The Deeper He Hurts

by Lynda Aicher

  Sawyer still questioned that claim.

  He ignored Asher’s dig and turned his attention to War. “Do we need anything else in the raft?” He was riding with War on this first trip, learning the river and taking mental notes before he ran solo.

  “I think we’re good.” War nodded toward the river. “Run through the last safety reminders and get our group in the raft. I’ll be there in a minute.”

  Sawyer gave him a salute and left without another word or glance at Asher. He felt him, though, Asher’s intensity boring into his back as he strolled to the river’s edge.

  “All right,” he said with a smile. “Who’s ready to have some fun?”

  A chorus of whoops met his question. They had a wild group today, which was exactly what he needed. The four men and two women grinned at him, and he let the rest of his shit go.

  The great thing about guiding whitewater was he couldn’t think about anything else. He had to focus on the river, even on the slower sections. He was responsible for these six people from now until they unloaded at the end of the run.

  Well, him and War today. But tomorrow he’d be on his own with another group of day trippers, and he had a lot to learn and remember.

  He went through the group, rechecking PFDs and helmets for proper fit and tightness, each action shutting down his other thoughts. His other desires.

  His other needs.

  The river would get his adrenaline pumping. The action would engage his mind. The new scenery would capture his attention.

  He’d forget about his life and the pain for the day. Ignore the drifting scent of the forest fire raging in the east and focus on the moment. It was all he could do—had been doing since his entire family had perished in a house fire fourteen years ago.

  “Let’s get this raft in the water,” he hollered, grabbing the bow rope. His past was long done, and nothing he did would ever change it.

  —

  Ash cursed under his breath, his concentration shattered. He should’ve left after War had given him the tracker back. Hell, he could’ve left after he’d given the equipment to War that morning. But he was still out here in the damn woods for no real reason.

  A mosquito buzzed his ear and he swatted at the vibrating hum, certain the little sucker would be back with reinforcements. The citronella torches and candles were obviously useless. Too bad there wasn’t an app for that.

  The Mosquito Killer: Turn it on and watch the suckers plummet to their death.

  He froze, brow furrowing. He pulled up a new file on his computer and quickly started typing, code and concepts zinging from his mind to the page. The idea had merit. Not in real life, of course, but for a game. If he could get it out before midsummer, he had a chance at making a decent payback.

  He ran a quick search on available app games to check if any like it already existed. There were a couple, along with a few claiming to repel the pest via a sound. Seriously? If that worked someone would’ve milked that invention years ago.

  “Hey, Ash,” Grady called, breaking into his thoughts. “Are you staying around for dinner?” He motioned to the food they were laying out on tables under the back patio. The scent of grilling meat logged in to his brain as he blinked at the smoke billowing from the gas grill.

  Was it really that late? He glanced at the time on his computer. Seven o’clock. Damn. “Yeah, sure,” he answered. He might as well eat before hitting the road home.

  He would’ve finished his latest program hours ago if his mind hadn’t kept jumping from one thought to another in an erratic pattern that was driving him nuts. He usually corralled his randomness better.

  And he usually didn’t have a distraction like Sawyer circling his peripheral.

  He clicked over to the photo software, Sawyer’s mug popping up in full color. Water splashed white behind him, his grin countered by the drawn line of his brow below his helmet. Muscles slick and popping with the stroke of his paddle, skill and power the message communicated from the single shot. A great one to add to Sawyer’s employee profile on the website.

  The date and time stamp appeared in the lower right corner, the river location in the left. His new program was working nicely. The location stamp would save the photographers time and hopefully increase their sales. The tracker War had carried on this trip had ticked off the coordinates, which merged with the camera locations along strategic points in the river. Auto-loading the photographs on the company’s website for virtual purchasing was another perk he’d recently added. Linking it to the company’s app streamlined the entire process from shot to purchase.

  He scanned the area, easily finding Sawyer among the group. The day trippers had all departed at some point, leaving the contingent of Kick employees. They’d had twelve rafts on the White Salmon today, along with an intermediate whitewater kayak class. The photographers, kayakers, drivers, and outpost staff were also included with the guide crew.

  Sawyer leaned against a tree, one hand shoved in the pocket of his cargo shorts. The ends of his hair were wet around his face, his T-shirt hugging his broad shoulders and chest before it draped around his slim waist.

  Sawyer studied the others, smiling and responding when spoken to but not truly engaging. Because he was the new guy, or was that his nature? Ash picked the latter. Like himself, Sawyer seemed to observe more than participate.

  Older than a majority of their seasonal staff, Sawyer had an air about him that fit more with that of the partners. Knowledgeable, contained, and too experienced with the shit life dished out.

  The sun was on the way down, still hours from setting, yet pitching the light into that early-evening glow that softened everything, including Sawyer. His jaw appeared more relaxed beneath the beard stubble, his skin golden. The blond steaks in his hair were more butter than white now, blending with the darker strands beneath. Ash’s view was unhindered by the haze that hung high in the air from the distant forest fire. The westerly winds down the Columbia River Gorge could drag the polluted air for hundreds of miles.

  Sawyer’s gaze was focused upward at the moment, a beer bottle gripped in his hand. He appeared contained yet relaxed, but not unaware. If Ash didn’t know better, he’d swear Sawyer had a military background. He’d fit in nicely at Kick—in more ways than one.

  How relaxed would Sawyer be if he was bound naked to the tree he was leaning on, hands tied over his head, the expanse of his back and ass completely open to Ash, free to do with whatever he wanted? Anything. A bullwhip maybe? Cane interspersed with a cattle prod? Or something slower, less expected yet equally as satisfying?

  Ash shifted on the bench, his dick filling with each image of Sawyer sweating and begging or stoically rigid. To feel that strength give, watch it shed away bit by bit until he came apart beneath his hands would be unbelievable.

  He yanked his gaze back to his computer and went through the motions of saving and closing his files before shutting down his laptop. He had his dick under control by the time he took his bag to his truck and snagged his jacket from the seat. A chill was coming in from the Columbia, the heat of the day disappearing along with the sun. It’d be cold tonight, and thankfully he’d be back home in his warm bed before it got that bad.

  At least it wasn’t raining. Trips ran rain or shine, and early July in Oregon was an unpredictable mix of dreary and bright.

  Ash gave up all pretense on why he was still hanging around and headed straight to Sawyer. As much as he should leave things alone, he couldn’t stop himself. Hell, he didn’t want to stop himself. There was an element of enjoyment in taunting Sawyer with something he couldn’t have. The sadist in him didn’t get off on being deliberately mean or a general asshole, but watching Sawyer struggle with Ash’s decision not to play was fun enough to go back for.

  He grabbed a water out of the cooler and rinsed the residual taste of smoke from his mouth. Air advisories had been up for most of the day, but it hadn’t seemed to ruin the fun for anyone. At least not that he’d heard.

  Sawye
r watched him approach, one side of his mouth curling up as he puffed out a short scoff.

  “What are you still doing out here, Mr. Preppy?” He made a pointed glance over Ash, stopping on his deck shoes before he shook his head. “Isn’t this a bit out of your comfort zone?” His smile grew, the dimple popping, but it was lost as he took a long drag from his bottle.

  Ash crossed his arms and simply studied Sawyer. Remarks about his appearance barely registered. He’d outgrown any insecurities over how he dressed around the same time he’d accepted he was gay, and that’d been before his divorce ten years ago.

  “Trip go well?” he asked, going for cordial. “War said everything went smoothly. He even had a few compliments for you, which he’s usually stingy on handing out.”

  Sawyer shrugged that off. “It was good. The canyon’s cool and the rapids keep it interesting.” He glanced around. “The whole area’s different from what I’m used to.” His focus went upward again.

  Ash followed Sawyer’s line of sight and found nothing interesting, just trees and sky. “Is that good or bad?”

  “Just different.”

  “Too much green for you?” He couldn’t say anything about the wet, since it hadn’t rained in the two days Sawyer had been in Oregon.

  Sawyer shook his head, his gaze dropping to stare into the trees that surrounded their property. “No line of sight.” He nodded toward the woods. “I’m used to seeing for miles, not feet. Or at least clear to the next butte.”

  “And that kind of vast openness is foreign to me.” Ash studied the area, trying to understand what Sawyer was getting at. “I’m a born and raised Oregonian, home of the tree huggers and granola crunchers.”

  That got a chuckle out of Sawyer. “I don’t know. Moab will give you a good run on the granola crunching.”

  “I bet.” He smiled. “I’m sure most of these guys would feel at home there.” He nodded toward the rest of the group. Cargo shorts, flannels, sandals, and various headwear from beanies to baseball hats were the general attire. He definitely stood out as the overdressed one—and he’d tried to dress down today.

  “Yeah, they would.”

  The conversation lagged as the general camaraderie of the group flowed around them. A lot of their seasonal staff were college students in their early twenties. A few were year-round guides who’d transition to another outfitter when the season here was done. Grady had been one of those before he’d decided to invest in Kick and plant himself in Oregon.

  “So what else do you do?” Asher asked. “Besides guiding rafts through crazy-as-shit rapids?”

  Sawyer frowned. “Why do you think I do something else?”

  “I run the background checks on all employees.” He raised a brow and let that sink in.

  The frown deepened. “If you know what I do, why are you asking?”

  “I thought it’d be nicer.”

  Sawyer barked out a laugh, grin wide before he hid it behind his hand. “I thought you were a sadist.” Fortunately. he said that under his breath, even though no one was close enough to hear them.

  “I can be nice.” His tone came out harder than intended and pretty much countered his statement. “In fact, I’m generally a pretty nice guy.” He stepped closer, eyes narrowing, voice dropping. “I enjoy inflicting pain, but that doesn’t make me an automatic dick. I’m not into humiliation or degradation, and I sure as hell don’t get off on treating people like shit.”

  Sawyer glared right back at him, the moment dragging out. He sniffed, lips pressing flat, tension winding them closer even though neither of them moved.

  The hair on Ash’s nape stood on end, a certainty settling within him. If they were alone instead of standing in the open with an avid audience, Ash wouldn’t hesitate to charge in. Fuck his employee policy or any other policy he had about play partners. The chemistry between them was too real and strong to walk away from.

  “So you’re just a dick to me then?” Sawyer finally asked, the dig made with a twitch of his lips.

  It was impossible not to see the amusement that shifted over the heat. Sawyer hadn’t retreated or backed down. Instead he’d tossed out a jest Ash could take or ignore.

  “Only when you deserve it,” he countered, stepping back under the guise of taking a drink of his water. He cocked a smile when he lowered the bottle, chest easing. “Come on.” He motioned to the food. “I’m hungry, and the burgers are up.”

  “What if I’m a vegetarian?”

  He gave a dramatic wince. “I’m sure veggie burgers are on there too. We’re in granola land, after all.”

  Sawyer’s deep laugh tumbled over Ash once again, each ripple digging under his skin a bit more. “Then I’ll fit right in.”

  Ash paused, brow lifting. “So you’re really a vegetarian?” His mother had a whole spiel he could repeat by heart on why meat was good for the body.

  Sawyer raised his brow right back, the golden flecks dancing in his eyes before he dropped the act. “No.” He punched Ash in the arm, the gesture more friendly than hurtful. “Let’s eat. Some of us worked our asses off today.”

  “And some of us worked our brains,” Ash countered.

  Sawyer glanced back over his shoulder, heat dropping into his slow perusal. “You obviously work your ass at some point.” He winked. “Let me know if you ever want help with that workout.”

  He walked away as Ash stood there and watched his long strides and a confidence that should’ve been annoying. His chuckle bubbled up from his chest, a slow acceptance of what he’d tried to deny. Good or bad, wrong or right, he liked Sawyer—a lot. And not as an employee, or even a friend.

  He wanted to get to know him better—outside of work. The itch to have Sawyer beneath him, moaning in pain or pleasure, was growing stronger every time they talked. How long would he have to wait? Because it was only a matter of time now. That much he was certain of.

  Chapter 6

  The fire snapped and popped, sparks shooting over the flames. Sawyer tensed, swallowed, and forced his muscles to relax when the sparks faded into the darkness. His spot on top of a picnic table on the outside of the circle gave him both a height and sight advantage. He could see everyone and the entire fire without being too close. Included but not, exactly how he liked it.

  Dinner had naturally progressed to an evening around the large fire pit. It was the true camper’s favorite form of entertainment, even though the Kick Wi-Fi was accessible. Some people were tapping away on their phones, but most were talking or just enjoying the atmosphere. The White Salmon team was friendly and, like many he’d worked with over the years, mostly laid-back, casual, and unconcerned with pretense or stature. With the tourists gone, they were relaxed and comfortable with each other. He’d fit right in—if he tried. And he would as much as he needed to.

  What he had to work on was wanting to.

  The smack of the building door in the distance set him on edge for no real reason. Grady and War had been huddled in there with Asher since dinner ended. It didn’t mean anything and wasn’t his worry, yet he still zeroed in on their movements. The low mumble of their conversation reached him over the chatter around the fire, their voices indiscernible.

  Awareness prickled over his back, but his eyes stayed glued to the fire. A guy threw another log on it, the flames jumping, sparks flashing with his inelegant application. Sawyer tensed again, hand lowering to the table edge. A water bucket was tucked beneath the table, a safety measure he’d provided without anyone’s knowledge.

  The smoke shifted, circling around to waft over him. He held his breath, eyes watering with his refusal to look away.

  “Dude,” a guy chastised, arm waving in front of his face. “Why’d you do that?”

  “Like I can control where the smoke goes.”

  “You are hereby banned from fire duty,” a girl stated, coughing as she hopped up from her chair to escape the smoke.

  The fire offender spread his hands wide. “It’s not my fault.”

  Sawyer bra
ced himself, heart clenching around the burst of fear when the guy wobbled on his perch by the fire. A small collection of beer bottles were piled by his chair, another declaration of his inebriated state.

  “You’re wasted,” a guy said as he stood and yanked the drunk away from the fire by the back of his shirt and shoved him into his chair. “Sit there and stay away from the fire.”

  “What the fuck?” the fire guy protested, starting to rise.

  “Nathan,” War boomed as he walked up to the circle. “I’d better see your bright and smiling face at seven A.M. tomorrow—without a hangover.” He nailed the dude with a steely glare until the guy settled back in the chair and gave him a nod in return.

  Sweat beaded Sawyer’s forehead, his throat raw from the smoke and the stark fear that raced up from his past. He squeezed his eyes closed, hand scrubbing over the back of his head. He tried to center himself, but flashes of a bigger blaze, darker smoke, and the distinct roar of hungry flames shot through his mind to shatter the peace he sought.

  No!

  A hand landed on his shoulder, and he jerked off the table in the next second. Heart pounding, blood rushing, he spun around, ready to attack.

  “Hey,” Asher said, hands raised in a soothing gesture. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  What the fuck? He glanced around, his brain catching up with the present. The fire was behind him, the heat stroking over his back in another taunt he couldn’t shake. But it was just a campfire. Contained in a brick-lined pit. There was no danger.

  Grady stood next to Asher, brows raised high on his forehead. He made a pointed glance down at Sawyer’s clenched fists.

  Fuck. “Sorry,” he managed to mumble, forcibly relaxing his fingers. “You, uh…” He scrubbed a hand over his face, whiskers scratching his palm. “Startled me.”

  War came up next to him in an almost stealthlike move, but he made sure Sawyer saw him. “No worries.” His voice was lowered, but it held an element of understanding. “We get it. That fucker”—he flicked his chin at Asher—“should know better than to sneak up on any of us.”