Something Like Trust
By Kris T. Bethke
Published by JMS Books LLC
Visit jms-books.com for more information.
Copyright 2019 Kris T. Bethke
ISBN 9781634869225
Cover Design: LC Chase
Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.
All rights reserved.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published in the United States of America.
* * * *
Something Like Trust
By Kris T. Bethke
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 1
My eyes snapped open and my body went completely still as I took in my surroundings. I scanned the area, trying to orient myself. It took only a few seconds for the familiar ceiling, curtains, and bedspread to seep into my consciousness. Still, I had to force myself to relax. To stand down. I took deep, even breaths, and focused on releasing the tension in every rigid muscle. It was another minute or so before I could breathe easily.
I was home. I was safe.
It wasn’t the first time a vividly realistic dream had yanked me from slumber back into the waking world. But this time it wasn’t a horror-filled vision of the desert, blood, and exploding IEDs. My time in combat had produced some terrible nightmares. Though thankfully they were fewer and farther between since I hadn’t seen action in five years; sometimes I still had a moment upon waking where I couldn’t remember if I was Jared the civilian or Staff Sergeant Connors the Marine.
Nor was tonight’s dream a night terror in which I failed my siblings in an epic fashion. The twins were nineteen now, away at college and thriving. But the past five years had been a struggle. The loss of our parents had been difficult on us all, and we’d been in a bad place for a long time. I’d done everything I could to see that Audra and Zane were raised in the way my parents would have wanted, but it hadn’t been easy.
Over the years, as the dreams of the death and destruction of combat had faded, they’d been replaced by visions of the twins in increasingly bad situations, things that were a direct result of a misstep or a mistake I had made. When waking from those dreams I had to spend a long time reassuring myself that they were happy, well-adjusted kids, who strived to make the best of themselves. They both attended Washington State University, with Zane focusing on a pre-veterinarian track and Audra studying business. They worked hard and played hard, and really, I couldn’t be prouder of them.
But tonight’s dream hadn’t been about combat, or my siblings, and my residual hard-on tenting the sheets told me exactly what kind of dream it had been. I scrubbed my hands over my face as I sat up. A glance at the clock showed it was just shy of oh four hundred and there was no use trying for any more sleep. Now that I was awake, I didn’t have any hope of getting that last half hour of rest. Not with thoughts of him in my head.
I’d never been one for erotic dreams. Not even as a teenager. Back then, I’d been too focused on helping my parents with the surprise of my siblings—I’d been fifteen when they’d been born. I’d joined the Marine Corps right after high school, and once in, I was too worried about hiding my sexuality so I didn’t receive a dishonorable discharge. I wasn’t dishonorable, and there was no way I was getting kicked out of the Corps for something that wasn’t either. So I kept quiet and hid my sexuality so I could do my job.
But two weeks ago, Brandon Culpepper had shown up in my life, and my body was suddenly making up for lost time. I thought about him frequently when I wasn’t focused on my current assignment. And when I was working, he was there, and though I was concentrating on the job, I had trouble keeping my gaze from constantly traveling back to him. He was perfect and flawless. Barely five foot six, with shiny black hair and light blue eyes. His pale skin was nearly translucent; when I was close enough I could see the faint blue veins in his hands and temples. He had a sweet face, and demeanor to match. I’d observed him closely since he’d arrived on set, and I knew he was kind, gentle, and accommodating. He was everything I wanted, a complete opposite to me, but I couldn’t have him.
As far as jobs went, working security on the set for the popular TV show Rourke and Geary was deceptively easy. Once my partner, Miranda Lassiter, and I had beefed up their security, all we had to do was remain as a visual presence. There had been no direct threats. I thought that we were actually unnecessary at this point, but the boss had signed a contract and the brass on the show wanted us there. I was bored, but happy to show up to a job where I didn’t have to constantly be on red alert. An awareness of my surroundings was enough to keep everyone safe, and I was always aware of my surroundings.
Logically, that should have made Brandon off limits. He was, essentially, a client, though he was guest-starring on the show and would be gone once he’d shot all his episodes. Another six weeks or so, it sounded like. And getting involved with someone you were working to protect, no matter how simple the job, was always a bad idea. Besides, he often looked at me like I scared the shit out of him, so I couldn’t imagine he returned the infatuation. Brandon was the fantasy, and I should leave it at that.
With a heavy sigh, I got out of bed. My dick was still hard, but I ignored it. A good workout would take care of it, and I needed to start my morning. The small house I’d bought when I moved us to Seattle nearly five years ago didn’t boast much room, but it actually had a basement. I’d finished off a section of it and set up a weight bench and a treadmill. I was no longer an active duty Marine, but I was a reservist, and that meant I had the responsibility to keep myself in top shape.
An hour, seven miles, and a few dozen reps later, I was done and feeling more centered. I jumped into the shower to get rid of the sweat. I’d learned the art of a short, efficient shower in the Corps, and it took no time to cleanse myself. Hell, my dark brown hair was barely a half an inch long, and was practically dry by the time I toweled off. I wrapped the towel around my waist, and stood at the sink to shave. I made quick work of the task, going as much by touch as by sight.
I dressed in the black cargo pants and black polo shirt that was the uniform of Riverside Security before I headed into the kitchen. The laptop on the table booted up while I made my standard breakfast—a cup of black coffee, two pieces of wheat toast, and four scrambled eggs. By the time I sat, the computer had done its thing and every alert I’d set up pinged into my email. I scanned the news while I ate, making sure I was up to date on anything I needed to know.
Lucas Logan was headlining the gossip sites. Again. They always seemed to have one story after another featuring the lead actor. Not a single one
ever got anything right. It was a little surprising actually. The laws of probability meant gossip should have to hit on something true eventually, even if they were making it up. But by some stroke of luck, or some miracle, the only thing the media ever got right about Logan was his home address. And they sure didn’t know he was living with Aaron Zeller. I got the impression that Logan and Zeller wanted to keep it that way. In fact, they didn’t act like a couple at all when they were together. If it weren’t for my keen observation skills, and my uncanny knack of knowing exactly when to eavesdrop, I wouldn’t have known they were lovers either.
Truth was, they looked good together. And they were certainly good for each other.
Satisfied that I hadn’t missed anything important that would negatively impact my duties, I stood from the table and crossed to the sink. I washed the dishes in short order, and by oh six hundred, I was out the door and climbing into my Tahoe. I’d get to the warehouses that housed the soundstages and production offices early, but that was better than late. First makeup call wasn’t scheduled until oh seven hundred. But most of the cast was on the call sheet today. Including the prominent guest star.
I wanted to do a sweep of the building to make sure everything was secure.
* * * *
My task was to remain silent and vigilant. I had no problem with either aspect. I’d been on set for a couple of weeks, and I knew how things worked fairly well by now. I continually searched the soundstage, looking for anything that could be construed as out of the ordinary. It was habit now, the track my gaze made, and I knew exactly what I was looking at as I made my circuit.
I had no problem pulling my attention away from Brandon Culpepper. Where I did seem to have difficulty, though, was keeping it from straying back to him.
The moment the director called “action,” a transformation the likes of which I had never seen took place. Brandon went from sweet and angelic to psychopathic serial killer in an instant. It was as complete as flipping a switch, so absolute was the change. Gone was the guy I observed barely able to complete a sentence without blushing red and stuttering, and in his place was a man even I would be afraid to meet in a dark alley.
It was creepy as hell.
And, inexplicably, utterly arousing.
I chalked that second part up to the fact that Brandon was everything I wanted. He could have been reading from the phone book and I would have still gotten hard. But to watch him in a scene, his presence so commanding, I was fascinated.
A hush fell over the set as the director, a competent, and no bullshit woman named Constance O’Meara, called for “places.” Within moments, the cast and crew were ready. I let my gaze travel another circuit of the entire set before retuning my attention to the small space where the filming was taking place. Just a corner of the set had been transformed to look like an empty warehouse. The extra on the ground was covered with fake blood, and waiting patiently for the scene to begin. Brandon was looking everywhere except at the woman at his feet. He fidgeted, and lifted a hand to touch his hair before he remembered himself and aborted the movement. He took a breath, then slowly blew it out.
“Action,” O’Meara called, her voice heavy with anticipation.
I held my breath as I watched. That moment as Brandon slipped into his character never failed to excite. And there it was, like an entirely different person had taken over his body. His smile was slightly maniacal, and he started humming a wordless, eerie tune of his own invention. He picked up the huge but fake knife his character used to cut apart his victims. His actions were slow, methodical, as he mimed slicing into the victim’s abdomen. For her part, the extra was perfect, whimpering and crying out until the life left her. Brandon seemed to take no notice of her as he went about his work, walking around her, getting covered in the fake, viscous, sticky blood. And then he lifted the knife, holding it up and admiring it, before he extended his tiny, pink tongue and licked it.
I shuddered. What did it say about me that a scene like that made me want to fuck him six ways to Sunday?
“Cut!” O’Meara called. The set relaxed, and Brandon dropped the knife like it burned him. I cut my gaze over to the director’s chair to see her studying the monitor in front of her. It had been only the second take, but to my inexpert eye, it had looked like a good one. My suspicions were confirmed a moment or two later when O’Meara nodded.
“Looks good, people,” she called with an authoritative air. “Let’s clear the set so we can reset for the intestines. Brandon, sweetie, you can take a break but don’t get cleaned up yet, all right?”
O’Meara never talked to anyone like that, but as I’d learned, Brandon was a special case. Everyone treated him differently, like he was just too precious for words. If I were honest, I wanted to treat him special, too.
He nodded, his smile shaky, and headed toward a quieter corner of the set. He stared at the blank wall, keeping his hands far away from his body. I had the sudden powerful urge to go over there and comfort him. Because sure as shit, that man looked like he could use a tight hug.
Brandon was good at what he did, no doubt about that. Judging from the way every last person on the set was impressed with him, I knew he had a rare gift. I was also certain that the scenes they were shooting would make for compelling TV. I wouldn’t be surprised if an Emmy was in his future for his work on this show. He was that good.
I glanced around, checking, but everything was in order so I let my gaze rest on Brandon again. He had pressed his forehead against the wall, and I watched as his shoulders rose and fell with a deliberate rhythm. The man was doing his damnedest to cope, though I couldn’t imagine what was plaguing him. I’d taken several steps in his direction before I even realized it, when a sudden shout caught my attention. They were ready to begin again, the scene reset for the next camera angle. I watched Brandon take another deep breath, center himself, and walk back onto the set.
I checked in with Miranda over our comms, who was on soundstage one with the principle cast members. They had already started shooting scenes for the next episode, while O’Meara picked up additional footage of Brandon’s serial killer that would be worked in as needed. When I got the “all clear” from Miranda, I once again focused on the action before me.
It took another hour and a half, and five different takes, before O’Meara proclaimed herself satisfied. As soon as she called an end to the day, Brandon reached for the wet towels and began to wipe the blood from his hands and face. It came off easily enough even if it left behind a faint pink tinge on his skin. It actually matched his usual blush rather nicely, and as soon as he colored at whatever the production assistant beside him said, the stains from the fake blood disappeared.
Brandon handed back the towel, then he looked up directly at me. I held his gaze, not looking away. A myriad of emotions crossed his expressive face before a look of determination settled. He took a deep breath, then another, before he deliberately walked toward me. I held my ground. I had to admire the resolute set of his shoulders.
He stopped in front of me, but a good two feet away. I was once again struck by his much-smaller size, and seized by the desire to wrap him up and keep him safe. He commanded my whole attention, just by being there in front of me, and I let him have the full weight of my gaze. It only took him a moment to crack.
“J-J-Jared? W-w-what have I d-d-done?” Brandon’s voice was quiet, the hint of a southern accent softening the edges of his words.
“You haven’t done anything,” I reassured him, making sure I spoke softly.
Confusion creased his brow, and he slightly tilted his head like he was trying to work something out. What it did was expose the column of his neck. I wanted to bite it.
“B-b-but you k-k-keep…” he paused, and inhaled sharply. When he was once against centered, he spoke, his words surer. “You’re always s-staring at me. I reckon that means you must think I’m a threat of s-some s-sort.”
There were about a dozen answers I could have given him, and every o
ne of them was plausible. Every one of them had, at least, a kernel of truth. But I hated games, and I didn’t play them. It wasted too much time and energy, and I refused to lie. I would give him the truth, and he would do with it what he wanted.
“You’re beautiful. Captivating. Fucking creepy as hell when that switch flips and you become your character, too.” I looked him in the eye, and shrugged. “It’s fascinating. I love watching you. I’d like to do a lot more.”
Brandon blushed so hard I thought I could feel the heat radiating off him. He gaze raked me from head to toe and back again. Then he took a huge step sideways, stammered out a “thank you,” and turned on his heel. I watched him retreat and resignation settled into my gut.
I’d given him the truth, and he’d run. Guess that was all the answer I needed. Enough distraction. I refocused my attention on the set and shoved the beautiful Brandon Culpepper out of my head.
Chapter 2
I heard his footsteps a good sixty seconds before I felt his presence and his heat. I knew what his gait sounded like, even when he was tentative, and there was no doubt he was headed right for me. I finished my visual sweep of the set, not acknowledging him until he spoke my name.
“Jared?”
I really did like the sound of my name on his lips. I turned to him, and let myself smile. “Hi, Brandon.”
He went beet red, which was entirely too appealing, and his gaze skirted away from my face and landed somewhere over my left shoulder. “Hi. I’m s-sorry about the other d-day.”
I nodded, never taking my gaze off him. “I threw you off your game with that, huh?” It wasn’t really a question. We both knew that’s what happened. Brandon turned even redder and nodded.
For a long moment, he didn’t say anything else. Then he seemed gather his strength and almost managed to look me in the eye. “Are you gay?”
I blinked, a little surprised. I’d have thought that would have been obvious with my blatant come on. But if he needed to hear it, needed that solid confirmation, I had no trouble giving it to him. “Yes, Brandon. I am gay.”
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