by Bailey Bradford, Ethan Stone, T. A. Chase, Sean Michael, L. M. Somerton, Morticia Knight
When the church finally came into view, Brock found a relatively dry spot and changed into his climbing shoes. He took the small camera Kyle had supplied from his pack, hung it around his neck, then stashed the pack—and his boots—under a bush. The biggest obstacles between him and his goal were the rolls of razor wire that blocked the lanes around the tiny hamlet of Imber. Abandoned buildings loomed from the darkness like a scene from the apocalypse. Brock shivered and focused on his goal, moving carefully toward the church. This was where things got unpredictable. Though Kyle had shown him pictures of the tower he had to climb, he hadn’t been able to tell him about the condition of the stone. Brock had to climb freestyle, without ropes, and he didn’t like the uncertainty. It was dangerous.
He paused at the base of the squat tower and looked up. Black forms flitted in and out of the uppermost window like shadowy confetti. His destination was apparently home to a colony of bats. He took a moment to double-check the settings on his unfamiliar camera and took a couple of test shots of the tower. It was an expensive model designed to cope with the lack of light.
Brock adjusted the camera strap around his neck then felt for his first hand and toe holds and started upwards. The ancient stone held firm and there were plenty of niches to dig his fingers into. As climbs went, it was one of the easiest he’d tackled from a technical perspective, but his heart still raced with the fear of being seen. Just below the opening that the bats were using, there was a narrow projection in the stonework. Brock used the extra stability to hold on with one hand and pull himself over the ledge. The rickety floor of the tower room was thick with bat guano and Brock cringed as his thin climbing shoes sank deep into the muck. He hunkered down and rested his camera on the ledge. He found himself assessing the angle and proportions of the scene below and shook his head. Just take the pictures, you idiot! Aesthetics are not important right at this moment.
He had to stay frozen in position for what seem to be an endless time before anything happened but after a while, an armored vehicle trundled into the road alongside the church. A few minutes later, heavily camouflaged men came into view. The group gathered briefly, then fanned out and began searching the area. Brock snapped away, mindful of his precarious position but still determined to get good shots. He had no idea what the soldiers below him were doing and he didn’t care. A couple of them were using equipment that resembled sophisticated metal detectors, so he made sure to get close-ups of the kit. He also zoomed in on faces where he could. When he was satisfied that he had enough shots, he ducked inside the tower room and waited patiently for the noises below to cease.
Every few minutes, Brock took a peek out of the window. His muscles were beginning to ache in his crouched position, but he didn’t want to sit in three inches of bat shit. When the soldiers finally moved away, he climbed down the tower slowly and steadily, breathing a sigh of relief as he hit solid ground. He stretched out his cramped muscles then ran back to the place he’d left his pack. As he changed his footwear again and stowed the camera safely, he heard the distant sound of men’s voices. Frantically, he looked around. There wasn’t much cover, just a drainage channel lined with barbed wire. There was no choice. He flung himself down into the narrow depression, clamping his mouth shut as razor-sharp barbs pierced his clothes and the tender flesh beneath.
“Who was it said they saw something?” A gruff voice sounded far too close.
“Private Jacobs, sir. Said he thought there was movement at the church tower window. He was too far away to say for sure, though.”
“Fine. Let’s take a gander. He does realize that there are about ten thousand fucking bats living in there?”
Heavy footsteps moved away. Brock risked rolling backwards a fraction. Barbed wire had wrapped itself around his forearm and another section pierced his hip. He didn’t dare pull it free. He hardly dared breathe and it seemed like an age before the soldiers returned.
“I have bat shit on my boots, Private. Tell your colleague he’ll be cleaning them off when we get back to barracks. There’s no sign of anything happening here…”
Brock didn’t catch the tail end of the conversation as the soldiers moved away. He lay in his uncomfortable hiding place for twenty minutes until he was absolutely certain that they were gone. Painfully, he extricated himself from the wire, wincing as the metal thorns ripped his skin. There was no time to check the damage. He had to move. The delay had cost him valuable time—he’d be lucky to get back to Kyle on schedule.
Brock’s muscles ached and he could feel the seep of blood down his arm as he ran. He prayed that the pictures were good enough. Thoughts of Kyle filled his mind. Brock could fight his attraction but he couldn’t deny it. He’d like to photograph Kyle’s handsome, scarred face. Take pictures of his hard, muscled body. He could imagine the subtle lighting and the angles. Black and white would work well. His cock jerked happily and Brock moaned. Now was absolutely not the time. To compound his misery, it started to rain, lightly at first but then more steadily, giving him a thorough soaking. He was muddy and exhausted by the time he reached the road opposite the abandoned service station. He crouched low before crossing and circling behind the dilapidated building.
The car was still there, dark and silent in the shadows. He edged toward the vehicle, hugging the wall then pulled open the door and slid into the passenger seat. The instant the door clunked shut, the locks engaged. Brock slumped back in his seat, utterly drained both mentally and physically.
“You got the pictures.” Kyle’s comment was a statement not a question and Brock didn’t answer.
“Turn toward me.”
Brock didn’t have the energy to resist as Kyle slipped a blindfold around his eyes
“You have to be fucking kidding me? I got your pictures. I came back. I did everything you asked.”
“You did, and I’m impressed. However, you still can’t know where the safe house is and it will be light soon. It was different driving out because it was too dark to matter.”
“You’re paranoid,” Brock muttered stubbornly.
Kyle started the car. “I suggest you stop bitching and rest.” He reached in to the back seat and grabbed a thick fleecy travel blanket. “You’re wet and cold. You need to warm up.” He tucked the blanket around Brock’s body and turned the heater up to full.
* * * *
Despite his discomfort, Brock had slipped instantly into sleep, lulled by the heat and thrum of the car’s engine. When he awoke, dawn had arrived and with it, a few shreds of light that seeped beneath the edge of his blindfold. He shifted and moaned as clammy clothing chafed his skin. He ached everywhere.
“Couple of minutes and we’ll be back,” Kyle stated. “You can take off the blindfold, there’s nothing around here to identify where we are.” He turned the car through a gate and onto a well-maintained track. Brock guessed they were heading for a farmhouse and he was proved right when they crested the brow of a hill and some buildings came into view. They looked old—the main house more a cottage than anything. There was a scattering of outbuildings as well and Kyle pulled the car up in front of what appeared to be a stable block.
Brock grabbed his pack, wriggled free of the blanket and levered himself stiffly out of the car. Kyle took his arm gently and pushed him toward the house, letting go only to use his keys and open the door. He immediately locked it behind them.
Brock dumped the pack and sagged against the door. “I’m too tired and sore to think, let alone climb those stairs.”
Kyle helped him off with his fleece, his fingers lingering on Brock’s skin a little too long.
“Fuck, you’re bleeding. Why didn’t you say anything?” Kyle pulled at Brock’s top until he lifted his arms and allowed Kyle to remove it, revealing the angry tears in his skin that ran from elbow to wrist.
“I wasn’t in the mood for conversation.”
“Do you have these anywhere else?” Kyle probed at the wounds delicately.
“Right leg. Had to lie on razor wir
e.”
“Jesus. Go and take a shower. I’ll be up in a minute with the first aid kit.” Kyle stomped toward the kitchen, muttering under his breath.
Brock couldn’t be bothered to think any more, it was too much effort. He dragged himself up the stairs and stripped the moment he entered the bathroom, dropping his clothing carelessly in a pile. He clambered into the shower and let the hot water wash away mud and blood in a gory stream. He summoned the energy to shampoo his hair and lather some gel over his tired limbs. When he was done, he wrapped a towel around his hips and sat on the edge of the bath, head in his hands. Kyle came in, his hands full of first aid supplies. He put antiseptic, cotton wool pads and gauze next to the sink as Brock watched him nervously.
“Stand up.”
Brock stepped away from the bath. Kyle grabbed the towel and yanked it free, leaving Brock naked and exposed.
“What the hell!” Brock turned, frantically looking for a way out.
“Keep still.” Kyle snapped the order and something in Brock’s mind responded. He stilled, his face heating, and placed his hands protectively over his crotch.
“Hands at your sides. You don’t hide yourself from me.”
“I… No, I’m not doing this,” Brock stammered even as his hands seemed to move of their own accord.
“You’ll do as I say. That’s what you want, isn’t it? Deep down, you want me to tell you what to do. Being obedient makes you feel good.”
“No…” Brock tried to deny it but his hardening cock betrayed him. Kyle’s touch was torment as he treated the dozens of small cuts on Brock’s arm and leg.
With the first aid complete, Kyle took a step back. “You’re exhausted and injured. You need to rest.”
Kyle didn’t make eye contact and when Brock retrieved the discarded towel and wrapped it around his hip, Kyle made no move to stop him.
Brock pushed past Kyle and headed for the bedroom. He yanked the curtains closed to shut out the early morning light, dropped the towel and slipped into bed.
Kyle paused inside the bedroom door then stripped off his own clothes. Brock watched him with tired exasperation. He couldn’t stop himself admiring Kyle’s body and that made him feel even more frustrated. When Kyle joined him in bed, Brock edged over as far as he could, leaving a gap between them and turned away.
“I had to test you,” Kyle murmured. “What I need you to do, the real mission, is too important to leave to chance. I had to know that you could handle pressure and difficult conditions. I’m sorry you got hurt.”
Brock’s head was swimming. Everything seemed fuzzy and indistinct. He longed to be comforted and held tight. Kyle must have sensed his need because he pressed hard against Brock’s back and pulled him in to an inescapable embrace.
Brock shivered as Kyle stroked his hair away from his face.
“I could hold you like this forever, Lysander. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to let you go,” Kyle whispered.
As Brock drifted into sleep, he wondered if Kyle was talking about when the mission ended—or something else. Something much more difficult to resist.
About the Author
Lucinda lives in a small village in the English countryside, surrounded by rolling hills, cows and sheep. She started writing to fill time between jobs and is now firmly and unashamedly addicted.
She loves the English weather, especially the rain, and adores a thunderstorm. She loves good food, warm company and a crackling fire. She’s fascinated by the psychology of relationships, especially between men, and her stories contain some subtle (and not so subtle) leanings towards BDSM.
Email: [email protected]
L.M. Somerton loves to hear from readers. You can find her contact information, website and author biography at http://www.totallybound.com.
Also by L.M. Somerton
The Portrait
Black Dog
Stroke Rate
Mountain Rescue
Tales from The Edge: Reaching the Edge
Tales from The Edge: Living on the Edge
Tales from The Edge: Dancing on the Edge
Tales from The Edge: A Double-Edged Sword
Investigating Love: Rasputin’s Kiss
Investigating Love: Evil’s Embrace
ROCKIN’ THE ALTERNATIVE
Morticia Knight
Dedication
For the music of 1997—wow, you changed my life.
Trademarks Acknowledgement
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:
Rolling Stone: Wenner Media LLC
Facebook: Facebook, Inc.
Toi on Sunset: Michael and Jackie O’Brien
Guitar Center: Guitar Center, Inc.
Cadillac CTS: General Motors Company
Ovation: Ovation Guitar Company
Beverly Hills Hotel: Dorchester Collection
YouTube: Google Inc.
Chapter One
“He’s the one I want, Ed.”
Tapping his index finger on a photo of the author of a Rolling Stone magazine article, Aubrey King stared down his manager of almost twenty years.
“Shouldn’t the two of you meet first, see if you click before you make such a momentous decision?”
Really? Has the man ever met me before?
He didn’t answer. He merely raised one eyebrow and pursed his lips ever so slightly. It was the look he’d learned over the years would make almost anyone fall at his feet, make them clamor for the privilege of doing his bidding. Ed, fans, straight men…
“Ed, please. Bryan Gallagher is the man who will write my memoir. I don’t want to waste any more time on this subject. Give his agent a call and set something up—the sooner the better.”
“But what about Conrad Jensen? He’s very edgy and has a lot of buzz right now.”
“I hate that shit, Ed.”
Ed sighed. “What shit, Aubrey? Am I using too much industry speak for you?”
“God, yes. Please stop.”
“Aubrey, I’ve managed your rock singing career for, what, twenty years? I’ve been there from the first hit that Falling in Stereo ever had, through the gruesome break-up then all the way to your glorious comeback.”
Aubrey snorted. “I’m reserving comment as to how glorious this comeback actually ends up being.”
Frowning, Ed continued, “Regardless, I’ve used industry speak that entire time. It’s as silly to criticize me for its use as it is for me to question whether you should do something when you’ve so obviously already decided.”
Ed arched his eyebrows at him and Aubrey let out a bellow of laughter.
“This is why we’re so perfect together.” He chanced a sly peek at Ed and winked. “As manager and client, that is.” He ran his fingers through his shaggy brown hair. “And you also know how much I despise labels. Categories. Boxes that people are forced into. It’s what killed the band.”
After the music became dulled and artificial by the endless demands of touring, recording and the pressure to crank out the hits—Aubrey had needed to take a break, re-evaluate everything. All he’d ever wanted was to make music that mattered, the music his fans yearned for. The other band members strongly disagreed since only he and Chad—the lead guitar player—wrote any of the songs. The tours were how their bandmates made the real bucks.
Aubrey had tried to convince them to give the band a breather, that it would become revitalized and would be best for everyone in the long term. However, the party rock star life they’d been living had made it impossible for them to take any breaks—their money had already been pissed away. His band mates had all decided they could do just as well by going off on their own and forming solo projects. Their plan hadn’t worked out so good.
In Aubrey’s case, he’d taken the time off for himself that he’d proposed the rest of them do all along. His disillusionment with the industry had been so all-encompassing that he’d stayed off the music radar almost c
ompletely for close to ten years. It remained to be seen if he could ever recover from his self-imposed absence.
He looked up to see Ed gazing at him thoughtfully.
“I know, I get it. You take care of your music, I’ll take care of the business. If Bryan Gallagher is the one you want, I’ll make sure you have him.”
Aubrey lifted the corners of his mouth in a satisfied smile. It wasn’t about him being a prima donna. It was about knowing what the best thing was for him. Bryan Gallagher’s writing style, his taste in music, his understanding of the emotion behind rock‘n’roll—all of that made the young writer the only one who should tell his story. At least the parts Aubrey was willing to reveal.
* * * *
In the spot where he sat at the busy West Hollywood outdoor café, the sun blazed in Bryan’s eyes. Even with his shades on it was uncomfortable. He could tip his head to one side so that the blue and white striped patio umbrella blocked the glare. However, he had the impression that he would have to keep shifting the angle of his head and body in order to prevent himself from being blinded as the sun descended to the horizon.
His primary goal for the upcoming hour was to not make a complete ass of himself in front of his all-time favorite rock god—Aubrey King. The thought of the star’s name alone made Bryan shiver. When he was only twelve years old, Falling in Stereo’s third album had come out. Even though they’d been popular prior to that, the record-breaking success of Drive Another Nail In had eclipsed their previous achievements and made them superstars.