiliation and raw desire that had kept him tethered to a man he knew was bad for him.
He‘d made the break, true, but he‘d done it by running. He‘d abandoned his family and his work on the ranch, not because he really wanted to be a reporter, but because he was too scared to face his own demons.
Tyler closed his eyes a second, losing the battle to block the painful memories as the humiliation of that last, horrible confrontation between them forced its way into his consciousness, as vivid and real as if it had just happened.
It had been their usual meeting place and time—late at night when the rest of the ranch was sleeping. They‘d met in the tack room off the stables, the place where Wayne had first exerted his brand of sadistic control.
Wayne had used the riding crop, thoroughly whipping Tyler‘s bare back and ass on that cold February night until he was on fire. He knew from experience he‘d be bruised the next day and was glad for the cover his flannel shirt and jacket would afford him.
Wayne had laughed at Tyler‘s erection afterwards, as he always did, telling him what a sick puppy he was who deserved everything he got. He‘d pulled his cock from his jeans and ordered Tyler to suck him off, but instead of coming in Tyler‘s mouth, he‘d shot his load over the dirt floor and then pointed. Lick it up, faggot. Go on, do as you‘re told.
Faggot.
That word, spat with such derision, set something off in Tyler, a small, bright blaze of anger that for once actually overpowered his twisted submissive compulsion. Leaping to his feet, he‘d shouted, I‘m gay, Wayne. So are you. Why do you want use a hateful word like that?
Wayne sneered at him. Iain‘t gay, you faggot. Gay, fag, what‘s the difference what you call it? It‘s what you are. On top of the beatin‘s you deserve, you take it up the ass and suck my dick. What do you think that makes you?
The anger tightened in Tyler‘s chest, coiling like a rattlesnake ready to strike. And you, you‘re what? His hands had clenched into fists at his sides. For the first time, he actually considered taking Wayne on in a fight. He was bigger than Wayne, but he suspected Wayne was the kind of guy who would fight dirty. He had the kind of wiry, coiled energy that was fueled by anger and egged on by a need for power. He was, Tyler suspected, someone who would fight to win, no matter the cost.
I ain‘t no faggot, Wayne snapped. No man‘s ever been near my ass! But you, he sneered the word. Not only are you queer, but you get hard from bein‘ beat. You jerk off alone to the memory of suckin‘ my dick and takin‘ my whip. You‘re one sick motherfucker, and you know it and I know it. You better watch your step, boy, or everyone else will know it too.
It was this threat, more than anything else, that had made Tyler‘s blood run cold. He‘d never come out to his family, not about his sexual orientation and certainly not about this sick compulsion to submit at the hands of a man like Wayne Hurley. He knew in that instant that Wayne held all the cards. Wayne might get fired, but Tyler would lose everything if Wayne went public with their relationship.
He‘d taken the coward‘s way out, packing his bags and heading as far away as he could think of. He‘d used all his savings those first few months, augmenting the crappy minimum wage of the lousy jobs he managed to procure to afford the cost of living in the big city, before lucking into the Lone Star Monthly gig.
He‘d lied to his family, claiming it was something he‘d been needing to do—to find himself on his own terms as a writer and independent person. His mother had pleaded for him to come home. His father had been angry, talking about the money he‘d wasted educating Tyler to run the ranch better, and ranting about the irresponsibility of Tyler‘s generation.
Tyler hadn‘t spoken to his father in months, though his sister and mother kept him updated on the goings-on at the ranch. A discreet inquiry on his part confirmed Wayne Hurley was still gainfully employed at the ranch, and now it was too late for Tyler to do a thing about that. He‘d made his bed by running away, and now he had to lie in it.
Then there was Clint.
Clint Darrow, the sexiest, kindest, most exciting man Tyler had ever met. He made submission seem like a good thing, something consensual between lovers. Maybe it was, between well-adjusted, normal guys like Clint and Jonas. They were longtime lovers, confident in themselves and each other‘s affections. Tyler doubted they harbored the dark, secret need he had to experience pain as a part of his pleasure. If Clint really knew how intensely Tyler longed for the whip and the rope, would he still want to stick around?
And what about Jonas? Yeah, the sex had been hot, and the spanking even hotter, but what was the real deal there? Maybe Tyler was just one in a long line of boys the two of them picked up, separately or singly, as a part of their own kinky play. Yeah, Clinton had done a good act of convincing Tyler he was special, but the fact of the matter remained—Jonas had been on the scene well before Tyler, and no doubt would be long after Tyler was nothing but a bad memory.
It was better that he left when he did, though he still regretted his hot-headed reaction to Clint‘s questioning. If only he‘d kept his cool, deflecting the questions and just parting with a kiss and a promise to keep in touch. That would have been so much easier. He could have let Clint fade away in his mind. He could have returned to the gay bars and the guys named Jeff or Jim who disappeared from his consciousness the moment after they said goodbye.
Well, despite the fact Clint still loomed large and constant in his mind and heart, he‘d get over him. It was for the best. It was time to take back his manhood and push all this twisted submissive shit back to its hiding place deep in his psyche.
Tyler Sutton was nobody‘s boy.
Chapter 10
Did you just hear a word I said to you? Jonas stood towering over Clint, the exasperation ripe in his tone. What? Yeah, I heard you, Clint mumbled without looking up. He continued to whittle the stripped branch in his hand, scraping curls of soft wood with the side of his pocket knife, honing it to a sharp point. When he was done, he would poke it upright into the damp earth beside the other sticks he‘d worked on.
What did I say, then? Jonas demanded. It had been five days since Tyler Sutton had put an end to the best week of Clint‘s life, leaving as abruptly as he‘d appeared that night at the festival, disappearing without a trace from Clint‘s life, though certainly not from his heart.
Clint looked up slowly from his whittling. You said I‘m a damn fool for lettin‘ him get away. You said you wished you had been there cause you wouldn‘t have just let him ride off like some damn cowboy in an old Western.
That was ten minutes ago. What I said was, you need to get up off your ass, quit feelin‘ sorry for yourself, gas up that old pickup and drive to Austin to fetch his ass and bring him on back.
Clint said nothing. He‘d thought of that a hundred times over the past days, and each time he‘d talked himself out of it. He had his pride. He‘d done nothing wrong. Tyler was the one who had made assumptions and then run with them, not even having the grace or courtesy to let Clint respond to his unfair accusations.
Tyler‘s words still cut across his mind like a blade, drawing blood from his memory each time he relived that horrible scene.
I’m done being played for a fool. I know the real deal. Your type just wants to take. You just want to take me over. Well, not this time. You and that friend of yours, y’all picked the wrong guy.
His type.
Somehow Tyler had cast him as some sort of demon—someone who used guys like Tyler, explo
iting their submissive needs instead of honoring and nurturing them. That Tyler could have so misread him and then to unfairly accuse him of crimes Clint could only imagine rankled like a burr under his saddle.
When Clint could get past his own pain he understood this guy Wayne had done quite a number on Tyler—somehow convincing him he was dirty and less-than because of his submissive bent, instead of someone special and to be cherished. He tried to tell himself it wasn‘t Tyler‘s fault—he was reacting off that prior pain, incorrectly tarring Clint with the same brush he used in describing that bastard, Wayne.
Damn it, Clint. There‘s gonna be no living with you until you do something. Jonas again interrupted Clint‘s reverie. He wished Jonas would just go away and leave him to his misery. Life was hard enough without Jonas to rub in how he‘d fucked up by letting Tyler go.
Sure, it was easy for Jonas to say just go get him. But Clint knew better. He‘d seen the rage in Tyler‘s eyes and felt the fury of his accusations. The knife slipped, its sharp tip pricking the tip of Clint‘s index finger. He watched the droplet of blood form with a detached disinterest.
Goddamn it, Clint. I ain‘t never seen you like this. It‘s like all the life‘s been sucked clean out of you. Jonas plopped down beside Clint on the old log. Clint wiped his finger on the back of his jeans and went back to his whittling.
Jonas had tracked him down to his favorite hiding place—the place he went when he needed to be alone and think, which was all the time since Tyler had gone. It was a stream sheltered by a few trees, out behind his cabin on the edge of the property. The sound of the rushing water was soothing, and he liked to pick up old branches and break them down, whittling the pieces for no particular purpose but to distract his mind.
Jonas put his hand on Clint‘s shoulder and squeezed it gently. Though Clint was truly grateful for Jonas‘ friendship, right now he fervently wished he would just go away. He meant well, but he didn‘t understand.
Clint was thirty-nine years old and facing the first real heartbreak of his life. How the hell was he supposed to deal with that?
As if reading his thoughts, Jonas offered, Come on, Clint. You‘ve faced hard times before. I‘ve watched you do it. When your mama was wastin‘ away from the cancer, you were there every step of the way, seein‘ to her care, fightin‘ for her needs when they tried to cut off the insurance. When Joe nearly lost the ranch due to that lawsuit with that idiot buyer, you were the one who stood up to him and made the case disappear. Ain‘t what you found with Tyler worth the work? You gonna let some confused boy with his head up his ass get the better of you? You gonna let yourself be beat down because he‘s too stupid to look love in the face and know what‘s he seein‘?
Love, Clint repeated, rolling the word on his tongue, testing its strangeness. It wasn‘t a word he used lightly. He‘d never told Tyler he loved him, not in their brief but intense week together. Had he ever told anyone that?
That‘s right. Love. You‘re as hardheaded as Tyler in your own way, Clinton Darrow. You‘re in love with that boy, and I‘d bet my bottom dollar he‘s in love with you, but he‘s too dumb to see it. It‘s up to you now. You gotta show him. You get in that truck and you drive to Austin. You knock on his door and you tell him. Tell him what‘s in your heart. If you don‘t, you‘ll regret it for the rest of your life.
Clint finally looked at Jonas, really looked at him now, at his open, kind face with its earnest, pleading expression. For the first time since Tyler had ridden away, Clint felt the bitter ache of his hurt soothed just a little by Jonas‘ sincere plea and his assurance that Tyler loved him.
You think? he finally said.
Jonas nodded emphatically. If you don‘t go find him and at least try to talk some sense into him, then you‘re givin‘ up without a fight. You never give up without a fight! Not the Clint I know! Jonas smashed his closed fist on his thigh for emphasis, and then continued.
There‘s somethin‘ you said to me once, Clint, when I was bein‘ a fool over some guy I was too scared to go after. I don‘t even remember the guy now, but I sure do remember what you said.
Yeah? Clint smiled in spite of himself. And what was that?
You said, If only. Those must be the two saddest words in the world.‘ He paused, letting the words sink in. Then he added, You were right, Clint. Don‘t let that be you. Not this time.
~*~
That Friday morning Tyler lay half in an erotic dream, vaguely aware of the steady beeping of the alarm, but not yet ready to return to full consciousness. He reached a hand toward the clock, blindly seeking the snooze button so he could dive back into the sensual net of the dream.
He missed, catching instead the glass of water he vaguely remembered pouring for himself at about three that morning, when he‘d woken up dehydrated from his dinner of scotch on the rocks. The glass went flying to the floor, splashing him as it fell. The glass didn‘t break, at least, but the water and the crash succeeded where the alarm had failed, jerking him fully awake.
Fuck, he snarled as he swung his feet over the side of the bed and sat up, glaring at the overturned glass as if it were at fault. He rubbed his hands over his face. His eyes felt gritty and his mouth tasted sour. As he had every night the past week, he‘d drunk himself into a coma that resembled sleep, trying to blot out the misery of his life.
He‘d returned to Austin feeling more wretched than he thought possible. Nobody in the history of the human race could be a bigger jerk than he was, he‘d decided. He‘d behaved like a horse‘s ass with Clint, blaming Clint for his own shame and confusion.
But what he‘d done couldn‘t be undone or unsaid. It was too late. He‘d blown it. Clint Darrow was, without a doubt, the best thing to ever happen to him, and what had he done? Ruined everything with his own insecurity and hardheadedness.
He‘d thought of calling Clint a hundred times, had even gotten so far as pressing the numbers into his cell phone, but he‘d stopped himself each time. There was no way Clint would want to hear from him, not after how he‘d behaved.
Clint had probably relayed the whole sorry mess to Jonas after Tyler had wheeled on his horse and galloped off. At the time he‘d been so upset with himself he couldn‘t even think straight. He‘d returned Lady to her stall, hung her saddle in the tack room and jumped into his car, aware he was running, though he wasn‘t even entirely sure what he was running from.
As he made the long drive back to Austin, he‘d had plenty of time to think about just what it was he was running from, and had come to the sad realization that no matter how far he went, he was still stuck with himself.
There was something wrong with him, and he told himself it was better that he‘d left Clint when he had, before Clint figured out his desires went deeper than just erotic play.
That‘s all it was for Clint and Jonas, he‘d decided. A sexy game they played. They‘d included Tyler because after all, beggars can‘t be choosers. It wasn‘t exactly like the pool of gay cowboys into rough play was exactly huge in rural West Texas. Tyler had flattered himself that he was something special. In the end, though, the pickings were slim and so he got picked.
Yeah, Clint talked a good line about it taking a strong man to submit, but did he really understand when it overtook a body like a sickness? Did he know Tyler dreamed of being bound and beaten—that it made his cock hard just to say the words?
Or did he understand all too well? Had he honed in on Tyler‘s unspoken shame, twisting it to his own uses? Was the difference between Clint and Wayne only one of degree and style?
While these thoughts raged like a summer twister in his brain, his heart cried out that he was a fool. Clint had treated him with nothing but kindness and care, reassuring him every step of the way that his feelings were natural and okay, even admirable. But that was only because he didn‘t know the real Tyler Sutton—the one who ran instead of facing his fears. The one who ran instead of facing feelings that, if acknowledged, might cause more heartache than he was prepared to risk.
> On some level he knew he‘d run so that Clint couldn‘t run first. He‘d only forced the inevitable, and he‘d done it in the nick of time, before he did something really stupid like admit he was falling in love.
His cell phone was vibrating on the nightstand and for one ridiculous moment hope flared like a beacon in his chest—Clint!
But it wasn‘t Clint. No, who was he kidding? If Clint had been going to call, he‘d have done so by now. He had probably washed his hands of the whole sorry affair, and laughed with Jonas about what a loser that Tyler Sutton had turned out to be, and good riddance.
He flicked the phone open. Hi, Angela. His voice came out thick with sleep. He cleared his throat and tried again. What‘s up?
Jesus, Tyler, you still asleep? It‘s after ten o‘clock. We missed you at the staff meeting. Again. You‘ve hardly been at the office all week. Where‘s the article on that new folk art museum over on South Congress you were supposed to have on my desk by yesterday?
Oh, shit, Tyler began. He‘d forgotten all about that assignment. Before he could come up with a credible excuse, Angela barreled on. What the heck‘s going on, Tyler? I thought you were back in town. Are you still on assignment in Lubbock, for heaven‘s sake? Am I confused? I had this strange idea you worked for this magazine on salary, not as some freelancer who sent in stories when it suited his fancy. Carl was expecting you to fact-check his story on charter schools. Carl doesn‘t ask for just anyone. When you weren‘t there, he went to Melinda instead. Last month you couldn‘t wait to work with our lead writer. What the hell‘s going on?
I‘m really sorry, Angela. I‘ve—I‘ve been under the weather. I‘m not thinking straight. I‘ll be in later this morning. I was just headed out the door.
Yeah, well you better start thinking straight. This is the big time. You finally got your first byline in Lone Star Monthly, the national magazine of Texas. But you‘re only as good as your next story, kiddo. You‘ve got real potential as a journalist, but this is a professional operation and we run on a timeline. Don‘t blow it. There‘s plenty of interns just waiting for their opportunity to pick up the ball if you drop it.
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