Chapter Seventeen
Tom
As much as Tom wanted to fuss over Callum until he was sure the other man was feeling better, Leila came first. He spent a long time in Leila’s room, telling her over and over that the stranger was gone, that he wasn’t coming back, that they were safe. She gave him one-word answers and stared down at her book. All he could do was repeat the same words again, knowing they weren’t really what she needed. What she needed was time—enough time spent in safety to trust that the danger was past, enough time spent with Tom to learn that she could rely on him. And he didn’t know if he would get the chance to give her either of those.
So instead he told her she was safe one more time, and told himself to accept the splintered feeling in his heart when she refused to look at him.
When he was sure he wasn’t going to get through to her any more than he already had, he went out to the living room to check on Callum. Callum was sitting limply on the couch, head back, eyes closed. Tom wasn’t sure whether he was awake or not.
Instead of going straight to him, Tom busied himself in the kitchen. When they had stopped to buy food, Tom had picked up a little something extra on his own without Callum noticing. He hadn’t been sure it was worth the few extra dollars—until they could safely access their accounts again, they were going to have to watch every penny—but now he was sure he had made the right choice.
When he was ready, he carried his surprise out to the couch—an oversized mug of hot chocolate, piled so high with marshmallows that one tumbled over the side as he set the mug down on the coffee table.
Tom sat down next to Callum, unsure whether to wake him if he was asleep. But as soon as Tom sat, he opened his eyes. He looked dazed, as if he wasn’t entirely sure where he was or what he was doing.
“Hey,” Tom said. “I made you something. After this afternoon, you deserve it.”
Callum’s eyes widened as he spotted the mug. “How did you…”
“At the store yesterday. When you were busy with the hot dogs.”
The shy smile Callum gave him in response made it impossible to breathe for a moment.
Callum picked up the mug, hand trembling. Tom watched with a frown. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah. Sorry. I don’t do this kind of thing very often, you know.”
“You’re the one who got us out of it,” Tom pointed out. “You have nothing to apologize for.”
He was afraid to think about what might have happened if Callum hadn’t found a solution. Had he really tried to persuade Callum to let him kill the intruder? It all felt so far away now. Just like when he had kept on hitting the man until Callum had needed to pull him away. Something had burst free from him then, something he used to think was safely buried. And it still wasn’t gone. He could still feel an ugly rage burning in his belly, sullenly complaining that the man had driven away before Tom could finish the job.
And when Tom remembered how he had thought killing the man was the only sensible option, he didn’t know whether that had been his rational mind talking, or the ugly thing inside him.
“Where’s yours?” Callum asked.
Jerked out of his train of thought, Tom tried to figure out what Callum was talking about. “What?”
With his chin, Callum gestured toward the mug in his hand. “Your hot chocolate.”
It hadn’t occurred to Tom to get enough for both of them. “I’m fine.”
“I’ll share.” Callum held up the mug, which looked practically big enough to hold an entire pot of coffee. “There’s enough here for both of us.”
Tom shook his head. “I’m okay. Really.”
“Just a sip,” Callum insisted.
It was easier just to go along with him. Tom grabbed the mug that Callum was holding out, and took a sip. He closed his eyes involuntarily as the chocolate hit his tongue. Sweet drinks weren’t normally his thing, or he had thought they weren’t, but the mix of chocolate and marshmallow and sugary sweetness bypassed his conscious mind to wake up something much deeper. It was like Callum had said—it tasted like childhood, like warmth and comfort and love. It tasted like the time before Mary’s death, when all those things had still existed for him. He had almost forgotten there had ever been such a time.
The thought of Mary gave him another flash. He had been sitting here, on the couch, and he had said her name. Why had he said her name?
Tom set the mug down. “Did I…” He hesitated. “Did I say anything to you last night?”
Callum didn’t answer right away. His eyes darted away from Tom’s.
Just how badly had he lost control of himself last night? How much of what he tried to keep hidden had Callum seen? “Tell me. Please.”
“You…” Callum picked up the mug and held it in both hands. Through the steam that rose off the drink, he met Tom’s eyes again. “You told me about your sister.”
He had hoped he had at least managed to keep that part of his past to himself. But deep down, he had known the truth, or at least suspected. “I’m sorry I dumped all that on you.”
“Don’t apologize,” said Callum. “I’m glad I know.”
But Tom felt the knowledge like a tangible thing, connecting them with the force of a live wire, allowing Callum access to a part of him that no one had ever seen. Not even Carrie, or Aidan, or anyone from his former team. He and Carrie weren’t in the habit of sharing secrets with each other, and when he had joined the army, he had vowed to himself that he would put every part of his past behind him. Now the central turning point of his childhood, the secret he had never told, was in the hands of someone he had known for less than a week.
And yet some part of him couldn’t be entirely unhappy that Callum knew. He had carried this shame for long enough, something deep inside him whispered. Wouldn’t it be nice to let someone else share the burden for a while? And who better than the gentle soul sitting beside him now?
But this was just one symptom of a larger problem. Last week, his life had been simple and serene, with everything in its proper place—in his inner world as well as the outer. Now it was all falling to pieces. The furniture shop, which had been his mental anchor since his teenage years, was closed indefinitely—he had told Aidan it was only for the week, but he had no way of knowing whether it would be safe to come back when that time was up—and was no doubt losing customers by the day. His home, his carefully-crafted routines—all gone. Had the mafia gone through his house yet, tossing his few possessions carelessly around as they searched for clues, turning his once-orderly home into a reflection of the growing chaos in his mind?
He had gotten drunk last night. And today he had— He wanted to shy away from the memory, but whatever else he had lost, he still believed in honesty. He glanced down at his bruised knuckles and remembered the feeling of the intruder’s flesh yielding under his fist. It had felt, in that moment, like he was finally free.
“The other day, I told you that self-discipline is important to me,” he said. “Last night I lost that discipline—otherwise I wouldn’t have had those drinks in the first place, let alone told you about my past. And I lost that discipline again this morning, with your father’s man. That’s what I regret, and that’s what you deserve an apology for.”
“You can’t stay disciplined all the time,” said Callum.
“It’s worked for me so far. I have a simple life, with simple rules for myself. It lets me be the person I want to be. It gives me the foundation I need to face whatever life throws at me and—”
“Accept what comes?” Callum cut in.
How had Callum known about the mantra he had been repeating to himself for years? It must have been something else that had come up last night. He nodded. “A lot of what happens in our lives, we can’t change. All we can do is control ourselves and our own reactions.” This was what he had learned in the long years since he had left Carrie. But now it seemed like he was on the verge of forgetting. Had life been laughing at him all along, waiting for him to feel like he had mastered these lessons before it tossed him something he couldn’t handle?
Aidan would be laughing right now, poking fun at his philosophizing. It had never bothered Tom; it had simply been part of the dynamic of their friendship. Tom had willingly endured all Aidan’s good-natured teasing, knowing that some part of Aidan appreciated his steadiness no matter how many times his friend refused to try meditation or smoothies or early-morning runs for himself. When he glanced over at Callum, he half-expected the other man to offer the same dismissive reaction he would have gotten from Aidan.
But Callum was frowning thoughtfully. “I don’t think that’s right,” he said quietly. He took another sip of hot chocolate, his gaze focused inward. He paused for a moment, biting his lip thoughtfully. “There are some things you shouldn’t accept. There are some things worth losing control for.”
Callum’s last words sent a rush of images into Tom’s mind, so sudden and unexpected that he didn’t have time to resist. The two of them in bed, Callum under him, eyes wide and hair disheveled as Tom plunged into him. There are some things worth losing control for.
“I shouldn’t have put up with the things my father was doing for so long,” Callum continued. “I should have been willing to fight.”
Of course that was what Callum had meant. Of course.
Tom tried to clear the images from his mind. “But that goes along with what I said. You couldn’t choose the family you were born into. You couldn’t affect what your father decided to do with his life. All you could control was your own response to all that, and that’s what you did when you saved Leila.”
“Maybe,” said Callum, with the same thoughtful frown. “But that’s not the same as sitting in a neat house and drinking tea and accepting whatever comes.” A second later, Tom watched his eyes widen in horror as he realized what he had said. “That’s not… I didn’t mean…”
“It’s okay,” said Tom. Maybe Callum’s words should have offended him, but they didn’t. He was right—it hadn’t been enough. The life, the self, that he had so carefully constructed had fallen apart at the first sign of real trouble. It was still falling apart, all his peace and serenity and control slipping through his fingers, and he couldn’t stop it.
Maybe he shouldn’t.
The images from a moment ago flashed into his mind again. His body stirred in response.
Once, not so long ago, keeping thoughts like this at bay had been important to him. But not drinking had been important to him too, and last night he had gotten drunk, and the world hadn’t ended.
He slid in closer to Callum. Callum didn’t move away.
He took the mug from Callum’s unresisting hands and carefully set it down on the table. He cupped Callum’s face in his. That dazed look had returned to Callum’s eyes. The other man’s lips parted.
Tom closed the last of the distance between them, and kissed him.
He tasted like hot chocolate. Like warmth and comfort and all the rest. He tasted like home.
Tom thought about how close they had come to death earlier that morning. He thought about how if everything was going to fall apart anyway, he might as well get some enjoyment out of it. He thought, There are some things worth losing control for.
And then Callum’s hand slipped under his shirt, and he couldn’t think at all anymore.
He pulled Callum closer, wanting more warmth, more sweetness, more. Without breaking the kiss, he swung the other man up to straddle him. Tom could feel Callum’s cock responding with a strength that matched his own as his slim body pressed against Tom’s, as his hands slid along Tom’s back, as—
Everything stopped.
Tom opened his eyes, trying to steady his breath. Callum was standing a few paces away, his arms wrapped around himself. He wouldn’t meet Tom’s eyes.
Tom’s stomach dropped. What had he done? He had misread things somehow—he must have. He had thought, after the kiss the other day, that this was what Callum wanted. And his response just now had seemed easy enough to interpret. But now Callum couldn’t even look at him.
“I can’t.” Callum sounded as breathless as Tom when he spoke. His face was flushed. Even now, his pants were tented with his unmistakable physical response. Tom hadn’t imagined that part, at least. “I’m sorry. I just… I can’t.”
“No. Don’t apologize. I misunderstood, that’s all. When you kissed me, I thought…” He looked away. He couldn’t stand to see the hurt in Callum’s eyes any longer. “Dammit. I’m sorry.”
“You didn’t misunderstand,” Callum hurried to assure him. “It’s… I…” He shook his head. He wrapped his arms tighter around his torso, and all Tom wanted to do was replace those arms with his own. He wanted to wrap Callum in comfort until the tension on Callum’s face eased. But that would be the opposite of helpful right now. So all he could do was sit on the couch, with what felt like a continent’s worth of distance between them, and watch helplessly as Callum struggled to put his feelings into words.
“It’s all right,” said Tom, as if seeing the pain in Callum’s face—and knowing he had caused it—wasn’t driving a knife into his heart. “Take your time.”
“If I do this…” Callum’s voice lowered until Tom could barely hear him. “If I let myself want this… want you… then I’m everything they said I was.”
Tom frowned, unable to follow the leap in logic. “I don’t understand.”
“It means I’m not a real man,” Callum forced out. “I’m weak. Useless. Disgusting.”
The ugly rage rose up from Tom’s belly again, this time for reasons that had nothing to do with protecting Leila. It wasn’t enough that Callum’s father had done his best to ruin the gentle soul in front of him by trying to turn him into a killer and a brute. It wasn’t enough that he had destroyed Callum’s self-confidence by telling him he was worthless just because the man hadn’t had the sense to recognize that his son’s strengths were different from his own. No, he had also made sure Callum couldn’t share so much as a simple kiss without thinking he was broken inside.
He shouldn’t have been surprised. Of course relationships between men wouldn’t be acceptable in Callum’s world. The idea had barely been spoken of, let alone tolerated, in the ordinary suburban landscape where Tom had grown up. But he still hadn’t been prepared, hadn’t known—as he should have known—the kind of self-hatred his kiss would unleash.
Callum must have seen some of Tom’s anger on his face, because he flinched away.
That only drove the knife deeper into Tom’s heart. He shook his head, trying to school his expression into something kinder. “No, Callum. You don’t need to be afraid of me. I’m not angry with you, I promise. I’m angry with everyone who ever told you that love is wrong. That you are wrong.”
Callum was staring at the ground. “Can we just forget this happened?”
“If that’s what you want. But I want to make something clear first. Being attracted to men means you like men—that’s all. You keep thinking I’m some kind of super-spy, and I kissed you just now—do you really think that makes me weak? The leader of our Special Forces team married his boyfriend last month. Is he less of a man for it? I’m sure he’d have a few things to say to anyone who dared tell him that to his face.”
“But I…” Callum’s face flushed beet-red. “I could never… with a woman.”
“The friend I was talking about, the one who just got married? I’m pretty sure he’s never so much as kissed a woman in his life. Sleeping with women doesn’t make you a man, and sleeping with men doesn’t make you weak and useless. Hell, I’m sure you weren’t the only person working for your father who liked men that way.”
That got a reaction. Callum’s head jerked up; his eyes widened. Tom wondered if Callum was thinking of anybody in particular, if Tom’s words had made him see remembered words or actions in a different light.
Tom leaned forward, trying to catch Callum’s eyes. “Forget about who you’re supposed to be, and start looking at who you are. You’re not like the man who came here to kill us earlier. If you tried to turn yourself into that kind of person, it would be a tragedy, because the world would lose the person that’s hiding in there underneath all your doubts. That Callum is a kind soul with a mind for strategy. He’s good-hearted, and selfless, and I think he may actually be brilliant, despite how good he is at hiding it even from himself. And he’s gay.”
Callum visibly flinched at the word. But for a split second, he met Tom’s eyes.
He almost took a step forward, toward Tom. Tom saw him thinking about it. But then he drew back. He shook his head.
“I’m sorry,” he said again. “I can’t.”
Tom’s body was still wondering where Callum’s heat had gone. His cock strained at his pants, oblivious to the seriousness of the conversation. For years he had successfully kept this feeling at bay, but now he felt like a horny teenager again. Only it was worse than that, because back then he would have fucked anyone who looked at him the right way. This, on the other hand, was a craving only one person could fill. And he could solve the physical problem on his own, but that, he knew, would only leave him feeling cold and empty. It wasn’t the physical release that he craved, not really. It was Callum—the feel of him, the taste of him, just him.
But none of that mattered right now, because what Callum needed was more important than anything Tom might feel.
He ruthlessly pushed the feelings down. “I understand,” he said, pretending a calm he didn’t feel. “When you’re ready, I’ll be here.”