Ben knew what this man was doing. Nikolas was trying to find the familiar in the unfamiliar. To Ben this was all new anyway. He could only imagine how it must be for Nikolas to have nine years of intimate knowledge of personality blown away and be left with the shell that remained. He seemed satisfied with the shell though and finally stood with Ben soaped, rinsed, and squeaky clean in front of him. Erect, too. Roaming hands over his slick body had kept Ben’s interest high.
Nikolas returned to his knees and took Ben’s long, blood-swollen erection into his mouth. Ben slid his fingers into the water-darkened strands of blond hair, and for the first time in his life, according to his curtailed knowledge of those years, he was sucked off by a man in a shower. Although his whole body was aching from Nikolas’s challenging idea of fun in bed, it was also thrumming with need, these sensations so hard to separate that when he came into Nikolas’s mouth it was relief from exhaustion as much as intense excitement, and he sagged, Nikolas just catching him in time, holding him and then pressing their lips together for a kiss.
He mouthed Ben’s cum back to him.
Ben snatched away, slipping on the wet floor. “What the fuck! That’s disgusting!”
§ § §
Ben began to spit theatrically.
Nikolas laughed unconcerned—Ben Rider-Mikkelsen liked the taste of spunk well enough; he’d just forgotten—and started to make a mental list of other things Ben had subjected him to over the years he didn’t like. Revenge was best served cold. Bored with Ben’s theatrics, he snagged him closer and handed him the shampoo, bending his head like an imperious monarch demanding service. Ben huffed but did as commanded, rubbing and twisting the long strands into ridiculous shapes. He’d obviously never washed another man’s hair for him before and was treating it like a novel experience. He paused in his ministrations and felt more carefully. “A raised scar?”
Nikolas nodded, uninterested in discussing more scars. Ben narrowed his eyes. “No, this one…was important.”
Nikolas tipped his head to one side, watching the straining expression. He put a hand up to Ben’s cheek. “Don’t force it, Ben. Let it come naturally.”
“You don’t know what it’s like! Everything is familiar and really, really good now, but I don’t know why. I know this scar…terrified me, but I don’t know why.”
Nikolas began to rinse his own hair, twisting and turning under the water. “You once found a little blue tin. When you held it, you remembered being in a kitchen, someone cooking, the smell of the bread, eating it, the taste of the unfamiliar stuff on the bread—marmite, which you hated, still hate—all of that from one blue tin. But you’d lived in that same kitchen for weeks and hadn’t remembered it at all.”
“Where is it—the tin? Do I still have it?”
Nikolas stepped away from the water and handed Ben a towel, taking one for himself and tying it around his waist. He went around the other side of a partition made from coloured glass bricks, and Ben followed him to a granite counter upon which sat two graceful bowls and elegant curving taps to fill them. Nikolas began to brush his teeth, perched on the counter, still watching Ben.
Eventually, he nodded.
When they were dressed, he produced it—the little blue tin, burnt and misshapen as it was.
Ben held it, turning it in his hands.
His face crumpled with disappointment.
Nikolas pulled him into his arms. “This isn’t fiction, Ben. You aren’t going to pick up something and have your memory rush back in. It doesn’t work like that in real life.”
“But why can’t I remember now if I remembered before?”
“The memories aren’t gone. Only the pathways to them are unclear at the moment. It’s like early morning fog. It will lift.”
Ben pulled away, his brow furrowed with effort to connect to Nikolas’s words. “Fog? It did lift.” He swallowed. “Were we…camping? Why were we camping? It was really misty. Then the mist lifted, and there was a princess with bright red hair! Fucking hell! Am I confusing my life with a fairytale?”
Nikolas couldn’t help a small laugh and made a mental note to text Emilia and tell her Ben thought she was a princess. He could imagine her response. He brushed his thumb over Ben’s cheekbone, removing a tear of anger. “No. That was a real memory.”
“I went camping with a princess?”
“You had dinner with a prince once—the heir to the throne.”
“No.”
“You did.”
“Fuck.”
“You did that, too.”
Ben laughed, despair and confusion evaporating from his perfect features. For one moment, Nikolas understood what Andrea Gillian had meant about premorbid tendency. Ben now had a lightness of spirit once more—something Nikolas hadn’t seen for many years. He supposed it was inevitable. People alter and develop together, and change had been something of a theme of their lives since they’d met. He’d not seen the alterations in Ben because they’d happened slowly—many of them under his tutelage and deliberate. Ben had grown up, become more mature, more sophisticated, quieter, more intense. Had he also become defeated…depressed? It was a sobering thought presented with this raw, unformed version of the same man, now rummaging in the fridge and complaining at not finding anything for a proper breakfast, despite it being four o’clock in the afternoon.
“Would you like to go out for tea? You like scones—and cream. You eat a lot of cream.”
Ben obviously didn’t get this, because he was busy agreeing that yes he would very much like to go out for tea.
Nikolas felt his heart melt and wondered if he was falling in love with Ben Rider all over again.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The confusion in Nikolas’s mind about the various versions of Ben Rider only continued that evening when they returned from tea with some takeaway to eat later. Nikolas suggested they watch a film—something easy and non-threatening for Ben’s mind. Ben readily agreed, but when they sat on the sofa together he resisted, embarrassed, when Nikolas tried to pull him to lie back against him.
He wasn’t fucking cuddling with another man!
Nikolas reflected wryly that it had taken him almost four years of their acquaintance to lie thus on a sofa, and even then he’d done it for another year under protest, lying stiff and unhappy with the arrangement.
Then an awful realisation hit him.
He rose swiftly and went to the kitchen, making the excuse he was going to select a bottle of wine and put the food on to reheat.
This Ben didn’t love him.
It was obvious really, and he knew it shouldn’t be so painful to realise.
Ben had had sex with him, but he didn’t love him. Not yet. That was eight years of shared experiences away.
But he loved Ben.
For the first time, Nikolas Mikkelsen was in a terrifying country called love on his own. Ben had coaxed him to this unexpected land slowly and by sure steps, easing him out of the shadows of his denial until lying on a sofa, wrapped in Ben’s arms, had been his choice, his preference.
He felt arms slide around his waist and turned into the embrace.
“Whatcha thinking?”
“You’re missing the film.”
“I’ve seen it before.”
“But you don’t remember it.”
“That’s not the point. And you’re doing that thing again.”
“Yes. I know. It’s a deliberate tactic to get you to stop questioning me. It’s been very effective for eight years.”
“Well, I saw through it after one day, so stop it. Tell me. What are you thinking about?”
“You. I was thinking about you and what you think about all this.”
“Good luck with that then. Let me know if you have any insights.”
“I always do.”
“Thought you might.”
“You are very cheeky, Ben Rider-Mikkelsen.”
They stilled. Ben pulled away. Nikolas winced. “I didn’t mean to say that. It’s too mu
ch for you to—”
“Rider-Mikkelsen? What do you…? I…? For real?”
Nikolas nodded.
Ben glanced back toward the TV room and pouted a little. He twitched his nose, clearly thinking. Ben wasn’t stupid—despite Nikolas trying to convince him for the last eight years that he was—and Nikolas had the distinct impression Ben had now worked out for himself what had upset him about the recent scene on the couch.
Ben glanced over. “That’s not who I feel I am. Sorry. I’m just Ben Rider. You get that, yeah?”
Nikolas nodded again. The power of speech had utterly deserted him.
“But I guess I could try…?”
They took the wine in and the Chinese still in its cartons, as Ben declared he may be suddenly gay and about to cuddle with a man (the c word being snarled with such derision Nikolas had to laugh), but he wasn’t fucking eating Chinese takeaway off china plates—the Queen’s or not. That was just bollocks.
They lay together eating and drinking wine, and watching a mindless movie with lots of unnecessary explosions and unlikely recoveries from major head traumas, and Nikolas couldn’t say he was unhappy despite his earlier terrible epiphany. Sometimes the appearance of something was almost as good as its presence.
Almost.
§ § §
Although they didn’t go to bed until four a.m. due to their very late rising, Ben was still not tired. He was a creature of habit, and his body didn’t take well to this complete change to his normal routines. He hadn’t run for days; he was eating unusual food; he was in a strange house. And he’d just been inside an unfamiliar man. Change to his normal routines indeed.
After tossing and turning for some time, he crept quietly from the bed, which had been pristine upon their return from the tea room, something which had made him frown in wonderment but hadn’t even elicited a flicker of acknowledgment from his boss—Nikolas, he must remember to call him Nikolas—and went to the kitchen. Chinese food was all very well, but it often made you hungrier after you’d eaten it. He sat at the kitchen table alongside the snoring dog with a mug of tea and some biscuits, and listened to the empty house. It was unnerving sitting in a lit kitchen with a glass roof. He felt like a target on a remote missile launcher in some crazy video game. He got up and turned the lights off, which was much better.
What the fuck?
He felt as if he’d been on a spinning fairground ride—enjoying the exhilaration while it lasted, but now he had a moment off the ride, so to speak, or not, when he remembered what he’d been doing half an hour before…he was dizzy, sick.
What the fuck?
Had he always had this desire for another man’s cock, lurking under the surface of his normal life? Sure, he’d always liked sex, although the army left soldiers fewer outlets for normal relationships than other men; more one-night stands, more prostitutes…But Ben had rarely been interested with that lifestyle either. He’d always told himself he respected his body too much for casual sex, one night stands—that he wanted more…Had that just been an excuse for not admitting he wanted…men? Did he? He hadn’t noticed himself eyeing up other men since this great revelation with Nikolas Mikkelsen. But he hadn’t met that many—the barber who’d cut his hair, the boy in the Chinese shop…not much to bring in a verdict one way or the other. Squeezy? Fucking hell.
What did he think now, in this peaceful kitchen bathed in moonlight, when he thought about the man he’d left sleeping alongside him?
A stab in his groin.
A swelling.
A tingle in his spine.
That’s what he thought!
He smiled a small feral smirk of lust and wanted to go back and wake Nikolas Mikkelsen.
What the fuck?
Again.
He sighed and went to put his mug in the sink. Who’d come and washed the tea things? Who’d taken all the sheets and the mattress and returned it all to a pristine state? How had the bathroom looked as if no one ever used it? Who took care of the fucking horses? Didn’t horses need mucking in or something? What was this place, where everything was so beautiful and gleamed in moonlight? For one tiny, embarrassing moment, which he knew he would always remember with a deep cringe of horror, he wondered if instead of losing his memory, he’d actually died and gone to heaven.
Strange heaven though…in some ways.
He saw a flicker of light on the counter.
Nikolas’s phone. Unread texts.
Somehow, Ben knew without even knowing who he was or who Nikolas was that he wouldn’t be allowed to read Nikolas’s texts. It was just the way things were between them. This much had been made clear in the three days he’d spent with this strange, challenging man.
He picked it up and thumbed read.
Nikolas wasn’t to know he knew he shouldn’t do this.
Apparently he was Ben Rider-Mikkelsen. Wasn’t it up to him how he interpreted that?
There was one message. It was from a woman called Emilia. It read: mke sure Ben does NOT find out about our plans for Xmas. Will be with u on 22nd Still working on your present. xxxxxxxxxxxx Love u more than u love me Emilia.
And there it was.
The thing that had sent his memory spiralling into the ether. Emilia.
Nikolas and Emilia.
Don’t tell Ben.
I love you.
He’d been right. He shouldn’t have read Nikolas’s texts.
He didn’t love Nikolas Mikkelsen, of course, but this still stung like hell. It hurt for the Ben he’d been, the one who’d found out about this betrayal. He was rubbing the scar on his wrist and suddenly glanced down. He hadn’t asked—what would he have said? Did I try to kill myself? It was unthinkable. But now, maybe not so impossible…But had this scar been connected to his memory loss? Had this come first? Find out about Emilia…the wrist…memory loss…
What the fuck took on a whole new meaning.
§ § §
Nikolas woke when his phone hit him and broke, the back falling off and the battery clattering out on the bed. It hit him on his nose and cheekbone, which was unfortunate, as he’d suffered injury there before and they were both sensitive. He sat up and got punched, which sent him off the bed onto the floor. Being who he was, it was the last hit Ben got in, for Nikolas was then up and on him and had him pinned to the wall before Ben’s fury could inflict more damage. “What the fuck, Ben!”
§ § §
“Who’s Emilia? You bastard! You did this to me! I found out about Emilia and that’s why I’m like this, isn’t it?”
Nikolas’s eyes widened. He bit his lip. He began to tremble slightly.
Ben thought he was seeing fear. Remorse? Then he realised the shaking was amusement!
Ben began to struggle, and he was very strong, and Nikolas would have had to hurt him to keep him pinned to the wall, and it’s hard to harm someone when you’re laughing. Instead, Nikolas backed off quickly to the illusion of safety on the other side of the bed.
When Ben began to advance again, Nikolas jumped onto the bed and was over and out along the walkway before Ben could process just how fast the powerful man could move. He caught him up halfway along the swim lane, tackled him, and they fell into the cool, blue water. Nikolas couldn’t swim and laugh either, so he propelled himself out like a cork shooting under pressure from a bottle, and ran dripping and slopping through the kitchen and out the front door into the cold moonlight. Ben came after him and almost had him down on the grass, but Nikolas was too quick and dodged, disappearing behind a huge rhododendron. Nikolas knew the grounds; Ben didn’t.
“Come here! You fuck!”
“I didn’t want to tell you in your fragile state. She’s a model. I couldn’t help myself.”
The disembodied voice was coming from somewhere to his right, and he made his way cautiously through the trees.
“Are you jealous, Benjamin?” Nikolas dropped on him from a tree, pushed him face first into the mud and ran off, naked, in the direction of the tor.
Ben swore and threw a rock at him, which connected with a satisfactory thud and an “Ow!” of annoyance. Ben, also naked, took after the fleeing figure. There was a path under the flying buttresses of the rear part of the house. There was a stream, an old bridge and a pond. Nikolas was squatting on the far side of the pond, white in the moonlight. As Ben watched, he seemed to…disappear. He was spreading fucking mud on himself! Ben slithered across the slippery bridge. Nikolas had shifted into the bracken and was silent. Ben looked at the boggy peat and at his own naked body glowing pale in the unearthly light. He copied Nikolas and went, darkened and muddy, into the dense bracken of the tor. Stealthily, he began to crawl up.
Obviously, Nikolas Mikkelsen knew this place very well. The bastard had probably climbed it with him before. Ben didn’t know it, but…did. He had a kind of innate sense of where he was and where he was going. The smell of the bracken at night was incredibly familiar. Even the play of moon shadows stirred something good in his heart. He heard a faint sound and knew someone was cursing that telltale noise and trying to stay silent. He didn’t give away his location. Shape, shadow, silhouette, texture, spacing, movement: it wasn’t rocket science—the things that gave position away. He could see the top of the tor a few metres away now and decided to go for it. He’d have a full arc of vision then across the hillside. He’d be able to spot the bastard.
He made a dash for it. Something caught his ankle, and he fell heavily, grunting in pain as his knee hit a rock. He was trampled, his hair ruffled, and Nikolas disappeared up the rocks to the top of the tor.
Ben couldn’t risk an attempt on the summit now. The cheating bastard had the high ground. “I wish I had my cigarettes with me. How inconvenient.”
Once again the disembodied voice drifted out in the darkness.
Ben considered his options.
He didn’t have many. One occurred to him. It was slightly beneath him, but then he was standing buck-naked on a tor on Dartmoor in the middle of the night covered in mud, chasing a man he’d recently fucked up the arse. He wasn’t in any position to take the moral high ground. He began to climb, got about halfway up a cold granite face and slipped. He made a lot of noise as he fell, tumbling to the moorland grass below the rocks. He lay still.
This Other Country Page 21