by L. A. Witt
As he pulled a couple of mugs from the cupboard, still with his back to me, he said, “Daniel’s doing all right. The first week in rehab was pretty rough, but I think…” Trailing off, he sighed.
Just listening to him made my chest ache. I didn’t know how many times they’d been down this road, but he couldn’t even bring himself to tack on the optimistic “…I think he’s going to make it this time.” Or “…I think he’s really getting his shit straight this time.”
I wracked my brain for something to say that I hadn’t heard myself a million times over, usually from well-meaning if incredibly misguided people who were just trying to help.
Abruptly, though, Jordan brushed past me again with a muttered, “I need some air.”
Again, we were on the move, this time from the kitchen and back out to the balcony, the brewing coffee all but forgotten.
As soon as we were outside, Jordan released a breath. He walked past the little white paper tumbleweeds to the railing, and without a word, I followed him.
The wind coming in off the Pacific was gentle and warm that day, and at least something got to play with Jordan’s hair the way I wished I could. But he’d changed the rules. We were back to a professional distance. It was tough getting used to the idea that I couldn’t just touch him whenever and wherever—returning to a hands off relationship with him was so alien and uncomfortable, it was almost nauseating.
I couldn’t touch him, and I didn’t know what to say. Not with these new rules in place.
Gaze fixed on the ocean, Jordan finally broke the silence. “I’m curious about your ex.”
My heart sank as it always did when someone mentioned him. “What do you want to know?”
“Has he ever recovered?” Jordan slowly turned his head toward me, a few strands of hair fluttering across his face. “From his addiction?”
And my heart went nearly all the way to my feet. It was my turn to stare out at the waves below us. “He…” I’d never been able to say it. Probably never would. “Rehab never helped him. Nothing did.”
I could feel Jordan watching me, but couldn’t make myself look at him. I didn’t even realize how long we’d gone without speaking until he whispered, “He’s gone, isn’t he?”
I nodded. “Yeah. He’s gone.”
Three years, and those two words still hit me right in the balls. I braced for the inevitable questions. Then again, maybe they wouldn’t come. Not from him. I couldn’t imagine he wanted to hear my answers.
After a while, he did ask a question, but it wasn’t the one I expected:
“What was his name?”
I faced Jordan, furrowing my brow. “What?”
Jordan moistened his lips. “Your ex. What… what was his name?”
I broke eye contact. My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth.
He cleared his throat. “You don’t—”
I swallowed hard. “His name was Eric.”
He watched me for a moment. “I was just curious.”
Silence. More fucking silence. And now I had Eric’s name on my tongue and his death on my mind, and that was going to drive me insane almost as fast as the gap between Jordan’s arm and mine.
“Listen,” I said, “I’m sorry for what I said at the hospital. I absolutely care about Daniel. I swear it. I just… I care about you too.” More than you can possibly imagine. “It’s… I don’t even know how to explain it. There’s no way to say it without sounding like I’m being an ass to him or patronizing to you. Addictions are just such ugly fucking things, and I—”
“I know,” he said softly. “I’ve thought about what you said. A lot.” He closed his eyes and ran a hand through his hair. “I knew you were right when you said it.”
“It’s a tough thing to swallow.”
Jordan nodded. “Yeah, it is.” He rested his hands on the railing and stared down at the hillside, but his eyes didn’t seem to focus on anything. “I’ve been trying like hell to save him ever since he started using.”
“I know. And you’ve probably heard—”
“No one can save him but himself.” Jordan blew out a breath. “Yeah, I know.”
“But that doesn’t stop you from trying. If it’s any consolation, it didn’t stop me either.”
He faced me again, holding my gaze for a long, silent moment, searching my eyes for something I hoped I was giving him. Sincerity, maybe? I hoped to God he found it in my expression, because I meant every word I said. I wasn’t patronizing him. I wasn’t parroting all the shit every addict’s loved one hears time and time again.
I’ve been there, Jordan. I know how much it’s killing you.
After a while, he sighed, and both his gaze and his shoulders dropped. “I can’t give up on him, you know? But every time he goes back to rehab…” Wincing, he closed his eyes.
I couldn’t handle the distance anymore, and before I could talk myself out of it, I touched his arm.
He didn’t pull away or flinch. He didn’t glare at me or tell me to back off.
He fucking broke.
I wrapped my arms around him, and I held him as tight as I could, as if that might somehow stop him from shaking. I whispered, “I am so sorry, Jordan,” as if that might somehow help.
He clung to me, and when his fingers pressed against the back of my shirt, the scratches beneath the fabric burned a little, reminding me of last night and bringing all kinds of guilt to the surface. I’d been fucking a stranger while Jordan had been on the brink of falling apart. It didn’t matter that he’d sent me away and I couldn’t have come here if I’d wanted to.
Eventually, he pulled back. “Fuck. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” I kept a hand on his arm. “You okay?” Yeah, right.
“Not really.” He wiped his eyes. “I’ve been… ever since he went to rehab, I’ve been…” Trailing off, he shook his head. “I haven’t even been to see him.”
I blinked. “You haven’t?”
“No.” Jordan exhaled hard. “I almost did a few times, but I didn’t want him to see me like this. He doesn’t need that now. God, I’m almost as fucked up as he is.” Jordan wiped his eyes again. “How the fuck can I help him when I can’t even help myself?”
I cupped his jaw, the thick stubble rough against my fingers. “Jordan.” When he met my eyes, I said, “He’s got people helping him right now. For the next few weeks, he’s got people who are trained to deal with this.” I brought up my other hand and brushed a few strands of hair out of his face. “What he needs more than anything right now is for you to take care of yourself.”
Jordan winced and lowered his gaze, but didn’t pull away from my touch. “I don’t even know where to start.”
“You’ve got time. You need to do this, though. Not just for him, Jordan.”
Eyes fixed on the hillside, Jordan gulped. “Except I don’t know if I can get what I need.”
My stomach wound itself into knots. An image of him with my hands around his neck flashed through my mind.
I swept my tongue across my lips. Though I was pretty sure I knew the answer, I said, “What do you need?”
When he met my eyes again, there were fresh tears in his.
“I need you.”
Chapter Eleven
Jordan
“You have me,” Jase said.
Oh, thank God.
He’d been hanging back—following my lead, as usual—but it was a relief to know he was here because he wanted to be, not just because he had a few more months left on his contract.
He wrapped his arms around me again and I let out the breath trapped in my lungs, my head dropping onto his shoulder. God, I could drift off to sleep standing right here, after almost two weeks of not sleeping at all. Shacked up with all the coffee I could drink and my guitar, trying to chase away the silence. The house had been too fucking quiet since I got back—and still was, except for Yolanda’s soft footsteps downstairs.
“You’d better go get ready,” Jase said.
I heard a loud beep from inside the house. The coffeemaker. “Um, let me—”
“I’ll take care of it. You get ready.” He’d lapsed into that low-pitched tone that sent every drop of blood in my body rushing straight to my cock. “Now, Jordan.”
“Yes, sir.”
I’d never called him that before. Never wanted to—well, maybe once or twice, when he had his hands around my throat. He’d never asked me to either, but the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth told me he didn’t hate the sound of it.
I started the water running in the shower while I undressed. Yoga pants, boxers, T-shirt, all tossed on the floor. I turned, catching a glimpse of something in the mirror—
“Holy fuck, Jase! Don’t sneak up on me like—”
“Did I tell you to take a shower?”
Damn, but Jase was taking this Dom thing to heart—which made my heart start pounding inside my head. “N-no, but—”
“I think you need a shave first.”
I watched him out of the corner of one eye, going ice cold when he reached for my straight razor. “Um, Jase, I don’t think—”
“I’ve used these things before.”
On himself, one or two late mornings in my hotel room. Which didn’t make him an expert. “I’d rather do it my—”
“Jordan.” He studied me gravely. “Do you trust me?”
With your hands on my throat? No question. With that? I shook my head. “I don’t know.”
“Then you’ll just have to take it on faith. Get the soap ready.”
I’d been kinky as long as I could remember—asking the little girl next door to tie me up when we played cowboys and Indians was a big clue—but I’d never been turned on by taking orders... well, until now. Hands shaking, I turned to the sink to do as Jase told me, the weight of his gaze prickling along my nerve endings.
After two weeks of rattling around the house like a zombie, it felt good to have his strong, solid presence shoring me up. On the road everything was taken care of for me—no hassling with mundane shit like laundry or fixing meals or driving myself around. Which was the real reason—besides money—that I dug touring so much. On the road, every moment of my day was planned. I didn’t have to think about it. But once I was home all that went away, and inevitably, I’d find myself with too damn much to think about.
And too damn many emotions roiling around inside. Guilt over what’d happened with Daniel. Relief that Jase was back. Deep, crushing remorse over the way I’d blown up at him and sent him away. “I-I’m sorry,” I murmured.
“I know,” he said, pressing a soft kiss to my forehead before flipping down the toilet lid. “Sit here.” He’d already opened the razor and started testing it on the fleshy part of his thumb. A pinprick-sized drop of blood welled up.
Shit.
I gripped the toilet seat with both hands while he lathered me up, the brush warm and soothing as it glided over my skin. When he finished, I closed my eyes, inhaled a lungful of the steam still pouring from the shower, and waited.
And waited.
“Jordan.”
“Mm?”
“Look at me.”
I did. Intently.
“I would never hurt you, or allow anyone else to. You know that, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
He ducked his head, his cheeks going pink. “Don’t call me that. I’m Jase, all right?”
I nodded.
He picked up the razor and laid it on my throat, right over the artery. The pulse roaring between my ears nearly drowned out his, “Don’t move.”
I closed my eyes. I barely breathed. I waited for the telltale sting of a cut, but... nothing, except the smooth pull of stainless steel over my skin, followed by cool, tingly air.
“See?” He held up the razor, covered in lather, but not a drop of blood. “I know what I’m doing. So relax, okay?”
“’kay.” I canted my head back and let him shave me, mini-waves of euphoria sluicing through me every time he drew that blade over my throat. His touch was so light I barely felt it. I’d put my breath, my blood, my life in his hands, and I’d do it again without another thought. If that didn’t mean—
“Here,” he said, handing me a towel. “Clean yourself up.”
I went over to the sink to wet the towel and wipe off the rest of the shaving cream. Jase had done a great job—I usually left nicks all over my face. Looked like I’d dropped a few pounds too—not surprising, considering the coffee, bottled water and cigarette diet I’d been living on since I got home.
Jase came up behind me, chuckling. “You look about nineteen without all that hair on your face.”
“That’s why I grew the beard. I kept getting carded at all the dives we used to play back in the day.”
“Mm.” He wrapped his arms around me and nuzzled my throat, prickling my freshly-shaved skin with his stubble. Grinding against my ass, his cock stiffened in his jeans.
We wrapped our arms around each other and stood swaying on our feet, breathing deep and listening to the thrum of our hearts. My gaze locked on Jase’s as he reached for my hair, grabbed a rough handful—
And pulled hard. Claiming me. Letting me know who was in charge. Thank God.
He grinned. “Now you can take your shower.”
Chapter Twelve
Jase
We really didn’t have time for Jordan to shower before we left. Not if we were going to make it on time. But we’d needed… whatever this was. This interlude? This moment of trust and reconnection? I couldn’t put my finger on a name for it, but we’d definitely needed it, and now I needed a moment to catch my breath and get my head on straight before we were on the road.
As the water ran in the other room, I focused on my reflection in the bedroom mirror. I adjusted my shoulder holster. My tie. My belt, just because I didn’t know what else to do with my hands.
Somehow, we always seemed to end up fucking—or with our hands all over each other—at the worst possible time. Life was fucked up and we were fucked up, and who the hell cared as long as Jordan needed me? If there was a catastrophic earthquake or Armageddon kicked in, we’d be having sex on top of the rubble before the buildings even stopped shaking.
Earthquake or not, this could only end in disaster. I was sure of it.
But what else could I do? I cared about Jordan. We needed each other in ways that may or may not have been healthy, but they were sure as fuck real.
And right now, with Daniel in rehab and the band on hiatus, this was the only relatively stable thing Jordan had left. Now that I thought about it, if the last ten days were any indication, it was the only relatively stable thing I had left. When had I become such a mess over him?
When mattered about as much as why. I was a mess, he was a mess, and we were in this mess together, so we might as well jump in headfirst and hope for the best.
The bathroom door opened. Jordan stepped out, long hair falling in wet strings alongside his clean shaven face. He’d put on a pair of jeans, and riffled through a drawer in search of a shirt. Eventually, he settled on a plain white one and pulled it on. Then he pulled his hair back and tied it with a black elastic band. I hadn’t seen him in a ponytail in a while—he nearly always wore it down when he was on tour—but he looked good in it. Looked like something I could grab onto and—
I coughed into my fist. “Ready to go?”
“Yeah.” He picked up his keys off the dresser, but I pulled mine out of my pocket and held them up.
“My car’s probably a little more discreet.”
Jordan glanced at the keys in each of our hands, then tossed his own back onto the dresser with a quiet jingle. “Let’s go.”
* * *
I parked in front of the stucco building, and cracked the windows so my SUV didn’t overheat in the blazing sun while we were inside. I left the gun in the lockbox under the passenger seat, and in silence, we walked in through the automatic glass doors in front of the clinic. It was a cheery, if sterile environment, with pa
stel pictures on the walls and soft music playing through unseen speakers. It might’ve even passed for a low-key resort if not for the nurses in colorful scrubs and the thick Plexiglas doors with card key access points and SECURE AREA in red lettering.
Beyond the doors, clusters of chairs and tables were spread out across a broad patio. I’d spent more hours than I cared to think about sitting in similar chairs on similar patios beyond identical restrictive doors, and coming back to a place like this was surreal. Jordan had probably been through this ten times as often as I had, and he needed this today as much as Daniel did, so I kept my mouth shut.
We both signed in and handed over our IDs for the receptionist to record. She gave them back a moment later and had us sit in the waiting area. After a few minutes, a middle-aged nurse called our names. We followed her back through the doors.
She took us across the patio. A few people glanced at us, and some did double takes. Jordan bristled beside me. Some days he could cope with being recognized everywhere he went. Today was not one of those days.
I resisted the urge to put a reassuring hand on the small of his back. He knew I was there. No need to announce why I was there to everyone who’d already started trying to subtly snap pictures with their cell phones. I did step closer, though, trying to shield him with my body so those pictures wouldn’t be quite so impressive—or definitively Jordan, I hoped—when they wound up on Twitter in the next ten minutes.
At the other end of the patio, the nurse swiped her card, entered a code, and pushed open another thick SECURE AREA door. The light was dimmer in here, with just a few fluorescent lights overhead, and it took a second for my eyes to adjust.
The room was like a large living room decorated with more pastel pictures and matching furniture. A few patients in sweats, T-shirts, and shoes without laces—or slippers, in most cases—watched TV, read books, or played cards.
And at the far end of the room, occupying one chair in a cluster with three empty ones, Daniel had his nose buried in a tattered paperback. His feet were tucked up under him, elbow pressed against the armrest, and he didn’t look up as we came in.