by Jaime Samms
We built this, our heart home. Don’t shut me out
But that’s where he kept stalling, and Len’s heart ached at the torn way Vance broke off, again and again, unable to find the happy ending the song needed. If there was a happy ending.
Normally, Len didn’t write lyrics. But Vance was ripping his heart out trying to make this song, their song, a hopeful one, and Len was not going to accept that there was no hope. He made his brain work, made his heart engage in the task of finding words he rarely managed to get along with in the first place, and the next time Vance stopped, where his voice ran to a rough-edged stop and his fingers faltered, Len lifted his smooth tenor to fill in the gap as best he could.
Put the bottle down, babe
Our minds may go crazy, I’m halfway insane,
long as you’re there, there’s free wind and air
And it’s time to move on to the real thing.
The true thing. To you.
The end of the verse came with no guitar to accompany it, but when he launched into the chorus, the soft strumming picked up again, and by the middle, Vance’s deep bass resonated around Len’s higher voice and the song came to a full-bodied conclusion. The guitar reverberated into the silence for a few heartbeats.
“You’re supposed to be in bed,” Vance said through the door.
“You need to sleep too,” Len countered.
“Can’t.”
“Me either.”
Silence, then the soft picking of guitar strings in no discernible pattern. “I use those lyrics, I can’t sing this myself,” Vance said. His voice was still soft and ragged, and Len hauled in a breath past the gummed emotion in his throat.
“True.”
The guitar flitted between them for a little while.
“But the song isn’t about just you,” Len ventured.
“True.”
“I wish I could take this afternoon back,” Len whispered.
The guitar answered him, still with that wandering, nowhere plucking.
“Can’t go back in time, darlin’,” Vance said at last.
But how did they go forward?
“Is there a music store in Listowell?” Len asked after a while.
“Yeah. Kitchener might be a better bet, though. There’s one that repairs old instruments. Get directions from Kilmer. He knows it.” The guitar sounds began to resolve themselves into a pattern, and Len listened carefully for the threads of melody slowly taking shape. “You can take the truck after the morning chores are done,” Vance said.
“Come with?” Len asked hopefully.
“You don’t need me there.”
It felt so much more like moving sideways. Len sighed. “’Kay.”
The guitar sang on, and the melody was a fractured one, better suited, Len thought, to his shattered Gibson than the melodious Martin.
15
WHEN VANCE entered the barn the next morning to give Len the truck keys, Kilmer pulled him into the tack room. The place was practically glowing. Every piece of harness was in its appointed place, each place labeled on the wall in black magic marker. The saddles were lined up neatly on their stands, the blankets folded in the box against the far wall. The bins of currycombs and brushes were arrayed on the ledge under the harnesses, and every surface had been wiped clean of hay dust and grime.
“He really went all out,” Kilmer said.
“He had a lot of atoning to do.”
“You going to forgive him?”
“What?”
“He talks to me, Van. You told him to talk to me. Do not banish him from your bed. He can’t do this alone.”
“I don’t know what to do.”
“Maybe you don’t always have to have all the answers, Van.”
Vance looked over the tidy little room and saw Len’s care in every oiled harness and neatly folded saddle blanket. He held the truck keys out to Kilmer. “Give these to him when he’s done, will you?”
“Van—”
“Just give him the keys and directions to Jacko’s shop.”
“Why Jacko?”
The stiffening of Kilmer’s posture wasn’t lost on Vance. “You know, he ain’t in the room. You don’t have to stand at attention just because I said the man’s name.”
“Fuck you.”
Vance let out a sharp little laugh. “Think Jacko might object to that, don’t you?”
“Why are you sending him there?”
“Don’t worry. Len is not going to poach your man. He ain’t that kind of sub.”
Kilmer’s cheeks reddened, but it was unclear if it was embarrassment or anger that brought out the color. “You think I don’t trust Jacko?”
All Vance had to do was lift his eyebrows and Kilmer deflated.
“Why are you sending him to Jacko, Vance? You know that’s exactly the sort of broke Jacko’s drawn to.”
It pained Vance to see this amount of griping in a man he knew was as strong as Kilmer was. Whatever his affair with Jacko was like, it wasn’t doing good things for him. Vance had long ago given up the right to say so, however, and so he just sighed and fudged a bit with the truth.
“Because he’s got the best repair shop around,” Vance said. Which was true. The kid he had working for him was a bit of a miracle worker with old, dilapidated instruments. But there was no point in reminding Kilmer that if anyone could suss out how best to help Len, it was the Master Dom who had taught Vance everything he knew. What Jacko did with or without Kilmer wasn’t Vance’s business. He didn’t like to see his friend hurt, but there were certain things one Dom just did not question another Dom about. His relationship with his sub was one of those things. Kilmer was going to have to work his issues out himself. At least, he was going to have to as long as he kept his troubles to himself. Vance couldn’t help if Kilmer didn’t ask.
“That the only reason?” Kilmer asked.
“What do you want me to say, Kil? Maybe I need his help.”
Kilmer dropped his gaze and nodded. “Yeah. Suppose so.”
The urge to apologize tugged at Vance, but this wasn’t something he should have to apologize for. If Kilmer was dissatisfied with his relationship, it was up to him to fix it or end it.
“Just give him the keys and tell him I want him back here for lunch.”
“Boss him around a little more, why don’t you.”
Vance rolled his eyes. “I need the truck to pick Maggie and Janet up from the train station.”
“Doesn’t Janet have a brand-new baby?” Kilmer asked, pocketing the keys.
“Yeah. That was the point of bringing them here.”
“How do you figure you’re going to put a baby seat in the truck?”
Vance frowned. “Baby seat?”
“Could you be more gay?” Kilmer fished his car keys out of his pocket and handed them to Vance.
“Why do people keep saying that to me?”
“Take my car, idiot.”
Vance accepted the keys with a sigh. “Leaves me with no excuse to make sure he comes back here.”
“Where on earth do you think he’s gonna go?”
Vance stepped back, and the doorframe offered firm, needed support between his shoulder blades. He dropped his head against it with a small thump. “I know he’ll come back.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“Me not being able to control him.”
“Hold on any tighter, Van, and you’ll break him for sure.”
“Never been good at lettin’ go, Kil. You know that.”
“Ain’t you the one always told me no horse was too old to learn?”
Vance snorted and jingled the keys in his hand. “Maybe.”
“You have to let him go, and yes, Van, that might mean you watch him batter himself to bits against his own stubborn pride and that relentless past o’ his, but if you don’t, he ain’t never gonna heal.”
“I leave him alone, he’ll ignore it all and let it eat away at everything he is until there’s nothin’ left.”
“Maybe.”
“That ain’t okay, Kil! I can’t—”
“Might be you got no choice.” Kilmer punched his shoulder, but his hand lingered and settled on Vance in sympathy. “Might be he’s stronger than you give him credit for. Ever think o’ that?”
“I want to believe it.”
“Might be you have a tendency to be slightly overprotective.” Kilmer held up his hand, finger and thumb a hairsbreadth apart.
And wouldn’t he know the truth of that. Vance sighed again and straightened. “You’re right.”
“Sometimes, wonder of wonders, Vance, I actually am.”
“Jerk.”
Kilmer grinned. “On another note, while I have you out of his earshot, I called Paul this mornin’, and he’s got Len’s present all gussied up and ready to deliver whenever you need him to.”
“I think Sunday mornin’. Once everyone’s settled, but before lunch.”
“I’ll let him know.”
“I appreciate it, Kil.”
Kilmer nodded and there was a twinkle in his eye as he walked away. “I know you do. This place’d fall apart without me.”
Vance would have laughed, but it was way too true to be a joke.
All he knew was he was damn glad Maggie was going to be home before the guests arrived for Len’s party. Vance wasn’t at all sure he could handle a house full of Len’s rocker friends and their families without her solid good cheer to back him up. In fact, he sort of envied Stan and his escape to the west coast for the duration. Vance had had a long enough sabbatical to remember the slow ebb and flow of ranch life over the fast-paced, loud vibrancy of the spotlight, and if he did crave attention now and then, at the moment, he craved peace and quiet with Len more.
16
LEN SNUCK out of the barn while Vance was still talking to Kilmer. He supposed they were talking about him, but he didn’t want to know what they were saying. He didn’t want to be a topic of discussion, and he didn’t want to care, but he was and he did. He’d managed to stitch a few of the unfastened bits of himself, knocked loose by yesterday’s fiasco, back in place, and he wanted to keep them there. Bad enough he’d have to pick at the scabs in his next session with Lenore. She was too sharp not to realize that something had happened. He didn’t need the added stress of worrying what secrets his lover was passing to Kilmer or vice versa.
He already had a plan. He’d bring the guitar into town today, find a repair shop, and see about getting the neck replaced. If he could take even a single step to repairing some portion of the damage he’d done, then maybe he could face Vance again and begin to fix that too.
Focusing on one small thing at a time, he got through a shower and changed his clothes, duct-taped the broken guitar case closed with the sad instrument inside, and headed for the stairs. He had every intention of just going. He was a grown man, and he didn’t need Vance’s permission to leave. They’d already talked about it. Vance knew where he was going and when he would reasonably be back. It was enough. He should just go. He hefted the guitar under his arm and thumped down the stairs and into the kitchen.
But he couldn’t just leave. Could he? He had to at least say something. So he propped the guitar against the wall by the back door and went to Vance’s office. The room was dim with the blinds closed, and the musty smell greeted him through the half-open door.
“Vance?” He pushed it open, but the room was empty and silent. Len entered, hands in his pockets, teeth digging into his lower lip. His lover should be here. He was always in his office taking care of paperwork and telephone calls this time of day. So even this bit of predictable routine had been disrupted by Len’s childish outburst. Vance hadn’t returned from the barn yet, even in the length of time it had taken Len to shower and change. He wondered if Vance was avoiding him. Len pried apart the blind slats to look outside.
Vance was in the yard with Kilmer and Patrick, smiling at something Kilmer had said, and slapping Patrick on the back.
Len let the blinds fall again. He didn’t need the older man’s approval for anything, dammit. He was going to leave. Go do his errands like any other grown man. Resolved, he headed for the door and got no farther than the huge desk and a glimpse of the guitar sitting on its stand in the corner.
“Not even my kind of instrument,” he mumbled as he shuffled forward and picked it up. It sang to him as he touched it, the bass string responding to the delicate touch of his palm. “You just need to be played, don’t you?” he said to it, sinking onto the couch and resting the flat top in his lap.
He stroked the strings and closed his eyes. The instrument whispered to him, the vibrations of the strings touching more than just skin. There was something to be said for how the acoustic sound enlivened his whole being in a way a turned-down electric never could. Before the past few days, it had been years since he’d played one, and he’d forgotten how sweet it could be. If the guitar needed to be played, Len needed, like life, to play it. And he did, at first fingerpicking his way through a collection of old melodies he’d learned when he was a kid, and expanding until the licks of music sizzled up his spine and became new under his fingers.
The office resonated with the deep sounds of the guitar, and he moved in time to the rhythm he created. He made his throat work and hummed along to the wandering themes his fingers drew forth. He got lost in the music, lost along the path to wherever it was taking him, and nothing caught up with him until the E string snapped and stung the back of his hand.
“Ouch! Ungrateful bitch!” he snarled, rubbing the sting.
The instrument jangled into silence.
A moment later, light splashed across his face. He realized he was sweating and stiff from hunching over the guitar. He looked up, slightly dazed.
“Hey.” Vance was smiling down on him, the cord for the blinds he’d just raised in his hands.
“Uh….” Len scrambled to his feet, awkwardly stashing the guitar behind him. “Hey.”
Vance reached toward him, and his heart raced into overdrive. Heat flashed up into his face and he gasped, but Vance didn’t touch him. Instead, he plucked the vibrating E string out of the air and waggled it in front of him.
“What’s this?”
Len swallowed disappointment. More heat flooded his face, and he ducked his head. “Sorry. I’ll get new strings when I go in—”
“You’re adorable, darlin’.” Vance let the string go, and it twanged against the guitar’s wooden top. “You ready to go?”
Len knew he lit up. He couldn’t help it. “You coming with me?”
Vance’s smile faltered ever so slightly, and once more, Len’s heart fell.
“Never mind.” Hastily, he stepped around his lover and replaced the guitar on its stand. “I’ll be back for chores. See you.”
“Len.” Vance’s voice was at once gentle and commanding, and it stopped Len in his tracks. “You don’t need me to go with you, darlin’. You’ll be fine. You know what you need to do, so go do it.”
Len nodded.
“But never leave this house without one thing,” Vance continued.
“What?”
Vance’s hand on his arm startled him, and the force with which his lover turned him around made him squeak. He didn’t have time to compose himself before Vance’s lips had covered his, and his Dom was taking a kiss that took his breath and his good sense with it. He melted into the touch and would have leaned on Vance given half a chance. But Vance stepped back and let him go, and it was all he could do not to buckle under his own weight.
“Off you go now.” He pointed to the guitar in the corner. “Don’t forget my new strings.”
“Yessir,” Len managed to choke out before he fled. He was out the door and unlocking the truck before he realized he’d left his guitar in the kitchen. But he couldn’t go back for it. If he caught sight of Vance, he’d drop to his knees and beg for more of that stern touch. He’d bare his ass, anything, just to feel strong hands on him and that containment Vance c
ould give him.
He hesitated, door half-open, and rested his head on the window. “Shit.”
The truck rocked slightly and there was a thump, and he finally looked up. Vance was setting the broken case in the back of the truck and leaning over to secure a bungee cord around it.
“All set now, darlin’?”
Len nodded without lifting his head from where he’d rested his forehead on the glass. “Yes, Sir,” he whispered, hearing exactly how hopeful he sounded.
“Good.” Vance squeezed his shoulder. “Git goin’. You have work to do when you get back.”
Len climbed into the truck without looking at Vance. He couldn’t risk it. He put the vehicle in gear and backed out of the yard, honking at Kilmer and Patrick as he passed.
AT THE guitar shop, he was once more on familiar turf, and thoughts of Vance and his strong hands and commanding voice were more easily thrust aside. The door clattered closed behind him to the sound of cymbals clanging to announce his presence. A man, younger than he, and bone-thin, sauntered from the back.
“Hey, there.” He nodded and offered his hand.
Len set his guitar case on the counter. “I need this fixed,” he announced.
“Um, dude, we don’t fix cases. Probably cheaper just to get a new one. You know they make plastic and fiberglass ones now, right?”
Len curled a lip. “Not the case.” He took out his pocketknife, sliced through the duct tape, and lifted away the lid.
“Oh, dude.” The young man groaned. “That is so bogus. What happened?”
“It, um. Fell.” He touched his fingertips to the powder blue skin of the body, and a lump formed in his throat.
“Fell.” The guy tilted his head as he contemplated the wreckage. “No shit, dude. With force, I’m sure.”
“Can you fix it?”
“I don’t know, man. It’s pretty old, ya know? I mean, could be vintage, but shit, man. It’s pretty jacked.”
“Forget it.” Len grabbed the lid he’d set aside and was about to cram it back in place when the skinny guy stopped him and waved a hand at him.