by Jodi Payne
Surely James would have been ashamed to have him read that. Thomas was just trying to…connect, he guessed? There. Connect. Right. All the connection, just without orgasms and ropes and lube and leather things and…
Would you stop it?
“No, it wasn’t meant for you specifically. You’re probably correct in that assumption. But you needed to read it. Let’s be honest, Sam. If I had told you about the nature of a large part of my relationship with your brother, if I had said that I was his Master and he was my submissive, what would you have done? Assuming you even knew what that really meant, as opposed to some fetishized TV version of the lifestyle, would you have believed me? Would you have understood what it meant to James? To us?”
He didn’t even know how to answer any of those questions. Not even one. So he went with what he did know, and what was the best thing to say. “I can tell he loved you very much.”
That was decent, right? Not pervy or weird or mean or nasty. Just decent and also the truth. James had been lucky to have found someone to be with.
“I want you to come to the club, Sam. Meet his friends. Our friends. Come have one drink. You don’t have to stay long. I would be very pleased to see you.”
He shook his head. He couldn’t. He just couldn’t. What if he embarrassed himself? What if he embarrassed Thomas? What if…?
“I—” He coughed, his words caught in his throat.
“Hm? Why don’t we say seven o’clock? It will be quieter at that hour. I’ll text you the address.”
“What? Tonight? But I have—” Something. Come on. Come on, Sam Houston O’Reilly! Herpes. The plague. Plumbing issues. Crippling fear. “—laundry.”
Thomas chuckled. “I’m guessing the machines won’t care if you stand them up. See you at seven. Come as you are, hm? Looking forward to it.”
Thomas hung up the phone.
What had just happened?
Seriously. What the actual fuck had just happened?
He wasn’t going to go to some club and get embarrassed to death. He wasn’t going to be able to even look Thomas in the eye. No way.
He wasn’t going.
He would simply text at seven with “Caught the flu” or maybe tomorrow with “Sorry, fell asleep.”
His phone lit up with a text from Thomas. The address of the club, followed by, I’ve arranged an Uber for you. It was nice to finally hear from you. I was getting worried.
Oh man. That was so cheating. He hated disappointing. Hated it.
So fucking cheating.
You want to know, that awful, curious little voice whispered inside him. That voice had encouraged him to get on his first bull, had told him to drag race Paulie Marquette on the Nueces Bay Causeway, had encouraged his first cigarette, his first bottle of Cuervo, and his first spliff. It had also been there when he’d applied for grad school, when he’d published his first article, and when he’d tried bronc riding and found his event.
He did.
He wanted to know.
“Goddammit. What’s wrong with me?”
Too bad Sam knew the answer to that. He needed to know. He’d never once told that little voice no.
Not one time.
9
By the time the car dropped Sam off, he’d decided to hand Thomas the journal and make some dumb-assed excuse. That way he knew the book was in safe hands, knew no one else on earth would ever know it existed; then he would find a biker bar and get into a fight.
He stood on the sidewalk, looking at what was apparently the entrance but really wasn’t much more interesting than most of the apartment building entrances back in James’s neighborhood.
The door opened, and a young man wearing a lot of leather gave him a wave. “Sam O’Reilly? You’re in the right place. Master Thomas is waiting for you.”
“Uh. Evenin’. I just…I mean, I brought him his book and all.” Shut up, Sam. Stoic. Cowboy up. Think Sam Elliott. Slow and steady and calm.
Right. Calm. He’d done three hundred crunches to try and make the zooming in his mind go away. There wasn’t enough beer on earth.
“I’m Mark. Come on in. He asked me to keep an eye out for you.” Mark held the door long enough for him to catch up and brought him inside. “Master told me not to make a big deal of it, but…I just have to tell you, I’m really sorry, really sad about James. We miss him around here.”
“Thank you, sir. I appreciate it. He was a good man, and it’s good to meet all y’all.” He offered one hand to shake. Just because he was nervous was no reason to be rude.
Mark shook briefly and gave him a quick smile, and a few steps later, he approached a round table, where Thomas was sitting with several others, and went right to his knees next to one of the men without a word.
Thomas gave him a smile and stood. He was also wearing leather, though just pants. His black button-down shirt was made of something rich and expensive-looking, and Sam smoothed his own dress shirt, hoping his pressed jeans were sharp enough. “Sam. Hey, you look great. Glad you could make it. Please take a seat.” Thomas pointed to an empty chair.
Fuck-a-doodle-goddamn-do. He hadn’t intended to sit. “Thank you. Evenin’, y’all.”
He sat, leaving his hat on. He could hide under the brim with the best of them.
The place wasn’t…skeezy. In fact, it looked like a nice hotel bar, like a place that was meant for little groups to chat.
No bowls of peanuts on the tables or Bud Light neon signs, of course. He guessed kneeling on the floor with peanut shells would be gross as fuck.
“No one expects you to remember names right now, but I’ll do quick introductions anyway. I wanted to get together the men who knew James best for you. This is Clint, and you already met Mark, that’s Adam and Rick…” Thomas went around the table and introduced nine men, only five of whom were sitting at the table. The others stood as they were introduced, then knelt again.
“Mark met James at the gym. He’s one of the reasons James came to the club to begin with.”
“Pleased to meet y’all. I appreciate y’all meeting me.” Dear God, please let me survive tonight without having to eat my own fist to not say something stupid. Somewhere James is laughing his ass off at this. Smite him with fire. Amen.
Thomas rested a hand on his knee. “What would you like to drink?”
“I’ll take a light beer, please.” No chance of even getting a buzz, but polite. He caught his thigh tensing, and he forced himself to relax. One beer.
Thomas gave his knee a squeeze and let him go. Thankfully, his beer arrived quickly, giving him something to do with his hands.
“So, Sam, what do you do in Texas?” That guy’s name was…Ron? Rick? Something with an R.
“Little bit of everything, I reckon. Rodeoing, some ranch work, a little research. Just whatever needs doing.” That was true enough, if simplified down to the lowest common denominator.
Oh, go math tutoring.
“He’s also overly humble.” Thomas winked at him. “In addition to braving the rodeo and running his family’s ranch, Sam’s an art historian, and he does research for authors writing Westerns and movie-makers.”
Rick smiled. “An academic, like James.”
“Our momma was a teacher. Schooling’s important to her.” And he loved it. He’d loved being in school. Loved learning new things. Loved the whole idea of Western art, of the cowboy way preserved in the fabric of America. Sometimes he ached to be able to paint, to sculpt, but his talents were with sharing it with other people.
“Remember that kid James got into college?”
“Oh, yeah. How did that story go, Thomas? Something about the SATs.”
“It was more than the one young man.” Thomas nodded and looked at Sam. “James ran into a handful of high school kids on the subway one afternoon riding home from school. Kids that lived in his neighborhood. They were all talking about studying for the SATs, how unfair they thought it was that some kids could afford those expensive prep courses to help them do bett
er and they couldn’t.”
“James set up regular weeknight study sessions with the group of them for a few weeks at the library,” one of the men added. Thomas was right; he wasn’t remembering names.
“Every single one of them got into college.”
“It was remarkable and generous,” Thomas added.
“But he was always doing stuff like that.” That was Mark, from his knees. “I’m a disaster with plumbing. He came over one time after work and fixed my toilet when it was leaking.” Mark wasn’t the only one with stories.
“Right? He helped me move, and all he asked for was pizza and beer. Carried all my shit, including this big-ass couch with me down three flights of stairs.”
“This one time, James brought me soup and movies when I had the flu.”
“I remember that. Did you know he made it himself?” Thomas sounded proud.
“He told me that. I wasn’t sure I believed him.”
Thomas grinned. “Believe it.”
“Was it porn?” one of the men on his knees asked.
“Huh?”
“The movies—were they porn?”
“One totally was. The other was The Lion King.”
The whole table started laughing.
The Lion King had been James’s favorite movie as a kid. They’d had to watch it every single time it was his turn to pick before Daddy came home.
Sam felt like a tornado was spinning behind his eyes. All these thoughts just running like mad, and he didn’t have time to look at any of them. Not now.
Later. If he looked now, God knew what he’d do.
Other than some men on their knees, there wasn’t anything about this group that shouted deviant at him. They were laughing, talking sports, James, food, all normal guy talk, except the teams were different and he didn’t know any of the restaurants they’d mentioned. He’d somehow gotten to the bottom of a second light beer as the conversation started winding down close to two hours later.
Two hours to drop off a book.
Clint, one of the few names he remembered, stuck out his hand to shake and stood. “Very good to meet you. I think Thomas has a tour planned, so we’re going to give you some room. Have a great night.”
He stood as well, offering the man a smile and a nod. “Thank you, sir. It was something else, to hear all y’all telling stories on James.”
James was ten times the man he was, Lord knew.
“We miss him. It felt good to share them with you.” Everyone at the table agreed, and there was a flurry of handshakes, nods, pats on the back, and suddenly Thomas put a hand on his shoulder.
“I’m sure you’re a little overwhelmed by all of that, but I want to give you a quick tour, and we’ll get you home.” Thomas picked James’s journal up off the table. “Are you sure you want me to have this?”
“I am. It ain’t mine to have, and I sure as shit won’t be giving it to Momma.” He chuckled softly, shook his head. “Everyone loved him. That’s good to hear. Y’all honor him well.”
“You worry a lot about me, Sam, I know. I wanted you to see how much support I have. Some of these men know me better than they know their own brothers. The safety net here is wide, and it’s reliable. I might not be standing here without it; that is the very honest truth. I want that for you. If not here, at least with me.”
“You’re a dear man. James was lucky to know you.” And he meant that. James had figured shit out, Bowie had figured shit out, so maybe he’d be next. One way or the other, these people had been James’s new family.
“Thank you. I can be a lot more than that if you let me.” Thomas’s brown eyes pinned him for a second, almost long enough for him to panic about what the hell it meant. “Come on, quick tour.”
“Sure. Then I’ll get out of your hair.” Sam needed to…he wasn’t sure, but he knew he needed privacy to figure out his shit. He wasn’t ever going to look like he couldn’t manage in front of Thomas again. Once had been enough.
“I like you in my hair.” Thomas tossed that off over his shoulder like he was talking about the weather. He handed off James’s journal to the bartender. “Scotty? Can you please put this somewhere safe for me? It’s private.”
“Yes, Sir.” Scotty took the book, then nodded to Sam.
Sam nodded back, smiled, keeping his hat low enough that he stayed in the shadows. Lord help him get through this without hitting someone in the face, getting a boner, or embarrassing James’s memory.
“From the bits I read in James’s journal, I think he mentioned most of what you’re going to see. Did anything stand out for you? Feel free to ask anything you like.” Thomas made it sound like James’s journal was a textbook or something. What stood out for you, have any questions—like this was a field trip for Kink 101. “Oh. So in the main room, starting about nine—” Thomas looked at his watch. “So any minute…there’s usually a floor show and dancing, kind of alternating all night. The club is twenty-four seven, by the way. Never closes.”
Sam had a sudden image of a drill team and the high school band on this terribly classy barroom floor, a bunch of Aquanetted blondes in short skirts doing high kicks while the band played Sousa marches, and near-hysterical laughter tried to bubble out of him.
Stop it. Right now.
One-two-three, kick. One-two-three, kick.
“I didn’t think bars could be open all night.” Oh, good on him. He sounded interested but not like he was fixin’ to lose his shit.
“This isn’t a bar. It’s technically a private club, open to the public for certain hours. After hours is members only.”
They headed up a long hall that went back much farther than he’d expected, given the subdued entrance and the size of the main bar. There were some open spaces with couches and mirrors, and some closed doors, and a handful of rooms that didn’t have doors on them at all. Thomas stopped by one of those to let him look in.
“Anyone is welcome in the rooms with open doors.”
This room was empty at the moment, but was lined with heavy-looking drapes, had some suspicious-looking furniture in it, and had neatly placed restraints all over. Literally all over—floor, walls, ceiling, every sturdy-looking…apparatus. Good Lord and butter, it was like looking into the weirdest tack room on earth.
Sam had looked at Bing over the last day, had seen things that made him gasp and more than one thing that had made him curl over his hand, because he’d catch himself rubbing off, but this was different.
This confused him.
He knew these scents—musk and leather—and they were the smell of good things, of home and adrenaline and men. The visual, though, was totally unfamiliar and uncomfortable.
“Rooms like this are all about imagination, Sam. Sometimes it’s a shared aesthetic, sometimes it might be just about one or two people, sometimes it’s loud…depends on the night, the vibe, and members’ needs. I can take the time to demonstrate how some of these things are used at some point, but you can find out more on the internet if you’re curious in the meantime.”
Thomas stepped aside. “You go ahead, have a look in anywhere you like.”
“You’re a good tour guide, Mister Thomas. I don’t think I’m comfortable just having a look. This seems—” What would Bowie say? “—above my pay grade.” He chuckled softly, letting his wildly swinging emotions out as carefully as he could. “My imagination is a…well, it never thought of this kind of deal.”
He couldn’t imagine how much it had to cost to be a member here. Hell, there was overhead, supplies, utilities, paying off the cops because there was no way on earth this was legal.
“Works for me, cowboy. I do work in a museum, after all.” Thomas walked him past another room so quickly he didn’t get a good look, but he sure as shit knew the sound of a whip when he heard one. “This is one of my favorite rooms down here.”
“Right. You have to show folks around quite a bit.” He wasn’t fucking acknowledging that sound at all, but he remembered the whip-crackers at a few of
his events. Those men were something else, the sound snapping out, ringing through the air.
And best of all, watching the two of them fighting at the biker bar that night.
Jesus. That had been wild without the tequila, and Christ knew the tequila had made it better.
They stopped to look into a fairly full and yet mostly quiet room, where a man, naked with his butt turned to show and muscled to heaven and back, was being carefully bound with complicated and kind of pretty knots, the red rope standing out against pale, bare skin.
“I spend a fair amount of time in here. It’s quiet, it’s deliberate, it’s art and skill. It appeals to me.”
“I bet that takes some patience, for both of them.” He wasn’t sure he could handle that—having to be still and all. It looked beautiful as all get-out, but he’d have a screaming fit or shake apart or just hit somebody. He envied that guy, though. He looked like he was pretty well happy.
“There’s an art to being patient too, isn’t there? Learning how to be still is a skill, an important one. Being able to tap into that spot inside that’s at peace.”
“I bet there is. Like in hunting. Fishing, even.” That was why he didn’t do either of those things. He didn’t have any still to him, precious little wait. Even when he’d drunk so much he couldn’t move, his soul was still running itself into the ground, looking for something to occupy it.
“Like that, and not.” Thomas didn’t clarify.
The bound man moaned softly, the sound content and warm, and the man tying the knots stopped what he was doing. They talked quietly, their voices just murmurs; then they kissed, gentle and slow, and got back to work.
“I have to go. I’m sorry.”
His heart was broken.
All this—all of it, from understanding that he could never be the man James was to the kneeling guys to the whip sounds to the cuffs and all—was nothing compared to that kiss.
He would never have that, and he knew it, and it was cruel of God to dangle it in front of him.