Off Stage

by Jaime Samms

  “You’re a good boy, Len.”

  “I’m sorry I got out of bed—”

  Vance kissed the apology away. “I ain’t your keeper. I’m your partner. If you weren’t tired, if you couldn’t sleep”—he shrugged—“you couldn’t sleep. I appreciate that you needed a bit o’ time to process things. Are you okay?”

  Len grinned. “This doesn’t tell you?” he asked, holding up Vance’s sticky hand.

  “You tell me, boy. Is everythin’ okay?”

  Len nodded. “Everything is better than it has been since we got here, Sir.”

  “Good.” Vance kissed him one more time and stepped away. “Go get cleaned up. Kilmer will be waitin’ on you.”

  “Oh!” Len bit his lip. “Now I’m late.”

  “Only a few minutes. Mostly my fault.” At last, Vance smiled. “And it won’t happen again.”

  Len almost protested, but Vance’s smile hadn’t faltered, and he put the logic together and realized it was the lateness Vance was referring to, not the sex.

  “Yes, Sir.”

  Vance’s smile widened. “I like hearin’ you say that. Say it again.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Gimme your hands.”

  Len puzzled over that as he held up his arms, and Vance began to unbuckle one cuff.

  “Oh.” Disappointment coursed through his gut, up and out through that soft syllable.

  “Can’t wear them in the shower, and you don’t want ’em smellin’ like horse shit, do you?”

  “No.” Len shifted and sighed as one of the cuffs fell into Vance’s palm. “No, Sir. I guess not.”

  Vance removed the other one and cupped Len’s face. “Okay, darlin’?”

  Len nodded. Back to darlin’. Which wasn’t bad. It just wasn’t the same as being Vance’s boy. When Vance kissed him, though, it was with the same intense force he’d used to get him off, and the same sizzling tingle washed through Len and cleared away that first tendril of disappointment.

  “Okay,” he said more firmly when Vance backed off and looked him in the eye, waiting. “I’m okay.”

  Vance took a deep breath and let it out. “Me too. Now go. Get showered. I’ll make you eggs.”

  Len groaned good-naturedly and hurried from the room. Behind him, the plaintive call of the guitar strings drifted slyly out the office door after him. He smiled. Maybe today would be the day Vance picked it up again too. Maybe he’d eventually be able to give that most important thing back to his lover.

  13

  LEN HAD lost track of time, ensconced as he was in his life of horse shit and hay and twice-weekly trips to talk to Lenore. Weeks had passed, but he wasn’t at all sure the therapy sessions were doing him any good. He’d always had nightmares in which Ace’s blue-lipped face featured prominently, staring down at him, leering and snarling. Ace pinning him made him thrash in his sleep, and his fear clenched his jaw to hold back the screams.

  They weren’t getting better. The more he talked about the harm the man had done in life, the more Ace haunted his dreams in death. And he didn’t always stay the Ace Len remembered. He transformed into the most macabre corpse expression on Trevor’s beautiful face, or a high, maniacal Vance attacking him in the dead of night. The dreams were twisted versions of his life turning on him, not making any sense. Not getting any better.

  He dreaded going to bed at night, never knowing if he was going to wake up in a cold sweat or a screaming, frantic terror. He worked in the barn, doing everything Kilmer taught him in hopes he’d be too exhausted to dream, but it didn’t always work. And he never knew when the worst nightmares were going to strike or who they would feature wearing Ace’s grim death mask and steely strong grip.

  Worse were those times he could swear he was awake, only to find his mind had propelled him back to the dim, cold apartment in downtown Toronto, far from the calm, clear air of the ranch.

  Tonight, it felt like an eternity he lay on his back, staring into the darkness, trying to figure out why his jaw and neck and shoulders ached and if Ace was ever going to either let him up or fuck him and get it over with. He felt the other man’s weight on him. Part of him knew he had to be dreaming. He couldn’t bring his mind past the screaming fear in his head and the impotent, raging fury trapped behind it.

  Then he realized he’d arched his back, heels and shoulders dug into the mattress, as if his slight frame had the strength to get free of the behemoth on top of him. He howled. With his hands caught in steely grips, all he had was his feet, and he struggled, twisted, tried to get a knee up somewhere soft and vulnerable.

  “Len.”

  Len squirmed and snarled. Ace never sounded so sweet and calm unless he was about to lose it on Len.

  “Get off,” he managed to spit it out between panicked breaths.

  “Len, darlin’, it’s me.”

  “Don’t.” Len thrashed again and this time managed to get an arm free. He jabbed his fist hard into Ace’s gut, once, twice, and when he didn’t fight back, Len hit him harder and faster until the weight finally fell away with a pained moan.

  Len jumped from the bed and ran for the door, only to find featureless wall where it should have been. He pounded on it, along it, as he felt the expanse, frantic, listening for the sound of Ace’s feet hitting the floor. He found a corner and then furniture, jamming his toe on the edge of something before a light flashed on and he was facing his dresser, staring at the framed picture of Vance and a black colt.

  “Vance.” He reached a shaking hand to touch the picture, terrified it would vanish before he made contact with it. It was solid and real. So was the soft huffing in the bed behind him.

  “Vance!” He spun and stumbled over discarded clothing and the rug beside the bed, falling to his knees beside it in his haste to get back. “Oh my God.”

  Vance lay curled in a mass of tangled hair and bare, curved spine, arms hugging his stomach.

  “Vance?” Len reached a tentative hand to touch his shoulders.

  “Not yet, Len,” Vance warned in a tight voice. “Back off.”

  Len pushed away from the bed and sat on the floor, knees pulled up so he could wrap his arms around them. “I’m sorry.”

  Vance’s head might have bobbed in an abbreviated nod, but he didn’t uncurl or say anything, or even look at Len.

  “I didn’t know… I was dreaming. I thought I was. You were Ace. I thought—” He heaved to his feet. “I’ll get ice, I’ll get—”

  “Sit,” Vance growled, and Len plopped his bottom into the chair by the door. “Stay.”

  “Yessir,” Len mumbled, pushing back in the chair and wrapping his arms around his raised knees again. He waited a long time as Vance slowly stretched out and finally sat up, back to Len, bracing himself on the edge of the bed.

  “Come here,” Vance said at last.

  Len dropped both feet to the floor and forced himself upright and around the end of the bed until he was in front of Vance. For a heartbeat, he hesitated, and then he dropped to his knees and hung his head. All he could see of Vance was his feet, peeking from his sleep pants.

  “I’m so sorry,” Len whispered.

  “I know.” In a moment, Vance touched the top of his head.

  He couldn’t help it. He flinched. Not just a flinch but a violent scrabbling backward before he could think. Before he could stop.

  Vance sat, hand hanging in the air, the look on his face stricken, as bruised as his stomach with hurt.

  “I—” Len crawled back and planted himself on the floor at Vance’s feet. Like a puppy, he wiggled his head under that outstretched hand and stilled.

  “Please….” Len held his breath, hoping with every fiber of his being Vance’s fingers would sink into his hair, hold on to him, and not withdraw.

  “I love you, darlin’,” Vance said softly. His hand hadn’t moved.

  Len hauled a deep breath into his lungs and nodded. “I love you too. I don’t mean to hurt you. I didn’t—”

  “Stop.”

>   Len clamped his mouth shut.

  “I want to try something, but you have to trust me.”

  Len snuck a peek up through his bangs. “I do,” he whispered.

  “Good.” Vance held out his other hand “Give me your hands.”

  Len laid them both in Vance’s one big mitt.

  “How does this make you feel?” Vance asked, closing his long fingers around Len’s wrists. The pressure was enough he could feel his wrist bones rubbing together, but it wasn’t painful.

  Len let out a breath and licked his lips, feeling the way Vance’s touch soothed over the rough, torn edges of his psyche.

  “Better,” he confessed.

  Vance nodded. “I know. I can see it on your face. Stay where you are.” Letting him go, Vance got haltingly to his feet and shuffled over to his dresser. He pulled open the top drawer and brought back a small leather-covered box, which he handed to Len.

  Len took it, frozen in horror to see his much bigger lover wince and lower himself carefully back to the bed.

  “I’m—”

  “Open the box,” Vance said gently, lifting Len’s chin with his fingers and forcing him to look into Vance’s eyes. “Never mind. Just open the box.”

  Len swallowed and nodded. “Yes, Sir.” He eased the lid off and set it on the floor beside him, then poked the tissue inside to one side. A pair of felt-lined, black leather cuffs were nestled in the crinkling paper, and Len remembered wearing them the night they’d had dinner. The night he’d first given everything up to his Dom for a short time. He recalled the event with a shiver, and wished it was one weighted more with pleasure than trepidation.

  “I know you think you’re afraid of this,” Vance said, voice soft and even, “but I have an idea, and I think we’ll both sleep better if it works.”

  Len touched the leather. It was stiff and firm, the lining soft against his fingertip. All the times Ace had held him down, it had been through brute physical force, never with forethought to Len’s comfort. Never had it been about what Vance had shown him it could be. Grudgingly, he had to admit that Dr. Stanton had been right about that.

  But was it a good thing to put those cuffs on? He looked up into Vance’s eyes. Afraid wasn’t the right word for the emotion that tore through him as he shook his head.

  “I can’t.” His voice was a bare, raw whisper. “Please don’t make me do this.”

  “Trust me.” Vance took one of the cuffs and captured one of Len’s wrists before Len could back away. He tugged a moment. Yanked.

  Vance opened his fingers and Len was free. He heaved a breath and with it, the smell of Vance, of their bed, their mingled sweat and the salty tang of his own tears.

  Slowly, Vance curled fingers around his wrist again, and this time, he didn’t pull away. He stilled.

  “I promise this is not going to be scary, darlin’. It’s going to be what you need.”

  “How? I don’t want to do this.”

  “You don’t know what I have in mind, do you?”

  “You’re going to tie me up.”

  Vance smiled. He had the cuff buckled in place now, and he cupped his hand around Len’s arm under the cuff. “I’m going to help you feel calm, first off.” He leaned close and kissed Len, soft and brief. “And you’re going to tell me what’s going through your head as we do this.”

  He let go, and Len hefted the burden of leather around his wrist. It surprised him how much that wrap of leather and metal weighed. He hadn’t expected to find that comforting, but he did. It was instant and gratifying, and the fact Vance had put it there made a connection inside he was sure transcended his own tenuous attempts to keep himself contained and whole. This felt like a bond forged of steel, holding him together in ways he hadn’t managed to stitch into place on his own.

  Could he really rely on that? On the artificial contraption around one skinny wrist to keep him safe when it could just as easily be used to take away everything he’d fought for the past weeks to gain? He clamped his mouth closed and stared up into Vance’s eyes.

  “You’re scared,” Vance said and waited.

  Finally, Len nodded.

  “Tell me why.”

  “I don’t want to be tied up.”

  “Did Ace tie you up?”

  Len shook his head. “He didn’t have to. There wasn’t anything I could do if he wanted….”

  Vance’s brows went up when Len didn’t finish. “Wanted what?” Vance asked softly, bringing Len’s hand to his mouth and kissing his palm, holding his bound wrist close to his face and letting his warm breath travel over Len’s clammy skin. “Tell me.”

  Len closed his eyes, focused on the ever-so-gentle feel of breath on skin, of Vance’s comforting hand, calloused and firm, safely clasping him along with the cuff. He focused on the fear roiling in his gut. It was real and tangible and—he caught his breath. And he controlled it. It, for once, wasn’t controlling him. That let him breathe again. If he could breathe, he could talk.

  “When he wanted to fuck,” Len said at last. Gooseflesh chased across his skin as he said it. Shivers followed, vying with the heat from Vance’s reassurance, creating a storm of prickling sensations across the surface of his flesh.

  “When you wanted to fuck?” Vance asked.

  He could be so gentle for such a huge man. Len wiggled on his knees a few inches closer as he shook his head.

  Gently, Vance formed his other hand around Len’s closed fist. He hadn’t realized he’d clenched his fingers tight, or that every muscle in that arm had gone rigid. When Vance touched him, ran caresses over his knuckles, he allowed that bond to loosen his death grip on the fear and anger and slowly uncurled his hand.

  “It’s only fucking if you’re both on the same page, Len.”

  “Please don’t.” Len closed his eyes, as if that was going to let him hide from the truth just a little bit longer.

  “Len.” Vance touched his face, lifted his chin, and Len found he couldn’t resist the silent command to look up at the man he called Sir and show exactly what was in his head.

  “I want you to say it.”

  “Why? We both know it. What difference does it make?”

  “It makes all the difference in the world. Will you trust me? Say this thing. Call it by the name it deserves, and it stops having power over you.”

  Len opened his mouth and closed it again. Everything in him clamored to do as his Sir told him. His heart and soul screamed at him to earn that other cuff and say the small, four-letter word Vance demanded to hear.

  “Sir.” He swallowed hard around the ever-growing lump of messy life backed up in his throat, clinging to everything inside him and tearing him apart with its unbearable weight.

  “Boy.” Vance caressed his face with the softest of touches. “One word, boy. You’re brave enough to do this. Then I promise I’ll help with the way it makes you quake and shiver. I will help you cope.” He cupped Len’s face more firmly, bent with a hiss, and kissed Len again. It was a careful, calm, controlled kiss.

  And Len felt controlled. He felt safe. If there was ever a time he could do this, say this, it was now, with Vance bent over him, holding on to him, keeping him in the present and out of the fogged world in his head where he got lost.

  Vance broke the kiss and pressed his forehead to Len’s.

  “Rape.” The soft pop of the p was the only part of the word that broke the barrier of fear to make a sound in the room.

  Vance pulled him close as the shivers set in. It hadn’t been that hard. And it had been the worst instant of his life to say it out loud. To make it real. The embrace he found himself in could have been constricting. It could have set him off again. But it came with the scent of horses and leather and Vance, and it was safe. It didn’t hold him down. It held him in. Contained him when he could have flown apart to every corner of his scarred mind and huddled, a million pieces of himself in the dark of his own soul.

  Vance, Sir, didn’t let him do that. He didn’t let him go. Carefully, he
did fasten the second cuff in place and coax Len up onto the bed. When Vance encouraged him to lie on his back and rest his hands on his chest, he did. When Vance fastened a link between the heavy D-rings on the cuffs, he didn’t refuse. If his heart pounded harder, it wasn’t in fear. He convinced himself of that, even as he tested the binding and found it was real.

  “Okay?” Vance asked, settling beside him.

  Len stared at him without answering. He didn’t know. There was no answer. There was only white noise in his head and the palpitation in his chest to tell him he was still alive.

  Vance touched his face, his hair, his hands and wrists, constant flighty contact that kept Len in the moment and didn’t let him sink into the sheet of chaos in his head. “Let the binding do its work, boy,” Vance said gently, tugging at one cuff to remind Len he was bound, touching his hair to remind him he was safe. “Feel it. Let it hold you to what’s real.”

  Len stared up at him, desperate to hold on to the present.

  “You’re real,” Len managed in a hoarse whisper.

  Vance nodded.

  “And I hurt you. Again.”

  Vance nodded again.

  “I didn’t know it was you.”

  “I know that. You were dreaming. You panicked.” As he ran fingers through Len’s hair, Vance rolled onto his side, smiled, and finally, when he was settled, ceased the caresses long enough to pull a cover over them both. “Go back to sleep now.”

  “Like this?” Len lifted his hands and their binding.

  “Like this. I’m right here. Nothing bad is going to happen, I promise. Go to sleep.” He kissed Len’s forehead.

  “I’ve never slept like this before.”

  “Good. Then it’s new, and it’s about us, and all you have to feel here, in my bed, is contained and kept and safe, darlin’.”

  Len blinked at him. “You can’t decide if I’m your darlin’ or your boy, Sir.”

  Vance chuckled and kissed him again. “You’re both. Now no more talkin’. I’m tired, you’re tired. Go to sleep.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Good boy.”

  Vance settled with a hand resting heavily on Len’s bound ones and closed his eyes. Someday, Len was going to be able to sleep with the bedside lamp off. Just not tonight. One step at a time. He listened to Vance breathe, and missed the point where contented rest slipped over the edge into peaceful, dreamless sleep.