All Cocks Stories Box Set Volume 2

by Smith,T. M.

  Beau wrapped his beefy hand around Micah’s that was holding the bottle, twisting the cap off with little effort with his other hand. “Thank you,” Micah muttered.

  When Beau laughed it was loud and deep and just as fucking sexy as his voice. He clapped Micah on the back so hard it caused his body to jerk forward. “Ain’t you a spry one?” Beau said to Micah. “You be sure and let me know if you need anything else,” he said before turning and heading back behind the bar.

  “Could I interest you two gentlemen in a game or two of pool?” Tristan asked with a wry grin, sliding out of the booth and leading them toward the pool tables.

  Micah started to notice that the later it got, the larger the crowd in the bar grew, as did the noise level. The three of them were able to talk to each other and still hear when played their first game, but now just a few games later, Micah had to walk over and stand beside Tristan or Gabe and shout just to be heard. He had just leaned down to set up his next shot when there was a loud bang followed by the unmistakable sound of breaking glass.

  Micah jumped and spun around, his eyes frantically searching for the threat. A couple of Biker Bears were having a shoving match, quite possibly over the twink that was trying to worm his way in between them. The bang came from the bar stools that toppled over and the glass was the broken beer bottles that littered the concrete floor beneath their feet. But what Micah saw was a dry, dusty, barren desert. The men that Micah saw through his battle scarred eyes were carrying automatic weapons and wore turbans; they shouted at him in Arabic before raising their weapons, aiming for him and Banks.

  Gabe recognized Micah’s posture, the way his eyes darted around the room, his heavy breathing. He quickly moved to Micah’s side, shocked when Micah shouted at him and shoved him away. “Move Banks, run, go get the Captain!”

  Gabe turned to Tristan, his eyes wide and filling with tears. “Tris.” It was far too loud for Tristan to hear Gabe, but he could read his name on Gabe’s lips. Slowly making his way toward Micah, Tristan assessed the situation. He had counseled other patients with PTSD in the past, but none as severe as Micah. Tristan knew if he approached too fast or made any sudden moves it could very quickly turn bad, put Micah on the defensive depending on the severity of the flashback he was trapped in at the moment.

  Tristan approached Micah, talking to him softly, hoping not to spook him. “Micah, you aren’t in Iraq anymore. No one here is going to hurt you — I won’t let them.” Tristan continued to speak in hushed tones, trying to pull Micah out of whatever memory held him captive, placing his body directly in front of Micah, so that his focus would be on what was right in front of him: Tristan.

  Tristan reached for the pool stick but Micah jerked away, taking a step back and holding the stick out in front of him, a barrier between his body and Tristan. “Micah, look at me.” Tristan held his hands out in front of him but didn’t move to touch Micah, not yet.

  “Micah, it’s me, Tristan.” Micah was backed up against the pool table, the stick still a barrier between their bodies; his knuckles had turned white, he was gripping the pool stick so tight. Tristan inched closer, his hands hovering above the stick. Slowly, he lowered his hands until they were on top of the stick. With little pressure, Tristan wrapped his fingers around the stick and pulled it away from Micah.

  Tristan watched as Micah closed his eyes, shook his head and blinked a couple of times, his posture loosening a little more with each passing second. When Micah finally opened his eyes and looked up, Tristan breathed a sigh of relief that the fear and combative glare he had seen in them only moments ago was gone. Without thinking twice, Tristan grabbed Micah and pulled him close, tucking Micah’s head under his chin, rubbing his back and humming the Irish lullaby that was his fail-safe for times like this.

  Tristan could feel the tension as it evaporated, Micah going limp in his arms, his body shaking from fear or what, Tristan didn’t know or care right then. He chuckled when he felt Gabe’s arm wrap around his waist. Lifting one arm, Tristan looked down and smiled — Gabe had wrapped an arm around each of them and wiggled his way into their hug.

  “Everything okay here, bon ami?” Beau’s concerned voice penetrated the bubble the three of them had escaped into. Tristan turned and gave his friend a half-assed grin, nodding.

  “A’ight.” Beau circled the pool table grabbing the empty bucket then using it to collect the empty bottles before he left the three of them alone again. No one seemed to notice Micah’s small breakdown, the other patrons too busy watching the commotion with Goldilocks, the twink and the two Bears.

  Chapter 10 | Which is Worse

  Micah sat on the leather couch in Tristan’s office staring down at the floor. His palms were clammy and a thin sheen of sweat lined his brow. Consciously, Micah knew he could trust Tristan with anything. Hell, he and Gabe had already had several sessions both separately and together out at the house. Subconsciously, he was freaking out.

  Micah lifted his head, meeting Tristan’s soft gaze, almost laughing at just how at ease the man was. Tristan sat in a chair directly across from Micah with one leg crossed over the other at the knee, a legal pad perched on his other knee. His elbows rested on the arms of the chair and his fingers were steepled together, a pen held between two of them. His body language was loose, comfortable and laid back. It helped Micah relax just a little — his fight or flight instinct tended to constantly hover, just beneath the surface.

  “You good now?” Tristan asked, one eyebrow raised.

  Micah managed a jerky nod, so Tristan marched forward. “All right. I would like to talk about your childhood today, Micah. Is that okay?”

  Not really, Micah thought. But he knew they had to start somewhere. He had been careful to only share bits and pieces of his life prior to the Army until now.

  “Micah, you still with me?”

  “Yeah, just… just thinking.”

  “About?” Tristan prodded.

  “About the fact that I would rather share with you, in gory detail I might add, every excruciating second of the bombing in Iraq if I didn’t have to talk about my family.” Micah sighed, slumping back onto the couch.

  “Good Micah, do you see what just happened there?” Tristan lowered his leg and leaned forward a little, smiling.

  Micah looked at Tristan like he was the one that was crazy, shaking his head. “You answered me honestly. You didn’t take the time to filter your answer. And when you did, your body visibly relaxed more with each word.”

  Micah took a minute to process that. “Huh. How ‘bout that.”

  “Indeed. So, I know that you left home as soon as you turned eighteen, joined the Army pretty much the same day. Two tours in Iraq, the second tour taking your leg. What I don’t know is what your childhood was like. Were your parents always distant and cold? Or just after you came out to them?” Micah was taken aback that Tristan could state that much about him from memory, without looking at his notes first. He felt all warm and fuzzy inside before it dawned on him: Tristan could probably do the same with all his clients. Oh, well… a boy can dream, right? he thought.

  “I had a normal childhood, I guess. I played baseball, soccer and basketball in little leagues and throughout school. I got good grades, I had friends, my mom went all out for holidays and birthdays.” Micah wiped his sweaty palms across the denim that covered his legs, taking a deep breath, hoping to stave off the swarm of moths currently flipping circles in his stomach. Trips down memory lane always made him nauseous. Not because of where they started, more because of where they ended.

  “I remember sitting at the kitchen table doing homework while my mom cooked dinner, she would talk me through any trouble I was having. I remember family trips to the beach for picnics and frolicking in the sand. I remember my dad teaching me how to drive and getting righteously pissed when I snuck out and took the car for a joy ride.” Micah snorted, looking over at Tristan who was writing on his tablet and grinning.

  “My life was pretty good, until I
labeled my feelings, until I said those two words… I’m gay… after that, everything changed.” Micah’s voice trailed off and he once again sat, staring down at the floor.

  “Can you tell me about that Micah, about how things changed?” Tristan tried to keep his voice as steady as possible, but it was difficult, watching Micah cave in on himself just talking about his parents.

  “It was like someone flipped a switch. As long as we were in the dark, well, as long as my parents were in the dark everything was fine. As soon as I told them I was gay the lights came on and they didn’t like what they saw. God, that is probably the worst analogy ever.” Micah let his head fall back onto the couch, sighing.

  “No, that is a pretty good analogy actually. Listen, I’m not going to sit here and have a discussion over what ifs and maybes. That isn’t how life works Micah. But I digress. So, am I right assuming that your parents didn’t abuse you in any way after you came out? Wait, I misspoke just then, your parents shutting you out after that day was a form of emotional abuse. They didn’t kick you out or stop feeding and clothing you, right?” Tristan made sure Micah would have to use his voice to answer by not looking up, he kept his head down as he scribbled on his pad.

  “Sort of,” Micah groaned.

  The pen stopped moving, but didn’t lift from the paper. Tristan looked up, one eyebrow raised. “Define sort of.”

  “I still had a home, food, clothes, pretty much everything I needed. But I didn’t have their attention or their love anymore. They tried the whole, It’s a sin you’re going to hell, speech on me, which was odd as fuck because my parents were never religious.” Micah sat up straight, his posture screaming something wasn’t right.

  “What is it about what you just told me that has you instantly on guard again?” Tristan asked. Micah’s brow creased and he gave Tristan a confused look. “Your posture is rigid where before you had finally managed to relax. The light drained from your eyes and if you look, your fists are still clinched.”

  Micah blew out a shaky breath followed by a humorless laugh. “Can’t get anything past you.”

  “Probably not, now stop deflecting and answer my question,” Tristan prodded, keeping his voice calm.

  Micah started bouncing his leg up and down, another nervous tic. Tristan wanted to get up, walk over to him and hold the man still, but he refrained. The silence stretched until uncomfortable and awkward; Tristan was about to move the conversation in a different direction when Micah finally answered him.

  “I just don’t understand how they went from loving, caring and attentive parents to familiar strangers overnight. Which is worse, Tristan? Parents that pretend you don’t exist? Or parents that are at least paying enough attention to you to try and beat the gay out of you?” Micah stared at him like he actually expected an answer.

  “Is there a third option?”

  Micah laughed, shaking his head.

  “It’s still very hard for you, isn’t it? Their rejection?” Tristan spoke softly, and though he presented the statement as a question, Micah could see it in his eyes, Tristan already knew the answer to that question. Micah’s eyes began to water. A quick nod before lowering his gaze was the only response he was able to give Tristan for fear if he actually spoke, the words would be buried beneath sobs.

  Tristan looked at his watch. “Damn. I hate to say it, but our time is almost up for today.” He stood and walked over behind his desk, dropping the pad and pen and picking up a brochure, waving it in the air. “I have a brochure here I’d like to go over with you. I think it would be an excellent treatment option for your PTSD.”

  Micah stood and walked over to the desk, taking the paper Tristan held out and glancing at it, not paying much attention other than a cursory glance. He was more interested in watching Tristan out of the corner of his eye, his tall frame walking back around the desk and leaning against it, right next to where Micah stood.

  “Well, what do you think?” Tristan asked.

  “Oh, look it over, right.” Micah mumbled, trying to focus on the brochure in his hand. “Exactly what is… Exposure Therapy, Tris?”

  “It is a form of treatment that has been used since the 1950’s for patients that present with Generalized Anxiety Disorders, including PTSD. Essentially, it is behavior therapy, which is brilliant.” Tristan reached over and flipped a couple pages. “There, read that.”

  Virtual Reality Exposure or VRE therapy. An effective therapy in the treatment of post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), by using an immersive computer simulation of military combat situations. While not a cure, VRE has shown positive results by reducing the symptoms of patients with PTSD, OCD, generalized anxiety disorder and those battling substance abuse.

  “Am I reading this right? This VRE therapy is basically a virtual reality video game that can help me with my PTSD? I call bullshit.” Micah dropped the brochure onto Tristan’s desk.

  “Yes. And no,” Tristan responded. Micah put his hands on his hips and gave Tristan a look that didn’t just call bullshit, it screamed it.

  Tristan grinned, grabbing the brochure and forcing it back into Micah’s hand. “It is a virtual reality simulation yes, but it is not a video game. The simulation recreates the situation that caused the PTSD, or one as close to it as possible.”

  Micah’s eyes went wide and he moved too fast, stepping backwards and almost falling. Tristan quickly grabbed his arms and tried to help steady Micah on his feet. Micah jerked his arms away, livid. “No fucking way, Tristan! You want me to relive losing my fucking leg over and over again until I’m too numb to freak out over a bar fight or a car that backfires or a slamming door? That would slowly drive me mad.” Micah closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. When he sighed, Tristan could hear the frustration in the sound.

  “Micah, don’t you know me better than that by now?” Tristan hadn’t moved from his perch on the edge of his desk. He was a master at remaining calm and aloof when necessary, which was often in his chosen profession. Looking into Micah’s eyes he saw more than just anger and frustration; Micah was scared. He stood staring back at Tristan for a good two to three minutes, clenching and unclenching his fists.

  Tristan gave Micah the time to calm down, not speaking again until he was certain his words would be heard for what they meant, not what Micah was reading into them. “First, I need you to understand that I care about you Micah, and I would never suggest any type of therapy for any of my patients that I hadn’t thoroughly researched, especially one that I consider a dear friend.”

  He waited for Micah to acknowledge what he had said, getting a jerky head nod, before he spoke again. “Second, you need to actually read the brochure. All of it, every word, until you understand what the therapy entails. If you have questions, ask me. If you want a second opinion I can contact the doctor that suggested this therapy to me and set up an appointment for you.”

  Micah’s head shot up, eyes wide. “No. I don’t want to see another doctor. Just you, Tristan.”

  Tristan held his hands up, placating Micah. “I don’t want you to see another doctor either Micah, but you need to know that the option is there.”

  Tristan couldn’t help but laugh when Micah’s body slumped, relief washing over him like rain. Obviously tired of standing, Micah flopped down in Tristan’s chair and buried his face in his hands, mumbling something Tristan couldn’t quite make out.

  “Third, in my professional opinion, I think this therapy could have a positive outcome for you, Micah.” Tristan stood, taking the few steps that put him in front of Micah. He sat down on the coffee table, reaching out and lifting Micah’s chin so they were face to face again. “There is no cure for PTSD Micah, but with the right therapy I think you can get to a place where it is manageable and no longer has a chokehold on your life. Are you willing to at least try? I promise you that I will be there with you every step of the way, if you will let me.”

  Micah was finding it very hard to think with Tristan’s face mere inches from his own. He had
the sudden urge to close the distance and see how Tristan would react if he kissed him. Micah watched as Tristan’s eyes drifted down to his mouth, then back up. He sat perched on the end of the chair, willing himself not to move closer. Tristan took a deep breath, exhaling slowly, his pupils starting to dilate as he stared at Micah. Before Micah could react to that little detail, Tristan’s phone rang.

  Tristan was back behind his desk before the third ring. “He… Hello.” Tristan choked out the greeting.

  Get your shit together Micah! He chastised himself, taking a few deep breaths before he stood and turned to grab the brochure off Tristan’s desk.

  “All right, see you then.” Tristan was sitting down behind his desk, obviously wanting to put some distance between them. “Well?”

  “So, if I decide to do this, what type of simulation would you use?” Micah asked, fingers making air quotes.