Six
They were good teachers, the three of them. When Ian put aside his anger at himself, and his aversion to being grabbed and roughed up. When he allowed himself to sink into the exercises, chased away all his unhelpful thoughts, he started to learn.
Alec did, too. He dutifully went along with the training, worked hard at it – Ian had seen the bruises on his arms and shoulders, and forced himself to swallow the rage that surged in response. But it wasn’t as vital to Alec as it was to Ian.
Alec had never been chained to a radiator and paid in menthol cigarettes. Pushed on his knees and told to suck a man’s cock for his dinner.
Ian didn’t resent him for any of that. He didn’t. But he started putting in extra training. On his own.
It was a Friday, just a week until Christmas, Knoxville decked out in trees, and lights, and garland, wreaths, big plastic red and silver ornaments. Music rolled through shop doors and children dragged their mothers by gloved hands down the sidewalks, pointing at the things they wanted through windows. It was bloody cliché.
And wonderful.
Ian dabbed at his lip with his fingertips and was surprised to pull them away bloody. “Huh,” he said, nonplussed, rubbing them together.
“Here,” Ghost said, a second before a towel hit him in the face.
Ian pressed it to his split lip, and mumbled “thanks” around it.
It was just the two of them. After the first few sessions, Ghost had declared that Mercy was “too huge to be a realistic opponent anyway,” a true statement that the Cajun had accepted with a laugh and a clap to Ian’s shoulder that rattled his teeth. Most of the time he worked with Aidan, while Ghost barked instructions. In his weeks of coming here, to this empty garage space, he hadn’t run into Kev once; he knew that was both purposeful, and for the best.
Today, only Ghost had been available, and though it was maybe twenty-five degrees in the building, both were down to their undershirts, and sweating.
Ghost picked up two bottles of Gatorade and walked them back over, offered one to Ian that he took with the hand not occupied by the towel. His muscles shifted under his skin, the controlled roll and stretch of a panther. He had gray in his hair and his scruff, and lines on his face, but he was still built like the sort of man who got into fights…and knew how to win.
“You’re doing well,” he said, and sounded sincere. “You feeling more confident?”
Ian searched for one of his usual smart remarks, and found he didn’t have one. “Yes.” He tucked the towel under his arm and took a much-needed sip of Gatorade.
Ghost nodded. “You’re fitter, for sure. A lot faster. You don’t flinch as much.” As if to test it, he mimed a swipe toward Ian’s face that Ian managed to dodge with only a minimal tilt of his head. “See?” He grinned. “A couple weeks ago you woulda hit the deck.”
Ian snorted.
“Seriously, though.”
“Yeah.” A wave of exhaustion moved over him, that sudden draining of adrenaline that brought on weakness and shakiness. He sat down hard on the case of water that served as a makeshift bench. “Jesus.”
“Makes you appreciate sitting behind a desk, huh?” Ghost asked, propping a tattooed shoulder against a support beam. His grin was teasing – in that shithead way of his.
“Fuck you,” Ian said without heat.
Ghost chuckled.
It was quiet a beat, just the sound of their panted breathing, and the sighing of cold winter wind up along the eaves of the building. Not an uncomfortable silence, but an unusual one.
He would thank him, Ian decided. Admit that it had been folly to ask for goddamn fighting lessons, but that he felt surer of himself now. Ghost and his boys had given him peace of mind, and that was worth quite a lot in this outlaw world they occupied.
But before he could say any such thing, Ghost said, “You got Christmas plans?”
Ian felt his face blank over in shock. “What?”
“Christmas. It’s next week. You and Alec doing anything?”
“Oh. Well.” His heart lurched in his chest, worse than when he was fending off a pretend assault. “We usually have dinner. Alec likes to make a fuss.”
He hadn’t so far this year, though. They didn’t even have a tree.
Things had been better since their return from New York, but there was still something careful about the way they lived and moved around one another. Sex was stilted, and infrequent. Alec smiled at him, but there was a touch of melancholy around the edges.
Ian was still distant, he knew. Somehow, in his preoccupation of dealing with the new Breckinridge account, and plotting its downfall at the same time, he’d forgotten that Christmas wasn’t just something that lived on the streets, but something that ought to have come into their apartment as well. Wines, chocolates, wrapped gifts, trees and tinsel.
“Hey,” Ghost said, and he realized he’d zoned out.
“What? Oh, yes. Christmas. Well.” He cleared his throat because it felt tight, now.
Ghost’s expression shifted, edging toward concern. “You going to London to see your folks?”
“No,” Ian blurted, instantly, almost a shout. The idea horrified a shiver out of him. “I mean…no. No, we’re not. I’m not. No.”
Smooth, Byron, how 007 of you.
Ghost’s brows tucked low. “I thought you were back in contact with your sister.”
Shit, this conversation was getting away from him. “Yes. Well.” He got to his feet, wishing he was steadier. “She’s back home, and I’m – I’m here.”
Now the man looked positively stony, arms folded, jaw set. “Ian. Have you talked to your parents at all in the past year?”
He swallowed with difficulty. “No.”
“But I thought–”
Okay, this was enough. “You thought that just because my sister hugged me I’d go running back to Mummy and Dad?” he snapped. “I didn’t. And I told her not to tell them where I was. Either she obeyed my wishes, or when she told them I was living with a man, they decided they were better off pretending I was still dead.”
“Hey,” Ghost said, softening.
“My father is a very traditional man, Kenneth. There’s nothing about me of which he would approve.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Don’t I?”
“Whatever kind of asshole a guy is, if he finds out the son he lost is still alive, he’d want to see him.”
“I beg to differ.”
“You–”
“If we’re done.” Ian raised his voice. “Then I’ll be on my way.”
Ghost sighed but kept silent while he walked back to his gym bag and tugged on his thermal Henley, sweater, and jacket. Pulled his hat down over his sweaty man-bun.
He made it to the door before Ghost spoke. “Ian,” he said, and Ian froze, heart pounding against his ribs. “We’re having a guys night at my place on the twenty-second. Beer and a Stallone movie. Not your scene, maybe, but you’re welcome to come. If you want.”
Ian didn’t look back at him, but managed a nod, and then stepped out into the cold afternoon.
~*~
Bruce was waiting for him when he pulled into the building complex’s parking garage, standing in Ian’s appointed space. He stepped neatly to the side when the headlights slid across him, and opened Ian’s door for him.
Which was infuriating, in this moment.
“I can open my own bloody door, Bruce,” Ian snarled, snatching his bag out after him. He just felt so…so useless. Again. Always.
“Of course, sir,” Bruce said, unperturbed, and eased the door shut. “Did you have a nice time, sir?”
Ian growled in response and stalked to the elevator, Bruce’s hulking shadow following. As ever. Stepping into the elevator with him, operating the buttons, unflappable, and huge, his constant protector.
He hated that he needed him.
In that moment, as the elevator glided up to his floor, he couldn’t see logic – even hardened mobsters had guards; even Ghost had Mercy and the stone-faced Michael to watch out for him, because the boss was important and needed protecting – and could only feel inadequate and unmanly in every way. The kind of son his father would loathe and reject. The kind of son who allowed a wicked couple who’d used him to manipulate his business, over fear that his secrets would be spilled.
By the time he slammed the apartment door in Bruce’s face, he was fuming.
The bodyguard shot him a concerned look as he was shut out. Damn him.
“Ian?” Alec called from the direction of the kitchen. “You home?”
“Yes.” He didn’t trust himself to smile and kiss and be kindly. He dropped his bag in the hall and went straight to the bedroom, then the en suite bathroom, cranking the shower on. He took a deep breath and could smell something pleasantly seared from the kitchen – Alec had been experimenting with dinner again, and no doubt the results would be delicious. Alec shouldn’t have done that; should have ordered takeout for his ungrateful, miserable wretch of a boyfriend.
“Ian?” The patter of bare feet moved toward him, and Ian paused with one hand on the hem of his shirt, turning to face Alec as he reached the bathroom doorway.
Alec came to an abrupt halt when his gaze landed on Ian’s face; he caught the jamb with both hands and his smile dropped away. “Your lip. Did you fall?”
“No. It’s nothing. I was sparring.” Ian started to shed his layers of shirts, letting them drop to the tile. Behind him, steam began to billow out of the open shower door, a wispy shield between the two of them as he unbuttoned his jeans.
“Sparring? Were you at Dartmoor?”
“I haven’t exactly gotten the hang of being a man yet, have I?” Ian said, bitterly.
“Babe,” Alec said, and came into the room. Through the mist, right up close into Ian’s face, his own tilted back, glasses fogging so Ian couldn’t see the beautiful seawater color of his eyes. “Are you still beating yourself up about this? I thought you were feeling better.” He reached for Ian’s shoulders–
And Ian took a step back.
He knew it was a terrible thing to do the moment he did it, but couldn’t take it back.
“Ian,” Alec said, despairing, hurt, angry.
“Let me take a shower. I’m disgusting.” But only some of that was something that could be washed off. Most of it was just him, the ugly stain on his past, his soul.
Alec retreated…but the awful, betrayed note in his voice chased Ian into the shower. Looped again and again in his head, driving home that he was no use as a partner, nothing but a cold fish who failed to provide what his boyfriend needed.
The hot water felt delicious against his tired muscles, sluicing down the tense line of his back, but he could find no delight in it. He hung his head and watched the water ripple down through his long hair where it fell over both shoulders; the swirl around his feet and down into the drain.
He had to do something.
Something had to change.
He didn’t luxuriate, like he might have in a different situation, but washed off and stepped out onto the mat. A quick toweling, a half-hearted drying-off of his sopping hair, and his favorite silk robe, and then he went in search of Alec, bare feet leaving damp prints across the hardwood.
Alec stood at the sink in the kitchen, shaking water out of a colander of pasta. He didn’t glance over his shoulder when Ian cleared his throat softly; didn’t acknowledge him at all. He moved to the stove, and the simmering skillet of pinkish sauce that smelled heavenly. “I marinated the chicken last night, so it would be tender. And then I deglazed the pan with red wine. Added a little heavy cream.” He dumped the penne into the sauce and stirred it with a big wooden spoon. “Hopefully you’ll like it.”
“Alec–”
The spoon landed on the countertop with a clatter as Alec spun to face him, his face locked up tight against his hurt. “Jesus Christ, how are we back here again? We talked! I thought we….” He trailed off into a frustrated sound and turned back to the pasta. “If this is the new normal…if we’re just gonna be…broken from now on…”
“Stop.” Ian strode around the island and moved to stand next to him. “Nothing’s broken.” Except for him; he’d always been that way. “I told you–” When he touched Alec’s shoulder, he turned an angry look up to him.
“Yeah, you told me. And I told you we would fight those people. And then everything went back to the awful way it was.” His shoulders slumped, a bitter smile tweaking his mouth. He reached up and pressed the pad of his thumb, lightly, to Ian’s split lip. “You go every day and let those bikers hurt you.” He let his hand fall away. “But when I try to help you, you shut me out. I don’t know what to do anymore, Ian.”
“I’m trying to protect you.”
“From yourself?”
Yes. God, yes. “They have photos of you,” he said instead, a shudder moving down his spine. “They know who you are to me, they–”
“Yeah, yeah,” Alec sighed, turning away. He stirred the pasta some more. “I know. You said. I just…”
Ian felt the bricks go up between them, a wall of his own making, which he didn’t begin to know how to disassemble. “Alec,” he murmured. “Darling.”
Alec sighed again. “Let’s just eat.”
~*~
The next morning, Ian stared aimlessly out his window, the gray, pregnant clouds that swept across the city a good metaphor for his mood. Alec had slept facing away from him last night, curled in on himself. They hadn’t spoken that morning.
He hated everything.
A hesitant rap sounded at his door, and a moment later one of his various office assistants, a mousy girl whose name he could never remember, poked her head inside. “Sir,” she said, wide-eyed and nervous, “there’s a man out here who–” She blanched as a large, tan hand curled around the edge of the door above her head and pushed the panel wide, revealing Mercy Lécuyer, towering over her in buffalo plaid and his cut, long black hair streaming out from beneath a black stocking cap.
“Thanks,” he told her, and pushed his way into the office.
The girl stammered a moment, before Ian waved her off with a “thank you, that’ll be all.” Then he glared at the big Cajun. “Do any of you people ever wait to be invited in?” he groused.
Mercy shrugged and dropped down into one of the visitor chairs, completely at ease. Propped one of his giant biker boots up on his opposite knee.
Ian folded his hands across his stomach and adopted his usual you’re-beneath-me pose. “Can I help you with something?” he asked.
Mercy took his time answering, his gaze wandering around the clean, expensive lines of the office. “Actually, I think I can help you.”
“Hmm. I doubt that.”
Mercy made eye contact then, and Ian resisted the urge to shrink back into his chair. Of the two of them, Ian was in the position of figurative power. But Mercy was a man who’d snapped a woman’s neck without a second thought. Killing didn’t bother him – in fact, Ian thought he rather enjoyed it.
“I was there at the apartment the night Tango tried to kill himself,” Mercy said, and though his tone was matter-of-fact, his expression was soft, and sad.
Ian shivered.
“Aidan was screaming as he dragged him out of the bathtub. Blood everywhere.”
“And you think it’s helpful to tell me this?” Ian said.
“I talked with him after,” Mercy continued. “For weeks. We called it therapy.” He snorted. “Ghetto therapy. Shit, I’m just a blue collar mechanic, you know? But I don’t think he needed a professional then, just somebody to listen to his stories, and tell him none of it was his fault.”
Ian fidgeted. “Yes. So?”
“Ghost said something’s bothering you.” He tilted his head to the side, doglike. “He thinks maybe some of the old shit from back in the day is catching up with you. That you need help.”
“For ‘blue collar mechanics,’ you all certainly have vivid imaginations.”
Mercy continued: “He had a real hard time forgiving himself. Didn’t think he deserved to have anyone care about him.”
“If you–”
“Look, be pissed all you want, but you’re not okay, and we know it. Probably your boyfriend knows it.”
“Shut up,” Ian said through his teeth.
“Most people couldn’t survive what happened to you,” the asshole continued. “They’d be in a psych ward, or living in a cardboard box on the street, turning tricks–”
Ian surged to his feet, hands clenched at his sides, skin vibrating with a painful mixture of anxiety and anger. “Get out.”
Mercy stared up at him, unperturbed. “Ghost said he invited you to the house, and I think you should come. Let us know what’s happening. Let us help. There’s no shame in getting help, man.”
“Leave. My. Office. Now.”
“Alright.” He stood, which put him a good two inches above Ian, and a hell of a lot broader. “Think about it, though. The offer stands. Whatever you need, Ghost said.”
Ian glared him out of the office. But when the door was shut, his legs gave out and he sat down hard in his chair, catching his head in his hands.
“Jesus,” he whispered, half-curse, and half-prayer.