Silent Heart

by Amy Lane

  “No,” Preston admitted, sounding miserable.

  “I don’t either,” Damien told him. “You and your brother are my best family.”

  Preston let out a strangled little sob. “You can put your arm around my shoulder again,” he said, sounding defeated. “Just… just tell me, okay?”

  “Tell you what?”

  “When I can kiss you. I’ve waited for a long time already.”

  Damien closed his eyes and pulled him closer. “Wait until you’re not grieving,” he said. “Wait until it’s all okay.”

  For once, Preston didn’t ask the obvious question. What did he mean, “all okay”? But Damien was relieved, because he didn’t have an answer for that. He and Glen had exited the military the month before, and Gecko Inc. was but a seed in Glen’s brain at that point. Lavinia was gone, and they were both worried about Preston.

  And Damien hadn’t had a relationship that lasted longer than a year, and he didn’t want to risk that with Preston.

  Preston was too dear, too important to muddy up their relationship with sex. Besides, what would Damien tell Glen?

  Now

  PRESTON squeezed that warm hand on Damien’s knee, and Damien shuddered and covered it with his own.

  “Are you cold?” Preston asked, but there was a mocking edge to his voice that told Damien he knew exactly what he was doing.

  “No,” Damien said grumpily.

  “Am I touching the part that hurts?”

  Damien was tempted to say yes, but Preston would feel bad, and that wouldn’t be fair. “Your hand feels really good. It’s been a….”

  “Finish the sentence.” And that mocking edge was still there.

  “It’s been a long time since I was touched,” Damien muttered. God, the best and worst thing about communicating with Preston was that you couldn’t evade and you couldn’t play word games. Damien would normally use this moment as an excuse to flirt—“It’s a good thing I’m not ticklish!” or “The arm rest not good enough for you?”

  But not with Preston, and Preston knew it.

  “We could have been touching,” Preston said cheerfully. He moved his hand up higher on Damien’s thigh. “We could have been touching for the last five years.”

  “Yeah, but I didn’t even have my act together five years ago. We didn’t put the business together until a few months after that. And why would you want to touch me now?”

  Preston moved his hand from Damien’s thigh to Preacher’s head, where it rested on the seat behind them.

  “I am still not understanding what the problem is,” Preston mumbled. “Why am I having such a hard time with this?” He turned to Damien accusingly. “You,” he said in irritation, “aren’t making any sense. Why would I not want to touch you now? Because you’re afraid?”

  “It’s not very attractive in a man, is it?” Damien shot back.

  “But if we’re going to be kissing, wouldn’t it be my job to make you feel better?”

  “Lovers fall down on that job all the time,” Damien muttered. The truth was, he hadn’t had any lovers since the crash. The one thing he’d thought about when he’d been up on that mountain was coming back and telling Preston how he felt—how he’d felt for the longest time—that he agreed. They should be kissing.

  But Preston’s seeming rejection—and his own body’s treacherous lack of healing—had persuaded him that maybe they shouldn’t.

  He didn’t think he could take Preston’s revulsion if he saw Damien’s leg now.

  “I wouldn’t,” Preston told him. “I know you go up in the air every day when you’re afraid—that’s brave. I broke my wrist riding a horse in high school, remember?”

  “Glen read your letter to our barracks,” Damien said, not wanting to smile. Preston’s version of the horse that made no goddamned sense had been highly entertaining. Damien had grown up around the animals—had, in fact, played polo during his high school years—and he’d known exactly what Preston had been doing wrong. He’d felt for both of them, the confused human and the very confused horse.

  “I’ve never gone back on a horse,” Preston told him. “I figured me and horses were just not meant to be, or I’d understand them like I understand dogs. And you could have done that with flying. Decided that you and helicopters or you and planes just weren’t meant to be. But you didn’t. You’ve been trying to get back that part of you that loved it—and that’s amazing.”

  Preston moved the hand back, and Damien realized his knee felt naked without it. “It’s not amazing,” he said bitterly. “I’m… it still scares me.” And yet that got a little easier to say.

  “It’s amazing to me,” Preston said, his voice a little wobbly. “Does that mean something to you? Personally? Because it’s me?”

  Damien found himself threading their fingers together. “Yeah. Yeah, that means a lot to me. I… I like being your hero,” he admitted.

  “I’d rather be your lover,” Preston told him, and maybe because he didn’t say kissing or sex, so baldly that part of Damien flinched, this sank in.

  For a few moments he flew in silence, searching for words, but he kept tight hold of Preston’s hand.

  “You’re done talking now,” Preston said, and all Damien could do was nod.

  Nayarit

  PRESTON had spent the night before they left worried about Glen and unable to sleep. He’d known that he and Damien would be flying out the next morning, so he’d gone around to all the dog kennels, said hi to his friends, made sure everybody was happy, fed, watered, and healthy, and had then sat down and done the books and written out training plans for Ozzy and Belinda.

  Ozzy and Belinda were smart about the animals, and they listened to Preston closely because he had the degree in animal husbandry, but writing the training plans and nutrition requirements for everybody helped Preston organize things in his head, and they never questioned it. Besides, Ozzy told Preston privately that Belinda’s attention span wasn’t that great—she had trouble organizing things in her head—and the lists really helped her do a good job. She’d been told her whole life that she was pretty, but she really only felt smart at Preston’s place, where they could take care of dogs and make them happy.

  But just putting things in order with the ranch made it easier for Preston to sleep now. His mind wasn’t going back and forth trying to remember what he’d forgotten.

  And Damien was holding his hand.

  The touch was such a relief. It felt honest, like a promise. Like there would be hugging later.

  And kissing.

  And sex.

  Ever since Preston had become sexually active, he’d thought about Damien, his kind brown eyes, his smile.

  Damien would probably laugh a lot during sex—he’d probably crack jokes and say nervous things until Preston took over his mouth in one of several ways he’d learned.

  Dreaming about making Damien quiet and having his body respond to Preston’s was enough to send a tingle under Preston’s skin.

  So much about Damien was appealing. Preston was fascinated by his mouth, because it was that perfect medium between full and lean. By his hair, which was black and thick and wavy. By his hands, which were amazingly long-fingered and gentle. Preston had seen him giving bottles to puppies on the ranch, and he’d touched them so delicately.

  Preston knew Damien’s leg would be scarred and imperfect. He was wearing jeans today—when he normally would be wearing cargo shorts, because it was hot and they were more practical. Preston knew enough about how people were embarrassed to know that Damien had stopped wearing shorts after the accident for a reason.

  He just didn’t think Damien would specifically want to hide his leg from Preston. But the more they talked, the more Preston realized that Damien had really wanted to kiss Preston as much as Preston wanted to kiss Damien. He realized that maybe Damien was more embarrassed in front of Preston.

  Damien wanted Preston to think well of him.

  Complicated.

  Emotions wer
e complicated. Glen told him once that emotions were like a pile of tiny puppies, all of them wiggling toward one goal. Sorting them out required care, because if you pulled on a tail thinking it led to one puppy but you accidentally pulled too hard, you would hurt someone who was only trying to find comfort.

  Preston didn’t want to tweak Damien’s tail, but he would really like to single him out of all the other puppies so Damien could be his and his alone.

  And maybe forcing him to talk while they’d been in the air had been necessary, like tweaking a tail to find the right puppy was sometimes.

  But all of that sorting, that peopling, that forcing Damien to communicate clearly—it was all exhausting, and Preston fell asleep, hard and deeply, in the front of the airplane.

  When he woke up, Damien had untangled their fingers and was radioing a control tower for permission to land and refuel outside of Los Angeles. Preston reached back for Preacher to touch his head instinctively as they circled the airfield and began a gentle descent. Preston had never claimed to be good at flying—he’d never gotten the hang of landing without nervousness. When he had to fly commercial, he would listen to music with his eyes closed for the last half of the trip so he didn’t have to know they were landing until the plane touched the ground.

  There was a bump, and Damien pulled up the flaps to slow the vehicle down, a harsh panting sound coming from his throat. After the plane was down and taxiing toward the fuel pump, Preston opened his eyes and looked at the man next to him.

  Damien’s skin was normally a sort of tawny gold, but he looked almost gray now, and there were big wet stains under his arms.

  Hesitantly, because he didn’t want to distract him, Preston put a gentle hand on his knee.

  “We’re fine,” he said, his voice so unnaturally loud that Preacher gave a small surprised woof. “You did great.”

  Damien’s breathing evened out, and he gave Preston a wry smile before assuming the stoic death mask he apparently now wore when he was landing.

  “Thanks,” he said. And then he added, “Tips welcome, and be sure to tell my boss.”

  Preston didn’t get the joke—because Damien and Glen were their own bosses, they owned the company!—but it was a joke, and it was good to hear Damien try to make one. His smile spread ear to ear and didn’t fade until they’d disembarked and he was walking Preacher behind the hangars so he could take a crap.

  HE got in a good jog with Preacher after the hound had taken care of business, so he was pleasantly tired and ready for the lunch Damien had bought him at the commissary. They ate at a little picnic table by the far hangar, while a mechanic checked the coolant levels and the air filters in the Cessna.

  There was lots of dust in the summer, and an overheated engine was no joke at ten thousand feet up. Damien had already checked these things back in Napa—Preston had seen him finishing up when he’d returned from the store—but Preston figured Damien was allowed a little paranoia after his crash.

  “Cookies!” Preston said happily, looking at the little paper packet of three that was in his meal box. Belinda was always worried about her weight, which Preston didn’t understand because Ozzy thought she was beautiful, and why would she worry? But she was the one who bought groceries, and she never bought dessert.

  Preston and Ozzy would take their best dogs on long hunts, sometimes, just so they could buy chocolate or ice cream at the little gas station three miles down the road.

  “Belinda still on a diet?” Damien asked, chewing determinedly on his roast beef sandwich. “Because that’s a shame.” He’d changed his shirt since the landing, and Preston wondered if he didn’t just pack extra every time he traveled. That would be a pain in the ass.

  “I miss cookies,” Preston said glumly. “Ozzy does too.” He bit his lip and wondered if Ozzy would forgive him for sharing personal information. “Belinda wants to get pregnant. She says losing weight would be better for her and the baby.”

  But Damien’s smile made the minor breach in protocol worth it. “That’s wonderful! They’ll be awesome parents.” He frowned for a moment, like he was doing calculations in his head. “The house is big enough, right?”

  “More than big enough. But there’s that little cottage behind it—one big bedroom, one big living room, kitchen, bath.” He smiled a little. “It’s more like a house. But I thought I’d move in there. It would be my summer project. And then Ozzy and Belinda could have the house, and they could have lots of children to play with the puppies.”

  “That sounds amazing,” Damien said happily. “I can’t think of a better way to grow up.”

  A question occurred to Preston—a personal one, which didn’t happen often. “Did you have puppies when you were growing up?”

  “No,” Damien said, voice dropping. “No, my parents were allergic. And even if they hadn’t been, our house wasn’t really dog friendly.”

  Preston could feel his forehead folding. “But if it’s not dog friendly, it’s not really kid friendly, is it?”

  “Not so much,” Damien said, a corner of his mouth pulling up in what should have been a smile. Damien and Glen had a whole bunch of “should have” expressions like that. Expressions that said that while their words said one thing, there were other things going on behind them.

  “What is that look?” Preston asked baldly. “Why do you have that look on your face?”

  “Nothing important. Kim is done with the plane. We should go.” He stood up and threw away his rubbish and held out his hand for Preston’s.

  Preston yanked his back like a kid. “Not until you tell me what that look was.”

  Damien scowled. “We can’t do this every time—”

  “Yes, we can.”

  “No, we can’t. We don’t have time! We need to get your brother—”

  “Then just tell me what that look was!”

  “I was sad, okay? Because my childhood was all grades and sports and making sure I didn’t track dirt through the house, and not a lot of pets and hugs. My parents buy new furniture every year and make sure nobody ever sits down on it so it’s perfect. They let me get a betta fish once, but flushed it when it got a little bit pale and didn’t match the rocks in the bottom of the bowl. I love that Ozzy and Belinda get to raise their baby on your ranch, with all the dogs in the world and parents who will hold them and play with them and an Uncle Preston who will teach them how important quiet is. Are you good now? Do you know what I’m thinking? Can we go?”

  Preston regarded him in surprise. “Yes. You’re right. It’s getting late if we want to get to Nayarit and then go find Glen.” He stood and threw away his own trash before making sure he had a firm grip on Preacher’s lead—and only then realized his hands were shaking.

  They walked side by side to the plane for a few strides, and then he found he had something to say after all.

  “You could spend time at the ranch, with the dogs and the mess and the baby. And me. Even if we don’t kiss. You know that, right?”

  But Damien only grunted without answering, and Preston figured that no, it was probably news to him.

  DAMIEN didn’t get sick before taking off this time—Preston made careful note. But when they got in the air, he did make a request.

  “Can we… you know. Not talk about hard stuff now? I’ll be honest, Preston. I’m done with the hard stuff for a while.”

  “One more question,” Preston said, thinking this should be easy.

  “One. Promise?”

  “Yes—it’s not even that big a deal.”

  “Sure it’s not.” Even Preston understood the reversed meaning there. “Okay, shoot.”

  “When are you going to wear shorts again?”

  Damien grunted. “When my leg doesn’t look like something from a horror movie. Are we good?”

  “No.”

  “Why am I not surprised?”

  “Because you’re not making any sense. It can’t look like something from a horror movie when it’s your leg.”

  “Tw
o hundred and seventy-three.”

  “What’s that number?”

  “The number of stitches it took to put it back together after all the surgeries. Fourteen.”

  “What’s that one?”

  “The number of pins they had to stick in it in various places. Nine.”

  “I know that one,” Preston said, the thought making him surly. “It’s how many operations you had, total.”

  “Yes, and two of those were to scrape out infection in the bone.”

  Preston’s least favorite two, because Damien had been really sick and in a lot of pain before those operations. Before the last one, he’d suggested that maybe they might want to leave him under the anesthetic, and the thought had haunted Preston ever since.

  “I remember,” he said.

  “How’s this number—ninety-seven.”

  “The number of days you were in the hospital,” Preston answered, still cross. “I know these things. They hurt you and made me mad. And they tore apart your poor leg and put it back together again and again. It’s not going to look the same, Damien. But it’s still your leg. I’m going to see it when we’re naked anyway.”

  “What makes you think we’re going to be naked?” Damien snapped, sounding as surly as Preston felt. “What about any of these horrible, painful conversations indicates foreplay to you?”

  Preston rolled his eyes, because the jig was up on this one. “You said you wanted me. And I want you. And we’ll be careful of each other’s feelings. That’s really all we need.”

  Damien opened and closed his mouth, and checked all his gauges in the same automatic way that Preston reached for Preacher’s head. Preston waited, all patience, to see what argument Damien had to that. He needed to hear it now so he could reason his way through it before they found Glen, and he and Damien could renegotiate the terms of being him and Damien.

  “Maybe you won’t like kissing me,” Damien said after a few moments that he apparently found uncomfortable but Preston was perfectly content with.