Chapter 3
Help
“Mr. Hughes, please hold for Mr. Davenport.”
“Absolutely,” Oliver murmured, trying to keep from waking sleeping beauty.
A couple of minutes later, a seductive voice purred in his ear, “Olly. Been a while. How are you?”
“Well, I was already good, but I’m even better, now,” Oliver grinned, tracing the edge of the doorway with the pad of his thumb. With Master David Davenport came good things, without fail. He was the closest thing to a gay man’s fairy godfather, and Oliver couldn’t wait to see what surprise the call might bring.
He’d been too invigorated to sit after showering. Jackson was sprawled—naked and unconscious—across the king-sized bed. The strong cut of his jaw caught the dim light, his lips soft in slumber. They’d gone at it in a few different ways for hours and the scent of sex filled the air. Night twinkled through the vast array of windows as a purple haze wrapped over the city.
Only three people ever called Oliver this late. One was dreaming away in the bed. The other was many time-zones away, traveling on a quest for obscure painting inspiration. The last was David Davenport, billionaire CEO of Davenport Industries, owner and operator of Manse, the best gay club in the state, and sly, suave fucker that he was.
“I’m sensing an emergency, given the hour. But what flavor? Business? Pleasure?”
“Need.”
“Mmm. Yours?”
“In a way, yes.”
“Intriguing. I live to serve, Master. Name your desire.”
“How are things with Jackson?”
A diversion? Interesting. He wondered what on earth could cause such a conversational shift. It drew him in even more.
“Fine. Fantastic.”
“Have you told him?”
Oliver sighed. The words dried up. His gaze slid like poured, viscous liquid over the dark curves of Jackson’s body caught in moonlight. He could still feel the delicate touch of Jackson’s lips feathering kisses up the center of his back, over the edge of his ear. A promise of fleeting paradise.
“I’m taking the silence as a no,” David observed.
“Hasn’t been the right time.”
“Have you told Adam?”
Adam as in Adam Buchanan, Oliver’s best friend and closest confidant. They’d trained at Manse together, and been each other’s most stable support system since childhood.
Oliver smiled. Said nothing at first.
“Olly…” David sighed with disappointment.
“He’s away. Traveling.”
“You could call.”
“It’s not his problem.”
“He loves you.”
“What do you want, David?” Oliver asked, cutting the interrogation short, no matter the breadth of his respect and patience.
“I want you to talk to Jackson about what we spoke of on your last visit. As soon as you can.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re needed. There is no one else. Not for this.”
“Look, if you need me to take a night to break in a new sub—”
“Don’t presume. This is serious.”
Oliver shouldn’t have unloaded on David in the first place, even knowing a secret was safer with him than with any other soul on the planet, Adam and the Pope included. But it was too late to take it back now.
“I need you, Olly. Your background matches up. You’re smart. Damn smart. You don’t play games, and you’re familiar with extremes. You’re an expert at control, almost to a fault.”
“And you really think you know what I’m looking for here?” Oliver snapped, unable to dull the edge of his anger.
“I do,” David answered, his tone gentle. Oliver marveled that a man with the world in his hand could pull off such a thing. “I’m telling you that you are needed, Oliver. You. But maybe you’re not up for the challenge.”
Oliver bristled, turning his back on the gorgeous, married cardiologist slumbering peacefully in the penthouse suite, so exhausted from fucking and hardcore play that even an accidentally slammed bathroom door hadn’t stirred him.
Walking swiftly down the hall to his kitchen, Oliver kept his voice lowered. “Like hell, I’m not.”
On the other end of the line, David laughed, knowing he had Oliver already.
“I need you here. Tomorrow night. Eight o’clock. I’ll be an optimist and have papers drawn up.”
Papers?
Craving greater sobriety like air, Oliver poured some ice-cold spring water into a glass and took a deep drink.
Breathing harder and hating that David could likely hear it, Oliver said, “That’s a little presumptive, don’t you think? One scene, a few nights, that’s one thing. I don’t sign papers unless I want to sign them, no matter what the situation is. I’ve made my commitments already. They come first.”
“Spread too thin, then, Olly?”
He swallowed a growl, remembering the conversation they’d had months ago after a very long night at Manse, surrounded by freshly fucked submissives who’d done nothing to quell Oliver’s private horror at his recent revelation.
Call it an existential crisis. Call it a child of wealth’s inability to stop wanting more, to never having enough. But the void inside would only be filled with truth and purpose.
Adam had his calling. Jackson did too—a wife, children, and his practice.
Oliver was a patch on the crack in Jackson’s perfect world, not a partner. And as far as Adam went—a friendship didn’t make a life.
No matter how soundly Jackson slept in that bed, within the hour he expected Oliver to wake him so he’d be home before the children woke and noticed his absence. And once again, Oliver would be alone.
Quitting his job as a successful journalist to look for a new calling hadn’t helped.
Increasing the frequency of his affairs with Jackson had no effect.
His missing best friend had no way to enlighten.
Maybe it was time to trust David.
“Maybe you’re too young for this,” David pondered.
“Like hell,” Oliver shot back.
“Then you’ll come?”
“Tell me about him.”
“No. You need to meet him to understand.”
“Suspicious, David. Very suspicious.”
“Maybe. Tomorrow, then?”
“Yes. Tomorrow.”
With his favorite drink in his favorite cup held between his palms, Jackson gave Oliver a searching stare. The Eagles mug filled with green tea and a little lavender honey let off soft plumes of fragrant steam. Oliver had delivered it to him as an ominous sort of peace offering. Jackson wore only a pair of briefs, his clothes still slung over the back of the chair by the door. Oliver had requested Jackson put on the briefs in order to help him maintain concentration.
“I can’t believe he called you. He hasn’t called you in years. Not since that incident during training.”
Oliver didn’t respond, too busy gathering the right words to explain. He smoothed wrinkles in the down comforter, hating the press of time against his struggle to open up to someone he was supposed to keep no secrets from, and did.
“Why is David Davenport calling you in the middle of the night?” Jackson asked, sounding stunned.
“Says he needs me,” Oliver told him with a slight grin that died quickly under the weight of his dread.
“For what?”
“I don’t know, actually. But I’ll be heading over later tonight.”
Jackson shifted closer, laying a warm hand on Oliver’s leg. “What’s wrong, Olly?”
Oliver blew out a breath. He laid his hand on Jackson’s, touching his wedding ring and the deep indent it made on Jackson’s finger after many years of wear. And Jackson followed Oliver’s gaze, watched him slide the pad of his fingertip over the gleaming gold.
Keeping things locked in, safe and secure, was his mode of operation. Jackson knew it, and related to it. So did Adam. It’s why their relationships worked. But as natural as it was for Oliver to help others with their issues, he only came up against roadblocks when he tried to do the same for himself by opening up.
“Do you have any issues with me going to see what this is about tonight?”
Jackson met his gaze, reflecting only affection and acceptance. He had the wisdom of age and experience on his side—something of which Oliver was always aware. In a way, it kept them a little off balance, but it would never have been enough to drive them apart.
“Please tell me if you do,” Oliver added.
“Taking another sub?”
Oliver bit down on the inside of his cheek, refusing to let his gaze waver, even though he could see the doubt in Jackson’s eyes.
“You’re my priority. You know that.”
“I’m kind of amazed you’re even considering it, though,” Jackson laughed, showing some of his hurt. “You don’t do commitment, Olly.”
It felt like a jab to his weak spot, and he knew his reaction showed.
“Oh my god,” Jackson breathed, sitting back a little.
“I can’t help who I am,” Oliver replied, angrier than he’d have liked. “And that’s the biggest fucking problem of all.”
“What even is this, though?” Jackson’s face screwed up with confusion. “The reason why we work is because of Jo. You know that. And it’s not like we’ve ever been exclusive, here. You go through men like no one I’ve ever seen! You’ve had every chance. I’m not trying to hold you back.”
“I know you’re not. I’m the problem. Not you.”
“Just fucking say it, okay? That’s what you do anyway. You just say it. So please.” Jackson gestured widely with his hands and the mug, giving Oliver the floor.
“No one needs me, Jackson. You’re married to her. Chalk it up to ego. Go ahead. It’s definitely part of it. I’m looking for an anchor, and David said the magic word. I don’t know what this is. Could be a clusterfuck and a mistake. But maybe not. I trust him.”
“Oliver,” Jackson sighed with heartache, setting the mug on the nightstand and moving in to clasp a hand to the side of Oliver’s face. “I need you.”
Oliver’s eyes burned. He glared through the blur into the darkness of Jackson’s eyes and all of his intimidating confidence. “Don’t.”
“I need you. I’ll always need you.”
Oliver grabbed hold of Jackson’s arm, trying to wrench him away. They were an even match, though. Always had been. This time, Jackson won out and dragged Oliver in against his will, wrapping him clumsily but urgently in his arms and breathing hot against Oliver’s neck, one hand palming the back of his head.
“You stupid shit,” Jackson hissed.
Oliver fought, pushing back. Jackson tightened his hold and let him, radiating calm. Panting, Oliver let the fight consume him, because it felt cleaner. Better.
“Just stop,” Jackson’s smoky voice growled. “I promised you always. I fucking meant it.”
Slowly, Oliver lost, and he sank into the defeat, letting go of pride, struggling for breath. The steely strength of Jackson’s hard body wrapped around him was everything. It kept Oliver from breaking, got him back in control. There was shame, but plenty of love, too.
“Go. See David. I trust you. I’m not going anywhere. Ya hear?”
Oliver greedily breathed in the scent of Jackson’s beautiful brown skin, rolling them both, getting on top. He found Jackson’s mouth, moaned as he bit, then licked, sank in for a deeper taste. And Jackson gave over, taking them right back to where they belonged.
The past had an ugly way of catching up with you. Things that didn’t fit anymore, discarded and left behind, sometimes showed back up anyway, cocky and smug.
Rune knew he looked angry. He wanted a drink or five. Though he’d never used his own product, he would have then if given the chance. The only thing keeping him there, when he wanted more than anything to get on a bike and drive out onto the nearest congested freeway going ninety miles an hour, weaving and dodging as a glorious fuck you at fate, was his desperation.
He’d trained as a submissive as soon as it had been legal for him to do so, starting right on his eighteenth birthday. For years, it had been great. It felt dangerous, sexy, like he was right on the edge, dancing on the line. No one who knew him knew he did it, but the secret had been a great one. It got him off, made him feel like a god when he was really just a punk throwaway kid without any smarts, talent, or money.
But too soon, his personality started to get in the way. He got sick of taking orders from men who got off on his helplessness. It became less about glorifying in giving in, and more about fighting the anger at the people keeping him down.
There had never been love in it, or much emotion at all. He’d never signed a contract, or found a match that worked for more than a few nights. Doms got sick of his attitude. They didn’t like how Rune would spit in their face or cuss them out, laughing. He didn’t break, though they tried, since he liked pain as much as pleasure, but his ego never let him surrender completely.
As a last-ditch effort, they gave him to a Dom named Elet. A big, black motherfucker with a cock the size of a tree trunk and a wit to match Rune’s cheek. Funniest part was how Rune fought back as hard as he ever had, and Elet had no issue with it. Verbal sparring, shot for shot, punctuated sex that made Rune feel like he was being split in half. He’d been chained and bound ten different ways to keep him from lashing out, and it had been incredible. The best he’d ever had, by far.
It was the last time he went to Manse, his training grounds. After that night, he joined The Born Soldiers, hooked up with a supplier, and started the next chapter of his life without looking back.
Shea nudged Rune’s arm, passing him the phone. A few questions were listed on the screen. When Rune didn’t move or blink, Shea touched his back gently, caressing. No one else could see the touch. The room was dark. He sensed David and Elet arguing a few steps away, in another world beyond Rune’s reach.
The frustration ate him alive. He hated the silence so much, his blood boiled with the desire to scream at all of them, to light a match and burn David’s mansion to a pile of ashes, to walk out into traffic with a bright smile and arms wide.
But it was way too late for that. He was surrounded. They all knew. David wouldn’t let him out of the room, which was lined on all sides, at all exits, with armed private security trained in kung fu and who the fuck else knew what. Elet likewise had his sites on Rune, and knew him on the inside better than anyone should have. Shea, David’s collared submissive and long-time partner, was the sweetheart of the bunch, killing with kindness in a way that only made Rune angrier—at himself mostly. Then there was Max, who’d insisted on driving Rune to Manse. He didn’t trust Rune behind the wheel, or the handlebars, because he knew how psychotically suicidal Rune had gotten. David had told Max something about taking control and keeping Rune there, but Rune had caught the look Max had given him, saying without speaking that he wasn’t going anywhere for a while. He was probably out in the parking lot right now, smoking, listening to shitty classic rock and casually taking in the view of rolling hills dotted with horny queers in all directions.
Rune closed his eyes, rubbed his hands over his face. Shea’s hand rested against the middle of Rune’s back. Rune wanted to throw it off, but couldn’t. Something inside stopped him.
He’d become a joke. Karma’s example for all of them to laugh at, showing up on David’s doorstep as a last-ditch effort to get it together somehow.
He’d sent an email the night before. It had been long and he’d had to re-write it several times to sift out that fury. It described his accident. That fucker who’d cut him off, slammed on the brakes and ripped Rune’s life away from him. It also described the aftermath and his resignation to existing in misery for the rest of his life, short as he hoped it to be.
Within the hour, he’d gotten a reply. An offer of transport to the estate on David’s dime, or a personal visit. Or funding to get psychiatric treatment as needed.
Rune had answered that he wasn’t a charity case, thanks very much. He just didn’t know what to do, or how to shatter the invisible walls he’d been living behind for months.
And now there he was, in David’s compound, under guard, with the lot of them trying frantically to communicate with someone who couldn’t hear a single fucking word they said and had little patience for acknowledging how helpless he’d become.
Shea’s nose brushed Rune’s cheek. His forehead rested gently against Rune’s temple. A shiver raced up Rune’s spine and he felt himself leaning into the touch despite everything, yearning for the contact like a man dying of thirst offered a sip of cool, clean water. The scent of Shea’s light cologne, the soft touch of his skin, the welcoming nature of his energy—it all loosened some of the knots wound around Rune’s state of mind.
There was movement in front of him. Glancing up, he saw Elet drawing up a chair, then sitting heavily in it, facing him.
His hands started to move and Rune was too stunned to look away.
The explanation poured out in a flurry of fingers, shapes drawn in the air between them. Rune’s eyes tracked everything, scanning his recent studies of sign language to grasp as much of what Elet conveyed as he possibly could.
The gist of it seemed to be that David and Elet felt Rune needed someone taking care of him. Elet wanted to do it, but was in a relationship with his sub Thierry which didn’t allow for other long-term commitments to specific subs. So they’d found someone else. Someone with previous signing experience who had been invited to meet Rune that evening, and would be arriving soon.
How? Rune asked. How do you know how to sign?
My grandmother was deaf, Elet explained. She helped raise me, and recently passed away.
Shea nudged Rune again, gesturing with the phone. He shook his sandy hair back out of his ocean-blue eyes, which were framed with faint little lines. He seemed so young but he’d been around the block longer than Rune.
Rune relented, taking the phone and reading.
The question glowed up at him:
What are you looking for in a Dom?
Rune began to type:
More than sex. A lot more.
He tapped the button to let the phone read the words aloud.
Then he added:
Someone who can communicate with me without the phone.
Shea’s fingers brushed Rune’s hair at the nape of his neck, tempting him to close his eyes again just to concentrate on the pleasant tickles it stirred. Rune didn’t know why he’d always fallen so hard for other submissives, other than the thrill it gave him to feel someone give in to temptation, and want to be with him in a way that was more powerful than logic or excuses.
It was comfort and an imbued sense of power he got from being with men like Shea, or Denis.
But that’s not what he craved. It wasn’t what he needed. The anger was too big, the fear too real.
He wanted someone like Elet, who scared him half to death, knowing exactly what the man was capable of doing to him, and gladly so. He wanted someone who’d take all of his shit without batting an eye, turn it around, and use it to keep him in place, where he’d be safe, seen, and understood. He needed to get the rage out. He needed someone willing to kick his ass. That wasn’t Shea.
Shea had taken the phone. He passed it back.
A new question read:
Someone who’ll stay?
Rune nodded, keeping his head bowed to hide the panic he felt might have showed in his eyes.
Rune signed, Who is he?
Elet replied, David and I trained him. He’s fearless and a pain in the ass, like you.
The smile spreading across Rune’s face shocked him. He bowed his head to hide it, too late.
Elet warned, You won’t be smiling once he gets his hands on you.
Rune just smiled and waved them forward, willing them to bring it on. He was ready.