Dash and Dingo

by Catt Ford

  The railing made Henry feel a little more steady on his feet, and he tried not to look down at the boiling sea below them, a form of vertigo he did not need to be introduced to. “Maybe we should get inside,” he groaned.

  “Fresh air will be better for you,” Dingo told him.

  Henry felt as if his face were being torn open by the sharp corners of the wind and the salt that whipped into the wounds caused by them. Yes, refreshing, he felt like saying in the most sardonic tone he could muster, but he felt that if he opened his mouth again he would only vomit.

  The Taroona lurched beneath them as if the ocean had suddenly drained away, and Henry distinctly felt the deck drop away from beneath him as the boat sought to find water again. The slap of the hull against the waves and the subsequent jerk that followed did him in, and he leaned over the railing to empty his stomach.

  “Ah, Dash,” Dingo said sympathetically, laying his hand on the other man’s shoulder.

  Henry closed his eyes for a brief moment, taking what comfort he could from Dingo’s touch. “I’m fine,” he said stubbornly, wiping his mouth.

  “No, you’re not.”

  “I assure you—” Henry didn’t get to finish his sentence as he was leaning over the rail again and trying to bring up whatever was left in his stomach.

  This time, Dingo’s hand moved down to the small of Henry’s back, beginning to rub small, soothing circles. Henry knew it wasn’t having any physiological effect upon his illness, but the psychological benefit was great. He leaned into the touch, wanting more even though his body was rebelling against him in every way. But it wasn’t for long, as he was retching again.

  Now Dingo’s hand slipped against Henry’s stomach and supported him against his chest. “Just let it go, Dash,” he murmured.

  The warmth from Dingo’s body was agony to Henry; it reminded him of the few awkward sexual fumblings he’d had with other men and provided an all-too-vivid recollection of what had occurred between him and Dingo the other morning. This was all madness. But as his body tried to continue rejecting what was no longer left within him, he didn’t dwell upon it.

  “I think… that’s the last of it,” Henry gasped, trying to catch his breath back.

  “And I think I should get you into bed,” Dingo replied.

  With Dingo’s arms around him, it was almost possible to believe the man meant it in an entirely different way than Henry was supposed to take it. He sagged against Dingo and then realized what he was doing and straightened up. Armed with some strange bravado borne from being sick and feeling dangerously on the edge, Henry decided to play the double entendre game as well. “Yes, yes, I’d say you’re right.”

  Dingo kept a hand on his arm, but Henry shrugged it off. “I’m okay.”

  But even that didn’t last for long. Once they were back in the cabin and Henry was lying on the single bed that only hours before he had been thankful to see, he began to be sick again even though there was nothing left in his stomach. Dingo dampened a towel and laid it across his forehead; he also managed to scrounge up a small bowl from beneath the basin.

  “You’re sweating,” Dingo said matter-of-factly.

  Henry could only groan in reply.

  “Don’t take this the wrong way,” Dingo said, and he began unbuttoning Henry’s shirt.

  Henry felt feverish, and he thought that all reason was leaving him. He wanted to challenge Dingo’s assertion and tell him that it was okay if he wanted it the wrong way, because Henry himself wanted it the wrong way and had been feeling that for quite some time. And that the wrong way was the right way. But he could only shiver beneath Dingo’s deft touch as he was manipulated out of his shirt.

  Dingo covered Henry up with the sheet and said, “I won’t be long. I’m just going to see if I can get you something.”

  “Only one thing—” Henry murmured, too late as he heard the cabin door close.

  Henry was aware in some deep recess of his mind that Dingo had left him. The bed he was in remained steady at his back, but the ship was still rolling. Henry gripped the edge of the mattress as hard as he could; the silver bowl on his chest went clattering to the floor.

  He phased out again but knew Dingo had returned because he could hear him moving about in the room.

  “I know your footsteps,” he slurred. He felt safe under the cover of his illness, vaguely remembering that he had started telling Dingo that there was only one thing he wanted, but he had fallen asleep before he could let it be known that he had wanted Dingo’s arms around him, holding him until the illness had passed.

  But of course, Dingo was oblivious to all that.

  “Good,” Dingo replied, somewhat amused. Henry watched him as he moved to the small tap and basin, which sat mounted on a cupboard between their beds, and filled a glass of water. From his pocket he removed three small packets of powder given to him by the ship’s doctor and tore one open. He watched the powder dissolve in the water and stirred the glass vigorously to make sure it was blended throughout.

  Gently, he lifted Henry’s head so he could drink more easily. “Drink this,” Dingo instructed.

  “What is it?” Henry asked.

  “Just something to make you feel better.”

  Henry grumbled, but the words were indistinguishable. However, he drank the water obediently, and hoped that it would settle his stomach rather than give him something new to start throwing up.

  Dingo busied himself by folding Henry’s clothing and putting them on top of his bag. Henry watched him for a small time, but felt his eyes grew heavy and finally allowed them to close. But when he felt the slight, feathery touch of Dingo’s lips against his skin and then brushing over his eyebrow he stirred slightly but could not open his eyes.

  I’m dreaming, he thought. Aren’t I?

  But it was nice to hold onto the dream and pretend it was real.

  Brow furrowed, Dingo watched Henry anxiously for a few moments, wondering that he had dared to risk that gentle kiss. Henry was still sweating, but he remained still.

  Dingo hated himself for feeling his cock swell slightly as he stared at the shirtless man beneath him. He wanted to run his hands over Henry’s smooth chest, so different to his own; he wanted to taste that nipple beneath his tongue….

  Dingo collected himself, reached down, and removed Henry’s glasses. He seemed to be out of it, but Dingo wasn’t taking any chances with his lascivious thoughts, so inappropriate regarding the situation, being so easily read on his face if Henry opened his eyes. He folded the glasses neatly and placed them in the basin cupboard that sat between their beds. He then unbuckled Henry’s belt and became fixated by the line of hair that ran down from Henry’s navel and became a path that was ultimately hidden by his boxers. Dingo couldn’t resist letting his fingers trace over the short silky strands before grasping the waist of Henry’s trousers and pulling them free.

  “Yes, Dingo,” Henry breathed.

  Dingo’s breath caught, but he managed to choke out, “Are you awake, Dash?”

  But Henry said nothing more. He was asleep.

  “Ah, Dash,” Dingo said regretfully. He went to his own bed and swallowed a dose of the powder before rinsing the glass out and putting it back in the cupboard. No need for Henry to know about it, but he was feeling a bit queasy himself. Lying down upon his bunk, he watched Henry’s sleeping face until the powder took effect and his vision began to blur. He closed his eyes and snuggled under the blankets, a slight smile upon his face.

  In the morning, Henry’s stomach was feeling more settled, although his thoughts certainly weren’t. He rolled over in the narrow bed, expecting to see Dingo lying across from him on the opposite side of the room.

  The bed was empty and neatly made. Henry couldn’t believe he had slept through Dingo getting up, but he must have because he had vague memories of Dingo returning to the room during the night and preparing for bed.

  His legs still felt boneless as he unsteadily planted himself before the small basin and
drew water to try and clean himself as best he could. He was looking forward to having a proper bath at whatever hotel they booked themselves into once they arrived in Hobart, but he still felt remarkably fresher once he had changed clothes.

  The waves were much smaller than they had been last time he’d seen them. Henry closed their cabin door behind him and took a moment to stare at the ocean roiling beneath the rails as he looked over them. Once he had satisfied himself he wasn’t going to be sick, he moved up to the stern of the boat, where he knew he could find a cup of tea.

  The small dining area was reasonably crowded. Dingo wasn’t anywhere to be seen or even heard, as one could usually hear him before one saw him, so Henry decided to take his cup of tea and his piece of dry toast in hand and return to the passenger decking. Leaning against the railing, he demolished the toast ravenously and wished he had picked up an extra piece. Having made short work of the tea, he decided to go back for seconds but lingered in the fresh air, unsure how he might feel if he went inside. The ocean was beautiful in the sunlight, and he did feel a bit better. Finally he turned around to find Hodges standing well within his personal space.

  “Mr. Percival-Smythe,” Hodges said courteously, tipping his hat. “I don’t believe we’ve been formally introduced.”

  Henry was being pressed against the railing, and he wondered in a moment of blind panic if Hodges intended to push him over the edge, if not for the fact that there were too many witnesses around. And then he realized that Hodges had used his real name.

  “Excuse me?” he asked stupidly.

  “No need to play coy with me.” Hodges winked. “I’ve found out quite a bit about you, Dash. Or should I say, Henry?”

  “Fine, Dash is just a nickname.” Henry forced himself to shrug casually, but his heart started racing. What had Hodges found out about him? He’d thought he’d been careful enough…. “My real name doesn’t mean a thing.”

  “Does that mean that I can also dismiss your apparent reason for being in Australia?” Hodges asked. “Not that I believed your crazy story about diamonds on the day.”

  “If you know why I’m here, why bother asking me?”

  Henry winced as Hodges pressed closer to him, their chests bumping. “I just want to hear it from you, without your friend around.”

  “If you know so much about me, why should I bother?” Henry countered.

  Hodges hesitated and then grinned a gloating grin that anybody named Clarence should never have been able to produce. “You want to play that game? I would be happy to oblige.”

  Henry was starting to wish he’d kept his mouth shut.

  “Henry Percival-Smythe. Son of James Percival-Smythe III. Desperately wanted to follow in his father’s footsteps but could never live up to his reputation or his standards. Lives in his shadow and also in that of his brother, James IV. Ended up taking the lowest of all low-level jobs in the archives section of Ealing College in which his father made a name for himself, and only got that job out of sheer nepotism.”

  To Henry’s dismay, Hodges continued to list everything he had fought against for years. Hearing the facts recited so plainly and yet smugly made him feel even more pathetic, but he hadn’t been hanging about with Dingo for the past month without learning at least a bit of self-preservation. He remained impassive although he had to wonder just what about his history excited such gleeful contempt from Hodges.

  “Became obsessed with the rare Australian marsupial, the thylacine. Tried to rise through the ranks of the archive department but was continually turned down as he trains people who eventually become his supervisors. Comes to the attention of the Chambers family, who take pity on him and invite him along on their current but disastrous foray into saving the Tasmanian Tiger. You’re only here because of Jack Chambers and his father. I’m not sure why they would pluck you, of all people, from behind a safe fortress of books to go into the jungle.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Henry moved forward, crowding Hodges, expecting him to fall back and let him pass.

  “Not so fast.” Hodges remained firmly in place and lit a cigarette, taking a long drag of it to draw out the suspense. He blew the smoke slowly and deliberately into Henry’s face, grinning as he choked. “I assume you’re here because of the correspondence you have been maintaining the past couple of years with Gordon Austin.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I know quite a lot, Mr. Percival-Smythe. I know your reasons for coming to Tasmania. And you should know, you’re not going to succeed. Not as long as I’m dogging Chambers’s every move.”

  “I’ve had enough of this. Let me pass!” Henry demanded, pushing at the other man.

  With the cigarette still in his mouth, Hodges leaned in closer, and before Henry even realized what was going on, his hand was clutching Henry’s cock and balls through his trousers, squeezing his member mercilessly.

  Henry staggered back against the railing, letting out a guttural moan as his stomach lurched once more in sync with the pain from his groin and lights danced before his eyes. But this was nothing compared to the disastrous fact that his cock betrayed him by hardening slightly, and he knew Hodges was aware of it as his smile became even more feral as he squeezed his fist like an evil heartbeat.

  “You don’t play terribly rough, do you, Henry?” Hodges asked. “So very civilized. So British. I’ve seen the way you watch Chambers. Do you really think you’ll be able to keep up with him out there in wild? If you think Chambers will admire a man like you, you’re sadly mistaken. Do you think you have the tenacity for this hopeless trek?”

  Humiliated, Henry wanted to pull away or to punch Hodges, just do something, but just then Hodges savagely twisted, and Henry was almost brought to his knees. The teacup he was still clutching fell out of his hand and smashed upon the deck. It was only that sound and the possible attention it could attract that made Hodges release him, letting the folds of his trench coat fall away, no longer concealing how he had been molesting the other man.

  “I think,” Henry wheezed, “you’re dreaming, or perhaps it’s you who wants to go along with Dingo to—”

  Henry yelped at a burning sensation against his wrist. He looked back up in shock to see Hodges putting his cigarette back in his mouth and tipping his hat once more with a cruel smile.

  “Just a little reminder of this conversation. You’re stubborn, Henry. I suspect that’s the one thing you’ve got in common with Chambers.” Hodges shrugged and turned to walk away, his coat flapping in the wind.

  Hodges was mocking him, Henry realized. But all he could do was stare dumbfounded at the small, raw wound that stung like the heat of a thousand fires amongst the singed hairs on his wrist.

  “Sir, are you all right?”

  Henry became aware of a deckhand, who stood before him with a small dustpan and broom.

  “I’m fine, thank you,” Henry managed to reply. “I’m sorry about the cup.”

  “Happens all the time, sir. Bit of a rough wave, was it? Would you like another cuppa?”

  Henry could only shake his head and stumble back toward his cabin as the deckhand began to clear his mess.

  He didn’t even know how he could explain this whole situation to Dingo, or even if he should. He was humiliated by the two physical assaults upon him and also wounded by the depressing summation of his life so far. And the barbs volleyed at him about Dingo hurt just as badly.

  Thankfully their cabin was empty when he entered. But where the hell was Dingo?

  Henry drew water again in the basin and rested his hand in it. The perfectly round burn seemed even rawer beneath the surface of the water, and Henry rested his forehead against the mirror, still plagued by his thoughts.

  Chapter 11

  The door crashed open against the wall, and Dingo demanded, “What the hell happened out there?” He stood with his hands on his hips, glaring at Henry as if it had been he who had cornered Hodges against the railing.

  Henry wondered h
ow he even knew, but it must have been the stricken look on his face that confirmed his suspicions as it brought Dingo across the cabin in two strides.

  Henry flinched, but before he had time to hide his wrist, Dingo had taken it gently in his hand. Henry braced himself for a barrage of invective, but Dingo just said, “I shouldn’t have left you alone like that.”

  “Where were you?” Henry burst out, sounding a bit more distressed by the abandonment than he’d planned to.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Dingo said tersely. “We need to get you to the ship’s doctor.”

  “No,” Henry said stubbornly, and then he smiled, thinking of Hodges’s assessment of how he and Dingo were alike. “I’ll be fine.”

  “If you were planning to tell me that burn doesn’t hurt, I’m willing to let you try to convince me.” Dingo smiled swiftly. “And then you’re going to the doctor.”

  “And tell him what when he asks me how I came by it?”

  “Someone stumbled into you when a wave hit.” Dingo rolled his eyes in exasperation. “We need to get you some salve. I’m afraid it’s going to blister, and you shouldn’t take the chance of infection.”

  “I think I’ll live,” Henry said, secretly pleased with Dingo’s concern. Then he deflated a bit, thinking that Dingo was probably already viewing him as a hindrance and that an infection would render him even more useless.

  “No need to give me the stiff upper lip, limey, not when you’ve already been so sick.”

  Henry noticed Dingo locking the door to their cabin behind them and remembered he had not when he’d gone to breakfast. “What were you doing—”

  “Later,” Dingo warned him. “Luckily, when Hodges searched our cabin he didn’t come upon much other than what I left for him.” He tapped his forehead with a finger. “I carry it all up here.”

  Henry couldn’t help it. He had to laugh; the release of tension was such a relief. “What, your clean underwear and socks too?”

  “Clean underwear isn’t exactly necessary in order to find what we’re after.” Dingo led the way to the doctor’s quarters, having been there the previous night.