by Ariel Tachna
“And my track record is still perfect,” Caine said with a grin. “Fifth year-rounder I’ve hired without having to build a new house.”
“Sam and Jeremy moved into a new house,” Macklin grumbled with the air of a familiar argument.
“A house we built for your mother,” Caine reminded him.
“Yes, but she never lived in it.”
“But we didn’t build it for them. By the time they were ready to move out of the bunkhouse and in together, the house was empty. We didn’t build it because they needed it.”
“That’s splitting hairs,” Macklin protested.
Thorne chuckled as they walked off, still arguing.
“So which one of them is right?” Thorne asked Ian.
“They both are,” Ian said. “They built the house for Sarah, who technically isn’t a year-rounder even though she lives here permanently, but she never lived there. They’d planned to build a house for Sam and Jeremy after they finished Sarah’s house, but she surprised everyone by announcing she was getting married and moving in with Kami instead of moving into her house, so Sam and Jeremy got it by default.”
“And that was what? Five years ago?”
“More or less,” Ian confirmed.
“And they’re still arguing over it,” Thorne said with a shake of his head.
Ian laughed. “That’s not arguing. That’s just what they do. If they ever really argue, you’ll know it. It doesn’t happen often, but when it does, everyone walks around on eggshells for days.”
“That bad?” Thorne asked.
“Worse than your parents fighting,” Ian replied.
Thorne remembered that feeling, even if he hadn’t had the experience in a long time. “Then I’ll be glad they don’t argue for real very often.” He pushed his plate back. “I don’t think I can eat another bite.”
“Then don’t,” Ian said. “We’ll be eating leftovers for a week anyway.”
They left their plates in the big sink and headed back to Ian’s house. They hadn’t gone more than a few steps when Ian threaded his fingers through Thorne’s. Thorne smiled all the way home.
“I’ll be right back,” Thorne said when they got inside. “I have to get your present.”
He went into the other room and retrieved the carefully wrapped present. When he returned to the living room, Ian was waiting for him with a small box on his lap.
“Happy Christmas,” Thorne said, handing Ian the box.
“Happy Christmas to you too.”
“You go first,” Thorne said. He knew his gift wouldn’t measure up to whatever Ian had given him, but at least it was something Ian needed.
Ian unwrapped the paper as carefully as Thorne had applied it and opened the box. His eyes lit up when he saw the new hat. “Thank you! I needed a new hat. The one I have now has had it.”
“Try it on,” Thorne said. “Make sure it fits. It’s the same size as the one you have now, but that’s about as useful as saying two pairs of shoes are the same size.”
Ian fitted the hat on his head. “It’s perfect. Exactly what I would have chosen for myself when I finally made it into town to buy a new one.” He leaned forward and kissed Thorne gently. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Thorne said. “I’m glad you like it.”
“I do. Here, this is for you. Open it, and then I have to explain what it is.”
That puzzled Thorne somewhat, but he opened the package and drew out a careful series of drawings.
“I didn’t have the right wood,” Ian said in a rush as Thorne studied the drawings, “and even if I did, it would take longer to make than I had before Christmas, but I couldn’t give you nothing, so I thought the plans would be a start. That way too, if you don’t like it, I can change it before I start building.”
Thorne looked at the drawings a little more closely and the sketches suddenly resolved into something recognizable. “This is… this is for my collection.”
“It’s a curio cabinet,” Ian agreed. “The middle and bottom sections are open so you can arrange things as you want and change it up as you get new pieces, if you get any, but the top section is custom designed for your mask. It deserves to have a place of prominence. The wood should be ready to pick up next week, and then I can get started on it. I’m sorry I didn’t have it finished for Christmas.”
“God, Ian, don’t apologize,” Thorne said. “No one has ever given me such a thoughtful gift. I can see how much time you spent on the plans alone. The cabinet itself will be magnificent.”
“You really like it?” Ian asked. “I can change anything you don’t like about it.”
“I really like it.” Thorne set the plans carefully aside and pulled Ian into his lap. He set Ian’s new hat on top of the plans and then set about proving to Ian just how touched he was by the gift.
Ian’s lips parted as sweetly as Thorne could have wished for as they kissed. Thorne let the moment stretch. Being with Ian had certainly taught Thorne to appreciate kissing again. He’d got jaded, seeing kisses as either a means to an end or as something too personal to be shared with a random hookup from a bar. Not with Ian, though. With Ian, kisses were an end unto themselves, and they’d spent hours in much this same position, sitting side by side or Ian sitting on Thorne’s lap as they kissed. Sometimes Thorne ended up shirtless, but not always. Sometimes Ian was bold enough to caress him as they kissed, and sometimes he even allowed Thorne to touch him in return, but the thread that ran through their encounters was the delicious press of lips.
Tonight seemed to be one of the bold nights, because Ian shifted on Thorne’s lap so he was straddling Thorne’s legs, a much more intimate position than they usually adopted, even to sleep. Thorne closed his hands around Ian’s waist to steady him, but the way Ian tensed beneath his hands changed his mind, and he moved them back to the safety of Ian’s shoulders.
Ian pressed him back against the couch, and Thorne gave him the upper hand willingly. He’d already learned things progressed far more easily between them when he ceded control to Ian, and he could hardly complain when it felt so good to let Ian touch him. He sometimes felt a little selfish, but trying to reciprocate almost always resulted in Ian pulling back, so he did his best to accept it.
Ian made quick work of Thorne’s buttons and stripped his shirt off. Thorne shifted as needed to facilitate his disrobing. He touched the top button of Ian’s shirt and waited for permission. When Ian gave it, Thorne undid the buttons and pushed the fabric out of the way. He froze for a moment when he realized Ian had foregone his usual undershirt.
“Are you sure?”
“No,” Ian admitted in a shaky voice, “but I want it. It’s like there’s this war going on inside me between my fear and what I want with you. I can’t keep letting my fear win.”
“As long as you understand you can say no or back off or whatever anytime you need to,” Thorne said. “I’m not going to deny I want everything I can get with you, but I don’t want to pressure you into more than you’re comfortable with. There’s something to be said for taking our time and enjoying each stage for what it is. I’d forgotten how good it felt to just kiss someone until you reminded me of that.”
“It is good,” Ian agreed, “but I want more. I’m just afraid to take it.”
“What happened to you?” Thorne asked. “I know you said you’d tell me after Christmas, but I feel like I’m walking through a field of land mines, not knowing.”
Ian shook his head and kissed Thorne instead of answering. He attacked all Thorne’s sensitive places: the nape of his neck, the inside curve of his elbow, the spot on his side just below his ribs, whipping his passion into a frenzy. Thorne groaned into the kiss as Ian shifted in his lap, bringing their erections together. He couldn’t help himself. He thrust up into the contact, needing more friction, needing to make Ian feel as good as he felt.
Ian jumped like he’d been burned, fleeing across the room in the blink of an eye, leaving Thorne on the couch panting and at t
he end of his rope. “Ian, please,” he said. “Tell me.”
“I…. I can’t,” Ian said, his eyes wide and wild. “You’ll hate me.”
“Ian,” Thorne cajoled, “I couldn’t ever hate you. I love you, but I need you to tell me what happened so I can stop scaring you without meaning to.”
“You can’t love me,” Ian all but shouted. “I’m damaged. He… he broke me. He came into my room when nobody else was at home and he forced me, and when he was done, he told me I couldn’t ever tell anyone because nobody would want a fucked-out whore. I couldn’t stop him. I couldn’t….”
Thorne tasted bile, but he forced it down. He needed to keep it together for Ian’s sake. “You aren’t damaged,” he said, enunciating every word as clearly as he could. “Whatever he did, that’s on him, not on you. You didn’t ask for any of it.”
“He said I did,” Ian said, his voice breaking. “He said I flaunted myself. He said I made a spectacle of myself and that he was just giving me what I was asking for.”
Thorne couldn’t sit still and listen helplessly. He had to do something, even just pace the room. He knew he was scaring Ian, but his anger was barely caged beneath his iron will, and if he didn’t find some outlet for it, he’d do something he’d regret.
“How old were you?” Thorne demanded.
Ian flinched and backed toward the kitchen.
“S-s-sixteen.”
“Bloody motherfucking bastard,” Thorne spat. “Who was it? I’ll kill him. I’ll rip his prick off and stuff it down his throat.”
Ian’s eyes grew wider for a moment before he bolted, leaving Thorne alone in the living room with his righteous anger. A second later, he heard the bedroom door slam and the sound of furniture being dragged across the floor.
“Fuck!” Thorne cursed. His vision narrowed with his anger and the world went blank around him.
REALITY FILTERED back in slowly. Thorne breathed deeply and tried to take stock of where he was and what had happened. The last thing he remembered was Ian running from him like he was the one who’d raped him, not the filthy pedophile who’d somehow got his hands on Ian. It hadn’t been dark then, had it? It was dark outside now, so he’d been out of it for a while, possibly as much as an hour.
He took another deep breath and opened his eyes. He was sitting on the floor in the living room, so he’d either stayed there or had made his way back there after he was done with his rampage. A quick glance showed he was still dressed as he’d been when he blacked out, but that didn’t eliminate much in the way of possibilities other than forcing his way into Ian’s room and making love to him the way he deserved. Whatever he’d done, it hadn’t been that, for which he could only be grateful.
He looked around the room more carefully. The papers Ian had given him with the design for the cabinet were scattered across the floor in front of the couch, but when he picked them up carefully, he could see they were undamaged, so they’d been knocked aside, not destroyed in a fit of rage. The rest of the furniture was still in its usual place as well.
He clenched his fist as he walked into the kitchen, hoping he hadn’t done any damage to the beautiful cabinets Ian had made for that room. His knuckles stung, drawing his attention to the torn and bloodied skin. Fuck, he’d hit something while he was out, hard and possibly repeatedly, if the state of his hand was any indication. His knuckles were already swelling and he’d be lucky if nothing was broken. Far more importantly, though, he had no idea what he’d hit.
The kitchen was pristine, so he hadn’t torn it apart in his rage, but that only added to the mystery of what he’d hit. He turned back into the living room and studied the spot where he’d been sitting. A few feet to the right, he spotted a mark on the wall. Upon closer examination, he had his answer. He’d apparently pounded his fist into the wall, because the wood paneling had a blood splatter on it now. He muffled another curse and grabbed his shirt to wipe the mark away. Fortunately the blood wiped right off the varnish, but Thorne couldn’t do anything about the dent he’d left.
He sank back down to the floor and rested his head against his knees. He couldn’t do this. However justifiable his anger on Ian’s behalf, he’d lost control tonight to the point that he’d blacked out. He could have done anything while he was out of it like that, and the fact that the worst he’d done was try to put a hole in Ian’s wall didn’t change anything. Next time, he could try to put a hole in someone instead, and if it happened around someone like Laura or Dani, they might not have the strength or speed to get away from him. He was a danger to the station that had become home and to the people he loved, and that was unacceptable.
Leaving wasn’t an option either, though. The people here had taken him in as one of their own. Caine and Macklin were expecting him to sign a contract in the morning. Neil’s daughter called him Uncle Thorne. Chris and Jesse had promised to invite him over for a beer. He had plans, damn it, and he wasn’t going to give those up. And then there was Ian, if Ian still wanted him after this debacle. He would understand if Ian never wanted to see him again, but if Ian would give him half a chance, Thorne would spend every waking minute winning Ian’s trust again. He’d thought he’d known what love was at eighteen in an attic bedroom on a cool spring night with his best friend, but that paled in comparison to what he felt for Ian. Whatever it took, he would find a way to win Ian back, but before he could do that, he had to get help. He’d tried telling himself his issues would get better as he adjusted to civilian life again, but they weren’t going away, and he feared they were getting worse. He’d talk to Caine and Macklin in the morning and then go to Wagga Wagga and check himself into the mental health unit there. He’d do it right this time and answer the questions honestly instead of playing the game and giving the “right” answers like he’d done when he’d had to see a shrink after his unit was killed. He’d get himself together, and then he’d come back and ask Ian to forgive him.
He’d find a way to make this work.
He had to, because the alternatives were unthinkable.
IAN COULDN’T stop shaking. He’d managed to stop himself from crawling under the bed or into the closet in his quest for safety, but he’d still ended up cowering in the corner between his bed and the wall, as far away from the door as possible. He knew Thorne wouldn’t hurt him. He knew Thorne’s anger was directed at Ian’s foster father, but that hadn’t been enough to quell his fear when Thorne started shouting.
Then the pounding had started. Ian didn’t know what Thorne was hitting, but he could hear the rhythmic thuds even through the closed door. The noise had stopped now, thankfully, but Ian feared the silence nearly as much as the noise. At least if he could hear something, he would know where Thorne was and could track his progress around the house. Silence could mean anything from him leaving—oh God, don’t let him leave!—to him lying in wait outside Ian’s door, just looking for the opportunity to get in—he wouldn’t. He did that, not Thorne.
When the silence continued, he made himself get up off the floor. The cedar chest he’d pushed in front of the door in his panic was right where he’d left it, a silent reproach to his lack of faith. Grimly, he made himself put it back where it belonged at the foot of his—our, damn it, it’s our bed. He pulled on a T-shirt, took off his jeans, and climbed into bed. Even as hot as it was in the room, he shivered against the cool sheets without Thorne there to keep him warm. The other man was a regular furnace. Ian could have used the heat now. He felt like every ounce of warmth had been sucked from his body with his revelations and Thorne’s subsequent explosion.
Thorne’s absence nagged at him like a toothache, but he couldn’t make his legs work. He wanted to go out there and tell Thorne to come to bed, but he didn’t know how to face his lover—did Thorne really tell me he loves me?—after everything he’d revealed tonight. He couldn’t bear to see the look of disgust on Thorne’s face, or worse, pity. Thorne had survived far worse in his life, with his parents’ deaths and everything he’d gone through in the Commando
s. Compared to that, Ian’s life had been a walk in the park. Sure, he’d had a few bad years, but then he’d found Lang Downs and a safe haven. Thorne hadn’t known safety in twenty years.
He couldn’t go out there and face Thorne, but he’d learned the first night that a closed door was all the barrier required to keep Thorne out. He couldn’t go out there, but he could let Thorne know he was welcome if he came to check on his own.
His legs still trembled as he crossed the room to open the door, but he kept his feet, and once the door was open and he headed back to bed, he felt steadier. He hadn’t managed to ask Thorne to come to bed, but he’d at least left the choice up to Thorne instead of barring his entrance.
Everything else would have to wait until tomorrow.
Twenty-Two
THORNE WOKE the next morning with a stiff neck and sore arse from leaning against the wall all night long. He’d slept in worse conditions, but that didn’t make it any easier to haul himself off the floor. He didn’t hear any sounds from Ian’s room or the bathroom, but Ian had to still be in there. He couldn’t have snuck out past Thorne. Even wrung out like he was, he wouldn’t have slept through the front door opening and closing.
He took a couple of steps down the hall to see if he could hear anything as he got closer and caught sight of the open door. Not just ajar, but wide open in silent invitation. Thorne swallowed hard. After everything, Ian hadn’t locked him out of the room last night. Not that Thorne could have faced Ian after everything he’d done, but Ian had forgiven him, it seemed. Thorne didn’t know how that was possible, but the door was indisputably open. Walking as quietly as he could, he made his way into the bedroom, intending to grab a change of clothes and shower so he’d be out of the way when Ian woke.
“Missed you,” Ian murmured sleepily from the bed. “Come to bed.”
A choked sob rose in Thorne’s throat as he crossed to the bed and took the hand Ian had stretched out to him. “Are you sure?”