by Jodi Payne
Thomas looked at him, the man’s expression turning serious. “Sam? Sam, don’t go yet. Why don’t we go sit somewhere private for a minute.”
He took Thomas’s hand and patted it, willing the man not to notice how he shook. “This isn’t about you, honey. You have to know that. This isn’t about anything bad. I just have to go. We’ll have supper in a couple three days. Thank you for loving him. That’s the best thing.”
Thomas caught his hand and covered it, as if just that gesture could make it better instead of worse. “I’ll walk you out.”
“Thanks.” He found Thomas a smile because he didn’t want anyone to misunderstand. He wasn’t offended. He was cracked down the center, and he needed to figure out what to do with himself.
Thomas let go of his hand with a sigh and led him back through the much more crowded bar to the front doors. “Just, uh…text me sometime, I guess.”
Dork. He nodded, then offered an olive branch to prove what he’d said. This wasn’t about Thomas. This was about him and his personal bullshit. “How about a late lunch tomorrow? After the church people are done.”
“All right. Tomorrow.” Thomas nodded, though his expression didn’t change. “I’ll come down your way about one?”
“If that’s good with you, surely. I know it burns a bit, being in his neighborhood.” He wasn’t stupid. He got that.
“Less and less. Thanks. And thanks again for the journal. You know how to get ho…uh. Home?”
“Yessir.” He waved and called himself an Uber as he walked. As soon as he got into the car, he asked the man, “Are there any cowboy bars around here? Somewhere I can get fucked up and won’t nobody care?”
“I can find you something, bud.”
“Good.”
He could go see how many men it would take to kick his ass. He understood that sort of hurting.
This emotional shit could kiss his ass.
10
Nope. No. No way.
Thomas waited for the doors to close behind Sam, then stormed back to the bar. “Fireball. No. No. Tequila.”
“Everything okay, Sir?” Scotty pulled out a shot glass.
“I’ll take the glass. And the bottle. And…an empty room.”
“Will six do, Sir?”
“Whatever, just give me the key.”
Scotty handed him a key, the shot glass, a bottle of Patrón Silver, all of which he scooped off the bar, then headed straight for room six. He needed to think.
He didn’t see Clint coming his way until it was too late. He smacked shoulders with his mentor but shook it off and kept on walking.
“Sorry.”
“Thomas?”
“There’s no way.” He needed to extract himself from this. He needed a graceful way out. And what the fuck was this feeling in the pit of his stomach?
He passed the boy in bondage rope and ducked into room six, letting the door slam behind him.
Okay, breathe. Breathe. Fucking breathe, you idiot. Think.
He knew it wasn’t him. It wasn’t him, it wasn’t his choices, it wasn’t home. Sam wasn’t judging anyone at the club.
Sam was only passing judgment on himself.
Of course, a beautiful, broken boy was enticing. Yes, there were times that just looking at Sam made his fingers itch for a paddle or a flogger. Thomas longed to carefully claim power from Sam, help the boy dig deep, help free him from the burdens he carried of family obligation, of personal pride.
That task would be hard enough, he’d already learned. Herculean. Sam was a master at buttoning down, dismissing and discounting his own emotions. Even his own worth.
But…
It would be impossible to free the man from any of those things without first freeing him from the deepest, most ingrained, most basic kind of shame. He’d have to free Sam from the closet.
“No. No, that undermines everything. I won’t do it.”
He bent over and poured himself a shot and threw it back. God, that burned just right.
Fine. Lunch tomorrow would be easy. They’d talk about art and the weather. They’d talk about horses maybe, or the military, something else they had in common. And over the next couple of weeks, he’d just fade out of Sam’s life or…fade Sam out of his.
Sam was some other Dominant’s perfect disaster. Perhaps a woman’s. Someone who wouldn’t cause Sam so much drama.
Clint didn’t knock. He came in, locked the door behind him, and sat.
And waited.
Thomas could have protested. He could have tried to throw Clint out, tell him it was a party for one, tell him anything he liked, but he already knew what a waste of hot air that would be.
“Drink?”
“I brought my own.” He had no idea what was in the glass, but he knew there wouldn’t be any alcohol in there.
For that matter, he’d had his one shot. He wouldn’t touch his bottle again either. But it made him feel better that it was there.
“Over an hour of friendly conversation with men in leather? No problem. Bondage room? Eh. Barely a hint of a reaction, right?” He got up and paced across the room. “Big whip? Completely ignored that as if he’d never even heard it. It’s possible he may have actually enjoyed the ropes to a degree, but what sends him into a tailspin? As in, ‘I have to go now because my hands won’t stop shaking’?”
He looked at Clint, who didn’t seem at all inclined to help him with the punch line.
“A kiss. One lovely kiss between Master and sub, and he ran.”
Clint winced. “God, poor boy. Was it his first time?”
“I have no idea. I thought he was straight.”
“James never mentioned?”
No. James had said he had brothers. I have two brothers. One is a rodeo cowboy, one a soldier.
Not, I have this terribly conflicted brother who is the very definition of “try too hard.”
“James never explained, no. And you know what Sam said? Sam told me his eldest brother, Bowie, is gay. He did not add, ‘and I am too.’ No, he left that out.”
Poor boy. Yes, poor boy. Of course. Just not his poor boy. No way. He had no idea how to make that work.
“I’m sorry, Thomas. I know you were hoping for…some closure? A connection? He seems like a dear man but incredibly lost.”
“There’s only one way I know to coax a man out of the closet, Clint.” There was no way. He’d only just lost James.
“Have you asked him?”
“Clint.” Breathe. He meant that to be funny. Breathe. “I…” He needed to sit down. Now.
Clint moved like lightning, easing him down, head pressed between his legs. “Breathe, Tommy. In and out.”
Clint’s hand was solid between his shoulder blades, keeping him where Clint wanted him.
He didn’t fight. He tried to relax, concentrate on getting air in and out. “I don’t know what to do.”
“You’re here with me. You don’t have to. This is your safe space. You don’t have to know anything but that.”
Right. That was better. Let Clint worry about things for a minute. He could just breathe. He would just stay like this so he didn’t vomit or black out, and breathe. “Okay.”
“Good man.” Clint stroked his back, touched him like there was nothing else on earth that needed doing. He knew if he looked up, Clint would be right there with him.
When he finally attempted to sit up, he was relieved to discover he did feel better. He leaned into the sofa and glanced at Clint. “Thank you.”
He studied his fingernails, trying to figure out what he wanted to talk about. “I don’t want anyone else right now. Is that wrong? I mean, in this context, is it wrong? I don’t think it should be.”
“Do you feel wrong? About him?”
“I feel like we make each other’s lives very complicated.” To say the least. “Yeah. Yeah, with this new information, I feel…like it’s wrong. I can’t go ahead with what I was hoping for him without dealing with this first. He couldn’t be honest. Not reall
y. And I don’t think I’m…I don’t think I…” Even if he found a way that didn’t involve…Jesus. He couldn’t even think the words without James’s name attached.
“If this is wrong, don’t see him again. He will go home and heal. You will heal. He’s not your responsibility, Tommy. He’s a very nice kid doomed to a world that isn’t ours. James escaped; not everyone does.”
He nodded. He was right, then. He needed out of this. “I’m heartbroken for him, Clint.”
“I am too. He seems like a genuinely good man.”
But that didn’t matter. He could almost hear Sam saying that to him. Not James, Sam.
“I’m supposed to meet him for lunch tomorrow. I’ll talk to him, I guess. I don’t know what I’ll say, but…I’ll think of something. I don’t know that it matters what I say. I’m not sure he’d understand. I don’t think he understood that I know now.”
“I know you think I’m ridiculous, but you might just ask the man. He may not know how to tell you.” Clint’s lips quirked. “I swear, James had some odd ideas about what was polite, what wasn’t. I remember how challenging answering a question like ‘How are you today?’ was for him.”
He looked at Clint. “Sam couldn’t tell me why he was apologizing to me the other day.”
“Sam seems to me like a man who might be apologizing for daring to express an emotion.” Clint waved one hand. “Seriously, there is no guilt in walking away and never looking back. He is not your responsibility.”
He sighed. “Are you being serious, or are you doing that thing again, Clint? I’m a little off my game.”
“You are my friend. As much as I cared for James, his brother is a little cowboy who managed to be very polite and open-minded in an incredibly stressful situation. I have nothing against him, but you’re my concern.”
“I wouldn’t have gotten through that first week without you. Honestly. You have no idea the things I was thinking…or maybe you do. I suppose you know exactly.” He sighed. Of course Clint knew. “I suppose just asking Sam outright might be something to try. What have I got to lose? What have either of us got to lose, right? If he doesn’t tell me, then I can walk away and feel like I did what I could.”
“You do what your gut tells you. You can trust it. I trust your gut, implicitly.”
He took a deep breath and sat up straighter. That was exactly what he needed to hear. He could trust himself. Right wasn’t necessarily easy. He’d figure out what right was. “Thank you, sir.”
“Anytime, dear one. Anytime.” Clint winked at him. “I don’t suppose you’d like to go get a milkshake. I have the strangest craving.”
Clint was a wonderful man. Odd sometimes too. Eccentric. But loyal to a fault, and the Dom knew him so damn well. “My treat.”
11
Fuck, Sam hurt from his bruised jaw to his cracked rib to that swollen bit on his thigh where some asshole caught him with a crowbar.
Damn, it had been just what he needed.
He felt like a rainstorm had passed through and made things easier.
Creaky, but easier.
Sam laughed softly, groaning at the deep ache inside him.
“Took eight guys, James. Eight. Not bad for your little bro.”
By the grand finale, he had ended up drinking with four of the bikers he’d fought with and had got himself an invite to come back for fight night anytime.
Fucking A.
God, he should have done this before last night.
His phone chimed, and he reached for it, grinning even as he winced. Just got off the subway, be there in a few.
Thomas.
I’ll come down. After he wrapped his ribs and got a shirt on. He felt like he could think again for the first time in forever, like he could—well, breathing was a little hard, but it was the same basic idea.
When he got outside, Thomas was waiting for him, though not outside the building. The man gave him a wave from about halfway down the block.
“Hey, man. How goes?” He didn’t wave back, but he smiled. God, he couldn’t stop worrying his split lip with the tip of his tongue. It was like a bright itch.
“Hey, sorry. I couldn’t take standing on the stoop—oh my God, Sam! What happened to you? Are you all right?”
“Bar fight. I’m a little beat up but not broke, much.” He grinned at Thomas, rolled his eyes. “You having a decent day?”
“Sam, you…you left the club last night and got into a bar fight? That was better than staying and talking with me?” Thomas was looking at him a little sideways like he was an alien or something.
He got that. Not everyone understood needing to blow off steam. “I was all caught up in my soul, man. Hearing all those stories about James, seeing all that stuff—I wasn’t going to be a good guy, you know? I had hurt and all sorts of bullshit inside. What I needed wasn’t talk.”
He’d needed to lose his shit, be handed his ass, and hurt in a way he could handle.
One of Thomas’s eyebrows climbed halfway into that sandy hairline, and the man nodded slowly. “I see. I do understand some of that. I believe I know a similar, saner, and possibly more productive solution, but the results appear to be more or less the same.”
“This one was hard, but I got an invite back for the next time. They fuck each other up on purpose once a month. Crazy.” He started moving them away from James’s place. “I’m sorry for running out so fast. I should have done this earlier. I need to do stupid shit to restart myself sometimes. Where do you want to eat?”
“There’s a place around the corner that has the best french toast.” Thomas turned and started walking. “You could have just asked me to paddle your ass pink for you.” He was fairly sure he heard a chuckle.
“Butthead! Can you imagine me just being all ‘here’s my backside’ like that?” He had to laugh, though, just at the thought.
Of course, laughing was bad, and he had to pant a little at the end of his chuckle. Damn.
“Actually, I can.” There was no chuckle that time. At all. “Do you like french toast?”
“Yessir. I don’t love it with the powdered sugar, but there’s nothing that goes with maple syrup that I don’t crave. When I’m dieting, they’re the things that call to me.”
“Dieting for riding?” Thomas steered him around a corner.
“Yeah. You got to be lean and have core strength. If I was riding, I’d have to lose five pounds to be at the perfect weight.” He was still doing his crunches, just because.
“Huh. I wasn’t aware of that. Interesting. Here we go.” Thomas stopped, opened a door for him. The place smelled like coffee and comfort-food heaven.
His belly snarled, and he hummed. “Oh, this seems like a good place.”
He could eat here.
They were seated quickly, the hostess giving Thomas a hug before they sat down. “Fresh omelets, good coffee, James used to get this ham steak thing. It’s all good.”
“Are you okay here? It’s cool for you?” He could come back later, if not, because Jesus Christ, this place smelled so good.
Thomas gave him a sheepish grin. “It’s not my first time. I came here a few days after James died. I…really wanted the french toast.”
“There you go. That’s what I’ll try. French toast and bacon and cup of coffee.” Easy enough.
He stretched out in the booth, finding the best place to sit.
“Good. Great.” Thomas waved someone over and ordered for them, two of the same, and they had their coffee just a minute later. “Sam, we need to talk a little about last night. Just a short conversation, but would you rather wait until after breakfast or get it out of the way?”
“I can talk. No problem.” He was floating on the endorphins, the world crystal clear for today. “What do you want to know?”
“Well, Sam. Very frankly, I’d like to know if you’re gay.”
He arched one eyebrow. What a ridiculous question. Surely James had said. Maybe Thomas just didn’t believe it. “Well, duh. I mean, I know tha
t I’m not supposed to be, and God knows what James told you, but I tried being with girls, and I can’t get it up.” Both Bowie and James told him he was just copying them, and Momma kept saying how glad she was that he was going to give her grandbabies, but he knew better. He’d have to jack off in a cup and find some lady willing to do the turkey-baster thing.
“Okay.” Thomas was watching him. He knew that look; James had it sometimes. That look meant Thomas was trying to figure how to say something he wasn’t going to like. “Why did you leave the club when you did? And let me be clear, I know why you left. I want to know why it made you so upset.”
“Envy is a terrible thing, isn’t it? I never got to see that before, two guys kissing like it was easy—not ever. Not for real. And I’m ashamed of that, bad, that envy. It was better to go and deal with my demons.”
“I’m sorry, Sam. That scenario never occurred to me. Thank you for trusting me with that. But envy is…unnecessary now. You’re in a diverse city full of single, kind, openhearted gay men. Those are demons you could let go of if you let yourself.”
He didn’t know how to answer that—everyone was waiting on him to fuck up, and he didn’t know how not to. “It’s hard. I want to make everybody proud. James was…amazing, and he had a life, and he should be here. Not me.”
He didn’t understand how to explain, and he rocked against his bruised thigh, letting the jolt clear his mind.
Thomas sighed. “You’ve said that before. You actually believe that? That it ought to have been you that your family buried? Do you think your family would have missed you less than James?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe not.” He chuckled because it was a moot point. “It doesn’t matter now. James is gone…and wishing won’t bring him home. I do wish I could talk with him again. We had good phone calls.”
Thomas reached over, rested a hand on his forearm with a smile. Kind of a sad smile maybe, but still a smile. “Me too.”
They kind of breathed that in together; then Thomas leaned back in his seat. “Have you been to the top of the Empire State Building yet? Have you seen a show? Have you walked through Central Park?”