by Jaime Samms
“Did he threaten your job, George?”
The man shook his head. “No, sir. Mr. Krane was concerned for you, is all, and”—he offered a small shrug—“I was too, if you want to know.”
Damian frowned. “Why? Not like you haven’t dropped me off at bars before.”
“Of course, sir. But it’s different now, isn’t it?”
“Different how?”
“There’s Mr. Krane, sir. And good thing too.” His dark eyes glinted and his blandly friendly expression sharpened. “Past time.”
“Past time for what?”
The driver smiled. “Past time someone came after you.”
Damian shrugged.
“Past time someone took you in hand.”
“Do you like your job?” Damian made a face, but his driver just smiled wider.
They both knew it was an empty threat.
“And you did what he told you to do, and here you are,” George said softly, watching Damian in the rearview mirror.
Damian slouched down in the seat. “Here I am,” he conceded quietly.
STANLEY WAS furious. At Damian. At himself. At Len. At the world. He paced outside the car for a few minutes, calming his ire before George unlocked the door and he slid in beside his errant singer.
The darkened, frosted glass between driver and passengers glided up and faintly, they heard loud music come on in the driver’s compartment. The best the man could do to give them privacy.
“Explain,” Stanley snapped, unable to voice any of the things going through his mind without tearing into Damian.
“I don’t know.”
Stanley glared at the smaller man. Searching for the lie, the thing he wasn’t saying. He found nothing. Like Damian was telling the gods’ honest truth and had no idea why he’d bolted.
“I could skin you alive,” Stanley said finally. If Damian was really being honest, he could be honest as well. He was mad enough to tear a strip out of his lover.
“I’m sorry.”
Just like that, the anger drained away. How was it possible he could be selfish enough to call the man a lover, even in his own head, when he’d never allowed more than a kiss? Maybe Vance had been right. Maybe he was scared.
Stanley moved to sit in the seat opposite him. He needed to see into his eyes. Needed to hold his hands and look at him, straight on. “It was a tough visit for me too, seeing him so happy. Happy like I could never make him.”
Damian stared at him. “Vance?”
Stanley sighed. “I didn’t realize it until today. I was waiting.”
“For what?” Color drained from Damian’s face and Stanley gripped his hands harder.
“I didn’t even know. Understand that. I haven’t been hedging my bets. I just… hadn’t let go.”
Damian pulled free and sat back. “Of Vance.”
“Of Vance.” Stanley nodded. “It’s not like I wanted him back. I never really had him in the first place. We were always clear on that. At least, I guess Vance thought we were, and I wasn’t as clear as he thought. Or as I thought. We’re best friends. Sometimes we were like brothers, and I was the big brother, taking care of him. And sometimes we fucked each other. I don’t know, Trevor. I was hanging on because letting go and moving on is scary for me too.”
“You said you want me.”
“I do. God, every day, I do. And what happens if I hurt you worse? What if I do the wrong thing? What if?”
“You could ask yourself that forever.”
“I know.”
“So stop already and just do something.”
“I know.”
“I have a sound check.”
“I know.” Stanley let out a sigh and tapped the window. The car started and too soon, stopped outside the Evangeline.
Trevor leaned forward, kneeling in front of Stanley and pulling him forward. “I used to be scared you’d let go of me. That I’d finally give in and you’d cut me loose. I tried to cut myself loose and you keep coming after me, just like you said you would. I goaded you into it today, and I’m sorry I did that. But I am not a virgin. I’ll never be a virgin. I am new at this.” He took a deep breath and looked Stanley in the eye. “I used to think being submissive meant letting any guy who wanted to Dom me do it. Do whatever he wanted.” He paused, lowering his gaze to Stanley’s chest. “That was easy. Didn’t take any willpower to let anyone who wanted a crack at me have it.”
He moved closer, resting his hands on Stanley’s thighs. “With you, it’s hard. It’s scary. Because I want it to be right. I want you to be happy. I want you not to always be worried. Today, I wanted it to stop being hard for one fucking minute. I wanted you to see I want this. All the rules and the obedience, and everything else. Then you said that, in the elevator, and I thought all you could see, still, was what a fuckup I was.
“I want to be your houseboy, and warm your bed, even if you don’t ever want to fuck me. I just want you. I don’t know how I can make it any plainer, but the thing is, if all I ever get to do is serve you like I have been, that’s enough.”
Stanley stared down at the top of his head, shocked.
“No, Damian, it isn’t enough,” he said at last. He pulled the man up, settling him on the seat next to him. “It’s all I’ve allowed because it’s a nice, sterile way to keep you safe. Anything more isn’t safe for you. Anything more and it’s me putting you in harm’s way.”
“You don’t think I can handle it?”
Stanley grimaced. “I guess I was the one who couldn’t handle it.”
“Well, this is bullshit.” Damian sighed and reached for the door handle. “I’m not a baby, Stan. Decide what you want, and after the show, we start negotiating, because like I said, I’m happy how things are, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to spend the rest of my life celibate. If you don’t want me….” He paused to look back at Stanley. “Find someone you can stand to share with, because otherwise, keeping me isn’t fair.”
He opened the door and jumped out, slamming it before Stanley had a chance to respond.
Left sitting in the car, that bombshell in his lap, Stanley felt a million things at once. He wasn’t sure if he’d just been given an ultimatum or dumped or what. He knew there was no way in heaven or hell he was sharing. That shit just didn’t happen in his bed. Not with his sub. Not with Trevor. His Trevor.
Even in his head, that sounded caveman.
And of course, as his Trevor had pointed out, he wasn’t being fair. Not if he was holding back, like Vance had suggested, because he was afraid of how messy it could get. But how bad could it get, if Trevor was telling the truth when he said he was happy in his service? Didn’t he seem happy? No. He didn’t. Contented, maybe. Relaxed and calm, but happy was a stretch. He was born to be a sub, in bed and out, maybe, but he craved the physical side of things. He craved being used, and Stanley had denied him that. And he was right. That wasn’t fair.
“Time to suck it up, Stan,” he said, and rapped on the window.
It sank silently into its slot and George looked back at him. “We need to go shopping, George. My boy needs a new set of night wear.”
“Very good sir. Anywhere in particular?”
“I think we’ll try Northbound Leather.”
George smiled and turned the car toward Younge Street.
THERE WAS not enough glam in the world to lift the Evangeline above its dingy, dive-bar beginnings. Trevor had seen the place in the light earlier during the sound check. Not even a new coat of black paint, slick purple vinyl on the chairs, or the questionable application of neon green and stainless steel zebra striping across the front of the bar could do much to disguise those dark roots.
“God, I love this place!” Clive tossed a drumstick whirling up into the air and caught it deftly, bringing it down to rat-tat-tat out a vibrant rhythm on the back of the chair he was sitting in. “Can you hear that?” He pointed one of his sticks at the door leading to the short hallway behind the stage.
“No.” Christian
drew his pick down over his guitar strings, leaving behind a quiet, electric hum from the unplugged instrument. “We’re all deaf, dipwad.” He tweaked one of the tuning pegs and glanced up. A toss of his head sent his shaggy brown hair flying into his face. Clearly, he still wasn’t used to his new, decidedly nonmechanic hairdo. “Jacked much, Clive?” he asked.
“Chill, dude.” From the floor in his corner, wedged between the pop machine and a rickety high table, Jethro spun his bass on the strap peg and watched it whirl. “He’s just happy to be home. I mean, this is home, isn’t it? We played here first, when we couldn’t even drink yet. I think it’s perfect we’re playing the Evange. Like our grand homecoming.” He grinned. “They do love us, though.” He spun his bass again, pumped his fist in the air, and made a silent rah rah sound.
“You are a freak.” Beks kicked Jethro’s foot lightly and caught the guitar. “Don’t drop that thing. You already broke your favorite spare.” She settled between his outstretched legs, and Damian did a double take when Jethro rested his chin on her shoulder and wrapped an arm around her waist. When the hell had that happened? He really needed to pay more attention.
He gazed around the green room. Or what the Evangeline tried to pass off as a green room. Really, it was just an impressively large storage room with no windows and all the junk shoved up against the walls to make room for the bands and their equipment. One cranky vending machine served as catering, and furniture no longer nice enough for the bar offered seating if one was brave enough to actually make contact with any of it.
His band, stage ready thanks mostly to the added space of trailers Stan had rented to give them dressing rooms, sat around on tabletops, the floor, and the one decent chair. Preshow nerves vibrated through the room, and the sounds of the crowd packed into the bar rose and fell in waves through the thin walls. He closed his eyes, listening, letting the voices and thumping of the music roll through him. The usual stage fright seemed distant and weak tonight. He felt only anticipation from his friends chatting and laughing around him and power from the band opening the show. Energy popped and sizzled over his skin, lifted every tiny hair on his scalp and sped the blood through his veins. This was the first rush, the first tingle of the high he’d get the second he closed his fingers over the mike and crooned out the first long, low note….
STAGE LIGHTS flashed and burned paths of red and blue glory through the wildly cheering crowd. Stanley sidled into one of the wings to get a better view of what was going on upstage. He didn’t care about the adulation of the crowd. He wanted to see his boy sing. He’d given up thinking of Damian in any other terms. Tonight, Damian deserved every cheer, every weeping eye out there, and he deserved Stanley’s admiration for all his other attributes, including his bravery in delivering his little speech in the car earlier.
There had been so many ways over the past months that this night could have been derailed. Stanley had every reason to be proud of the younger man.
It didn’t hurt that tonight he was also fire-hot in his head-to-toe black, spiked hair, and makeup. That getup should have worn thin for Stanley by now, but it hadn’t. His thoughts drifted back to helping Damian strip the goth mask from his features, and it didn’t take the sound of the other man’s voice to get him hard. Though the sound certainly didn’t hurt.
Normally, he’d stay till the end, but tonight, he had things to do. Preparations to make, and George and Clive were under strict instructions to make sure Damian went straight home after the show. He might resist, but Stanley knew it was time to negotiate, just like he’d said.
The band’s sound, and Damian’s cool, clear, perfect voice followed him out of the bar, lodged in his head, and stayed there the entire ride home.
NOW CAME the nerves Damian had not missed before his show. He rested his hand on the apartment door and took a breath. He’d thrown an ultimatum at Stanley and left. Maybe he’d had a point, but what he’d done hadn’t been fair either. Only he wasn’t sure how to take it back now.
Only one way to deal. He slid his key in, turned the handle, and went inside.
The place was dimly lit; only the light over the stove and a lamp on the coffee table were on. Weird. Stanley was usually up waiting for him, especially on their first night together after Damian had been on the road. When he’d arrived in town that morning, he’d deliberately gone to Stanley’s office, wanting to save the true homecoming until after his performance. Normally, the habitual gift bag with new pajamas would be sitting on the coffee table waiting for him to clean up after the show. Stanley liked ritual, and so did he.
There was nothing there now but a small wooden box.
“Stan?”
Stanley’s bedroom door was open and he wandered toward it.
“Your gift is on the table.”
Damian jumped, not expecting a voice from the near-darkness by the living room window.
“That’s an awfully small pair of pj’s,” Damian said, eyeing the box.
“Open it.” This was Stanley’s most dire voice. The one not to be denied under any circumstances, and Damian shivered.
“That’s how you negotiate?” he asked, trying to get some purchase on the confusing situation. He’d never realized how easy and safe the rituals were. How soothing. Breaking this one was throwing him off big-time. “Ordering me around?”
“You told me what you wanted. Open the box,” Stanley replied. His voice didn’t soften. He didn’t move from the window.
“Fine.” Damian strode over and flipped the lid off the box. It hit the table with a clatter because his fingers had lost their ability to grip anything. His mind went a little haywire, and that tingle, the one that lifted his scalp hairs and set his body humming, zinged through him.
In the box sat a studded, black leather collar just wide enough to support a couple of sturdy D rings. A smaller nylon one curled inside it.
“Shit,” he whispered.
“I don’t share,” Stanley said. He sounded so cold.
Damian glanced over at him. “Okay.” He took a step toward his… he didn’t know what to call him suddenly, not even in his own mind. “I don’t want you to share me.”
“What do you want?”
Damian glanced between the shadow of Stanley, silhouetted against the window, and the collar, illuminated in the small circle of light.
“You,” he said simply. He didn’t have any other answer. There was no other answer. This wasn’t something he had to think about. He dropped to his knees and clasped his hands behind him. He’d been in a dungeon or two, and he’d been in enough bedrooms to know how these things went. How he very much liked them to go. He dropped his gaze to the carpet and waited.
“Is this how you negotiate?” Stanley asked softly. He’d crossed the room so silently Damian hadn’t heard his approach. Fingers tapped his chin and he looked up.
“There’s nothing to negotiate,” Damian said. “If you want to collar me, I accept.”
“What if that doesn’t include the sex you want?”
“I’ve told you how I feel about that.” He drew up a little straighter. “I trust you to give me what I need.”
Stanley shook his head. “After everything, you can still do this?” His fingers ran through Damian’s still-damp hair. There were no facilities in the Evangeline for a band of their caliber, so Stan had rented them a couple of trailers for changing and makeup. Damian had showered fast after the show to get most of the sweat and stage makeup off before coming to Stanley.
“Because of everything. You told me once, as long as I didn’t know the difference between letting someone fuck me and letting someone love me, I had to wait. Well.” He swallowed hard and met Stanley’s gaze. “I know. I knew months ago, but that guy today, in the bar. I’d have thrown myself at him before. If I give myself to anyone, Stan, it’s going to be the person you choose for me.”
“No negotiation.”
Damian smiled and shook his head. He didn’t need to negotiate. He knew where he belonged. The s
ight of the collar in that box was enough for him. Stanley knew him, loved him, and would give him what he needed. He believed in that. In his Master.
“Get up.” Stanley’s voice came out gruff and his fingers spasmed in Damian’s hair, gripping as Damian rose to his feet. The tingle intensified all through Damian and he couldn’t hold back a shallow moan of pleasure.
When Stanley pulled him into a kiss, he gasped, shocked by the pull on his hair and crushing force of Stanley’s lips. He was helpless to do anything but kiss back, opening to the invasion of Stanley’s tongue and the rough embrace that brought him hip to hip with the bigger man.
His hard-on ground against Stanley and he whimpered. There was so much power in the man. He hadn’t even thought to move his hands from behind his back and another gasp escaped when Stanley’s huge hand wrapped around his wrists, keeping them there as he was kissed until he literally couldn’t breathe.
He sagged and squeezed his eyes shut, his weight falling into Stanley, his knees buckling. Of course, Stanley caught him easily and pulled away, leaving Damian gasping and sputtering. There was power, and then there was Stanley.
He’d had rough lovers before. Demanding ones. Ones who tied him up and fucked him mercilessly. Ones who frightened him into staying away from the scene for long stretches. He’d never had one who could make him feel that helpless with just a kiss. Resting his head on Stanley’s shoulder as his head cleared and the black spots vanished, he wondered if he was going to be able to survive Stanley after six months of celibacy.
“Frightened?” Stanley asked. His grip hadn’t loosened and his voice was still rough. Hard.
Damian closed his eyes and nodded against his Master’s shoulder. “Yes, Sir,” he managed to whisper.
Fingers clamped into his hair again, pulling his head back. “You call me that, then you have to understand. There are rules.”