by Trina Lane
Clay held up a hand. He picked up his notepad once again. I’m sorry. I know you didn’t catch any of that. That was stupid of me. So what happened this morning? I mean, obviously, you had a flashback, but do you know what triggered it?
Logan once again shook his head.
“Have you had flashbacks before?”
He couldn’t maintain eye contact as shame coursed through his body. He was a thirty-six year old man. An Army Ranger. One of the baddest of the bad. Supposedly able to chew nails and kill with a single glance. How could he possibly confess to an untold amount of lost time or instances when he travelled back to relive moments spent with his platoon—the gruelling days in Ranger school, the nights drinking beer and playing cards, the first time he’d known he was directly responsible for another man’s death, or most often, that afternoon when the demons of hell were unleashed. How could he possibly confess to being so weak, he frequently woke with tears tracking down his face?
Clay’s fingers locked with his, and Logan closed his eyes, letting the simple touch ground him in the present. The fingers squeezed, and Logan once again met Clay’s gaze.
“I know about the nightmares. I hear you at night. Sometimes, you scream just before you wake up.”
“It’s nothing. I’ll be fine.”
“You’re not fine, Logan! This morning something caused a flashback that made you freeze and curl into a little ball in the middle of a Chinatown bakery for close to twenty minutes. You never sleep, and when you do, your screams bleed through my walls. You hardly eat. You’ve probably lost twenty pounds in the two months since you came to live with me. You don’t talk to me anymore. I can barely get more than one word responses out of you. You avoid me like the plague. I want to help you, but every time I try, you turn your back. Do you despise me so much that you’d rather live in pain than accept my help? Why Logan? We were the centre of each other’s worlds for ten years, and now you can’t even stand to be in the same room as me. Why?”
Logan saw the pain on Clay’s face and nearly broke down. He only understood about half of the rant because Clay was speaking too quickly, but the gist was clear. Clay was hurt. Clay thought Logan hated him. The bond they’d always shared was stretched so thin the final thread was about to snap. And once again, it was all his fault.
His breath locked in his lungs, and his eyes watered. They were not tears, they weren’t. He did the only thing his fractured mind could think of. Launching across the sofa, he gathered Clay in his arms, holding him tight. Clay sat frozen in his arms for endless seconds before long arms snaked around Logan’s waist and squeezed his ribs to the point of near pain.
Clay’s body shook as Logan held him. Was Clay breaking apart the same as Logan? Had the stress cracks finally shattered, and Logan’s rock disintegrated? He relished the feel of Clay in his arms. Not in the lustful ways of his fantasies, but it was as if by holding each other the strands of their bond once again wove together. Gradually, Clay’s trembles eased, and Logan’s lungs freed. He sat back but maintained contact by grasping Clay’s face between his hands. He stared into Clay’s grey eyes, one of the few features that distinguished them from one another. During their teenage years together, many people had mistaken them for twins, they looked so similar. He and Clay had gotten a kick out of the misconception and often didn’t bother to correct the error. They were brothers of the heart, regardless of their DNA.
“I don’t hate you.” Logan made sure to say the words slowly, trying to enunciate as properly as he could. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything.”
Clay reached for Logan’s hands and pulled them from his face but refused to separate the link. “I don’t need your apologies, Logan. You have every right to be angry and scared. I only want to help. Stop shutting me out.”
He nodded his head. “Promise.”
It was time to throw Clay a bone. He picked up his pen and notepad. The only way he would make this clear was to write it out. He didn’t trust his voice right then.
Putting the tip of the pen to the paper he started.
Talking is hard. Not emotionally. I mean actually hard. I can’t hear my voice anymore. I feel the vibrations in my throat, but my hearing loss prevents me from being able to monitor the sounds. I’ve spent hours practicing with mirrors. Trying to watch my lips and match them to the vibrations, but I can only do so much. I don’t want to sound like an idiot when I talk. It’s easier not to.
Clay read the note and frowned. He looked up at Logan, making sure the man could read his lips. “Okay. I understand now. I’m sorry I didn’t think of that.”
He picked up his notepad. I think the first thing we need to do is pay a visit to the VA and find out if you can get some hearing aids while we’re waiting for the approval of the implants. You won’t be able to hear everything, but at least, they can give you more than what you have now. Second, I’m asking…no I’m begging you to get some help with the PTSD. I’ll pay for you to see someone privately, if the VA won’t offer the services or if you don’t want to go there.
Logan shook his head. He scribbled quickly on the notepad. I’ll get help, but I’ll pay. I have savings. You haven’t asked me for any money since I came here. I’ve supported myself for sixteen years. I’m not helpless.
“I know that. I wasn’t saying you were. I…I only meant…Fuck! Why is this so hard? We used to practically read each other’s thoughts, and now, I can’t say more than five words without you misunderstanding me.”
Logan was frustrated, too. He knew it would take time before his and Clay’s bond healed completely, but he had to own up to when his defensiveness reared its ugly head.
“My fault.” He scratched out a few more lines. We’re never going to move on if we’re constantly apologising to each other. You’re right I need help. I’m thankful to you for offering, but I need to do this for myself. Will you call the VA and ask about the hearing aids? Maybe, I can get some loaners until the implants are approved.
Clay read the sharply slanting words then looked up at Logan. “You never could write for shit,” he said, smiling. He looked at his watch. “It’s two o’clock. Let me call them now and see what I can find out.”
Logan watched as Clay walked over to the kitchen island where his laptop and the phone sat. A few key strokes on the computer and the phone was in his hand.
Now that the emotional turmoil had eased, Logan once again looked at Clay with different eyes. He admired the long tapered fingers that tended to fidget when Clay was either bored or stressed. He’d always wondered what those fingers would feel like sliding down his body or buried deep inside him. Hair black as midnight flowed over Clay’s head, and Logan longed to run his fingers through it to see if it was as soft as it appeared. Logan knew Clay’s chest and stomach rippled with muscle. He’d caught a glimpse of the washboard abs the other day when Clay had come back from a run and had wiped the sweat from his face with the edge of his T-shirt. Finally, Logan’s gazed settled on his favourite feature of Clay’s anatomy. The perfect, round ass which topped a set of long legs. The very ass that was currently sticking out, as Clay leant against the island, determined to test Logan’s resolve.
He bit his lip to stop a groan. Of course right at that moment, Clay turned around and caught his expression. A concerned looked crossed Clay’s face, and Logan pasted on a smile while pulling a pillow into his lap. Beneath the plush barrier, he thumped his cock in effort to get the wayward erection to subside before Clay realised what was happening. He tilted his head back, and his eyes caught the play of sunlight across the crystals of the chandelier hanging from the ceiling.
The elaborate antique bronze with four candle-like pillars was more detailed and elaborate than Logan would have thought Clay had chosen. For all he knew, it came with the place. He had to admit it looked good with the other traditional details in the apartment. The metal finish of the chandelier almost matched the fireplace surround.
He felt a little ashamed that he’d never bothered to complem
ent Clay on his home or ask why he’d chosen this place instead of something more contemporary. Boston was teeming with apartments. What was it about this one that had called to Clay? Logan liked it. Traditional yet comfortable. It had all the modern amenities but touches of the old world. It felt as though they had claimed their own little corner of the history exploding from the pores of this city.
His thoughts were disrupted when Clay sat on the ottoman directly in front of him.
“You have an appointment tomorrow at eleven o’clock. The audiologist had a cancellation and apologised that you were never told to come in before now. She said it’s standard procedure to be fit with traditional hearing aids while awaiting approval. They’ll have to take impressions of your ears to make the moulds then in about two weeks you’ll get the aids.”
Logan smiled. It looked as if things may be on the right track. “Thank you.”
Clay knelt on the floor in front Logan. “I did my part. Now, you have to do yours.”
He nodded. He refused to let Clay down again. He would get the help he needed and, maybe, along the way, find the courage to come forward with the feelings consuming him.
Chapter Three
Logan stood outside the line of brownstones in Back Bay. Inside, supposedly, was a man who could help him. He’d done his research carefully, asking online groups and doing a search for medical credentials to find the right person for the task ahead. While getting a handle on the PTSD was ostensibly why he was here, he specifically sought out a healthcare professional reported to be gay friendly. Dr. Lincoln was a trained psychiatrist who not only specialised in clients recovering from trauma but was openly gay, and people in the Boston GLBT community were frequently referred to him for help.
A car alarm went off a few spaces down, and Logan jumped. He was still getting used to hearing those sounds again. The hearing aids he’d been fit with at the VA only a few days ago had opened up his world, but certain sounds were jarring after living in a quiet world for so long.
He jogged up the steps and saw the brass plaque beside the door with a list of businesses confirming he had the right location. Apparently, the businesses each had a floor to themselves. He stepped inside the foyer. Dr. Lincoln’s was situated on the first floor, and there was a door to his left labelled with brass plate similar to the one outside.
He placed his hand on the knob and turned slowly, peeking his head around the corner of the door. He immediately saw a young woman sitting behind an antique writing desk situated in front of the bank of windows that faced the street.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
Logan straightened to his full height and entered the room as confidently as possible. “My name is Logan Callen. I have an appointment with Dr. Lincoln.”
“Yes, Sir. I see you’re a new patient.” She picked up a clipboard with some papers attached. “Can you please fill out these forms? Dr. Lincoln will be with you shortly.”
He accepted the clipboard from her outstretched hand and turned to see two club chairs and a love seat in a sitting area at the opposite side of the room. There was a solid wood wall beyond the furniture, and he wondered where Dr. Lincoln’s office was since this was quite obviously only a reception area. He sat in the chair and looked at the forms he was required to complete. Mostly, it was basic information until he reached a section of open ended questions about family and home life, work, neighbours, and several spaces left blank asking him to describe his current problem.
Like that’s only going to fill up three lines.
He answered as best he could and returned the forms to the receptionist.
“Thank you, Mr. Callen. I’ll be right back.”
She walked past him and slid one panel of the wooden barricade to the side, exiting further into the office. Logan felt stupid that he hadn’t realised the barrier was in fact a sliding wall. He chalked that up to nerves.
Left to his own devices, he paced until the nervous energy annoyed him then forced himself to choose a spot amongst the offered seating. He lifted the strap of his laptop carrier over his head and sat in one of the club chairs. He picked up a magazine and idly thumbed through the latest Hollywood exploits, chuckling as he read about the latest scandal. He would think people had better things to do than worry about spoiled celebrities. Then again, he was reading it just like everyone else in the country. He heard the receptionist’s voice to his left, smiling at the realisation that he actually did hear her.
When he walked through the opening in the wall, he came face to face with the man he presumed to be Dr. Lincoln. The man had a commanding presence. He matched all of Logan’s six-foot-three-inch height and exceeded him by a couple more. His torso rippled and bulged with muscle. The man would have been terrifying to those of more timid natures had it not been for his relaxed posture and the kindness in his eyes. He was younger than Logan had anticipated. Late thirties, early forties maybe?
“Mr. Callen. Nice to meet you. I’m Dr. Lincoln. You’re welcome to call me Matt. I don’t want you tripping over my title when we talk.”
Logan held out his hand. “Nice to meet you, too. Thank you for seeing me.”
“While I appreciate the acknowledgement, you should be thanking yourself for having the courage to make an appointment. Please make yourself comfortable.” Matt gestured to the sitting area around the fireplace. “I know how hard it is to take this first step, and I’m glad you’re here.”
Logan briefly nodded his head. He looked around the office, which looked more like a study. Hunter green walls and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves were filled with a mixture of leather-bound tomes and decorative embellishments. One wall held several framed degree certificates. Logan noticed there were two windows, but both had heavy drapes covering them. He supposed the good doctor didn’t want his patients’ minds to wander beyond the guided discussions. Logan sat in one of the traditional leather club chairs and waited for Dr. Lincoln to join him. He took out his laptop and, while waiting for it to power up, continued to scan the room.
What could have been an oppressive cave was made inviting by several table and floor lamps. There was a large executive desk in rich, dark wood combined with a high-back leather chair. He could picture some old English Lord sitting behind it with a highball looking over the week’s correspondence. Logan shook his head at the fanciful notion.
He noticed that his desktop appeared ready and opened his Skype programme. When he’d emailed the doctor from Clay’s computer asking for an appointment, he’d explained his problem, and Dr. Lincoln had suggested they use instant messaging to facilitate their discussions. Logan thought the idea was genius and, that day, had gone out and bought a MacBook. He and Clay had even started using IM around the apartment, instead of the long-handed notes.
Matt settled down in the chair across from his patient and logged into the chat programme. He typed, “Mr. Callen, may I call you Logan?”
“Please do.”
“Logan, let me tell you how I plan to conduct our sessions. For the first few minutes, I’d like to get to know you better. Find out what things you enjoy doing, where you’re at in your life and where you want to go. Then we can delve into what brought you here, seeking help.”
Logan looked up at Matt and nodded his head.
Matt typed, “I can see that you wear hearing aids. Can you hear me if we choose to speak instead of use the chat?”
“They help me to hear some sounds, but the injury to my inner ear destroyed my speech understanding. In order for me to understand you, I have see your face and you need to speak slowly. It is possible but difficult.”
“Thank you. I’ll be sure to remember that. Tell me a little bit about yourself.”
“What do you want to know?”
“How about we start with you telling me one thing about you that isn’t well known?”
Logan fidgeted for a few seconds, trying to think of something deep and significant. When he couldn’t think of something on par with obtaining world peace he typed
, “I like to watch B rated horror movies late at night, while eating a bowl of Ben and Jerry’s Phish Food.”
Matt chuckled. “I prefer Cherry Garcia and Gene Kelly movies.”
“Gene Kelly was good, but I’ve always thought that Van Johnson’s talent was overlooked.”
“Remind me what he played in. I know the name but can’t recall what he did.”
“He played opposite Kelly in Brigadoon. The sidekick who masks his emotionality with dry witted sarcasm. I figured that’d be right up your alley. :-)”
Logan was starting to relax. He settled down into the chair and felt the muscles in his back and neck release some of the tension they’d been strung with. This wasn’t so hard. It was just two guys talking, well typing anyway. He’d done this thousands of times, millions of times.
Matt grinned. “Yes, well, who likes to bring the office home with them.”
And just like that, the tension returned.
“Sometimes the office follows you home, whether you want it there or not.”
“Are you speaking of the hearing loss or the PTSD?”
Logan guessed the time for avoidance had come to an end. He’d been guided into a false sense of security with the casual conversation, but now, Dr. Logan was going to force him to face his demons. It was truly a brilliant tactic.
“Either, both. I’m not really sure.”
“Tell me about the hearing loss first.”
This he could do. He geared up to give his spiel. “I explained on my paperwork that I am an Army Ranger, or I was anyway. The hearing loss is a result of a head injury, from an explosion while I was on deployment, which caused transverse fractures to my temporal bones. The fractures damaged my cochleae, and I was left with a severe sensorineural hearing loss, bilaterally.”
There was no immediate text appearing on Logan’s screen so he looked up at Matt.
“How many times have you given that explanation?” Matt said, sitting back in his chair.