by Avril Ashton
They did this every month.
He’d pull up under that window so his arrival would be seen, then he’d sit and wait. Exiting his vehicle, and going up to ring the bell as the second hand ticked down on the clock.
Once a month he came here.
Once a month for the past seven years he rang the bell, stepped inside the house of the billionaire who lived in dark and solitude, and they bartered.
Dutch gave Pearson Marx his body, and the illusion that he wanted what they did. Liked it. Enjoyed it.
And in return Pearson gave Dutch the man he loved.
Varun Patel.
His freedom. His life. His future.
So they bartered.
A deal known only to three people. Dutch. Pearson. And Kyo, who was always there to pick Dutch up the next morning. Accompany him back to his car. Drive him home. Put him to bed.
He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, grinning sans the humor, at his little rebellion. He and Pearson both knew he’d never renege on this. They knew no matter where he was in the world, what was happening, he’d find a way to be in front this house, ready to barter, when this day swung around.
Once a month he allowed the man who’d stolen Varun Patel when he’d been just ten years old to put Dutch in Patel’s place. The place Patel would have occupied, had Dutch not hunted him, found him, rescued him.
His breath echoed in the confines of the dark car, so he closed his eyes. Counted backward from twenty. Calm and composed. Pearson never saw him anything other than calm and composed.
Time was up.
He exited the car, flipping up his coat collar at the light drizzle.
Eleven steps took him from the car to the bell. He’d counted them that very first time.
This close to the door, he made out the distorted shadow behind the frosted glass window off to his left, but he put his thumb to the bell.
Pressed it.
The door opened.
Dutch swallowed.
“Mr. Hutchins, welcome.” The assistant, older than Pearson, no less dangerous, waved him in. Took his coat. Vincent was Pearson’s right hand. Ushering Dutch inside every month. But doing way more than that.
Part of their agreement kept Pearson and Vincent from their usual activities. But Dutch knew better than to take them at their word, so he kept them under surveillance and didn’t even try to hide it from both men.
So far they’d kept to their bargain.
The reason Dutch kept to his.
Vincent led him through the house shrouded in darkness and over to the den where Pearson sat behind his desk, glass of cognac in his hand. White shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows. The gold ring on his left index glinted when he leaned over and placed the glass on the desk.
“Dane.” He smiled at Dutch, blue-gray eyes wrinkling at the corners when he got to his feet, greeting Dutch with such hot anticipation. His white hair was combed back from his angular, clean-shaven face. Clad in dark slacks and black shoes, he walked up to Dutch, sliding an arm around his waist, welcoming him as a lover would.
Dutch allowed it.
It had taken a lot to get to this place where he didn’t lose his temper, get angry, show his disgust, his true feelings at the thought of being there. They’d settled into something, a type of denial.
Such great pretense. It kept Dutch from losing his mind.
“Have you eaten?” Pearson stepped back, a white eyebrow lifting as he asked his question.
“Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “I’m not hungry.” Let’s get on with it. But he wouldn’t say it. This wasn’t his game to call. Once he stepped inside the townhouse, Pearson was in charge.
Disappointment flashed across Pearson’s face. “Very well.” His gaze flicked over Dutch’s shoulder. “Leave us, Vincent.”
Dutch didn’t hear Vincent leave, but he felt the vacuum his absence created. Cold and tense. Pearson watched him closely before turning and walking back to his desk.
“I hear you were in New York recently.” He kept his back to Dutch when he picked up his cognac. “And you got hurt?”
“Yes.” There were traitors close to Dutch, feeding Pearson every move Dutch made. Funny, Dutch never really got around to telling anyone he didn’t truly work for the FBI. That he allowed Pearson the knowledge of what was going inside his inner circle because the truth was, it didn’t hurt anything.
The instant Dutch decided Pearson was a threat to anyone he knew or cared about, he’d deal with the son of a bitch despite the ruin that would follow.
Pearson spun around and a lock of hair came loose, flopping over his right eye. “Show me.”
He did, unbuttoning his shirt slowly, shrugging out of it and dropping it at his feet.
Once his chest and torso was exposed, Pearson’s gaze zeroed in on the healing stab wound Dutch had received from Donovan Cintron.
“Oh my.” A calculating look entered Pearson’s gaze and he came back to Dutch, touching him a warm palm against his skin, circling the wound with an index finger.
Dutch fisted his hands at his sides, gritting his teeth as he stood still and allowed Pearson what he’d bargained for, free reign over Dutch’s body.
A sharp nail scratched him, and his stomach contracted.
“You still hurt?”
He glanced into Pearson’s face then away. “It’s tender, yeah.”
“You poor man. Let’s go to bed.” Pearson grabbed Dutch’s hand, and with the glass of cognac in the other, they made their way upstairs.
To the bedroom. Where Dutch stood still once again as Pearson finished undressing Dutch then himself. Touching him in that deceptively soft way he did. Dutch had to accept it. He had to enjoy it.
The pill he’d swallowed dry before leaving his apartment was already doing its job. So he locked his jaw, put a hand to the back of Pearson’s head when he dropped to his knees, and closed his eyes.
He kept his promises.
Protected what was his.
Find your brother. That had been the first and only time Reema had asked for his help. She’d begged Dutch over the phone, right before she’d disappeared. Find your brother. Protect him. So he did, and he was.
Every time he let Pearson Marx put his hands on him. His mouth. Dutch was protecting Varun Patel.
When he got up on the bed that smelled like lavender and sage, and put his hands back on Pearson, when he spread his legs, got between them and inside the monster who’d stripped the man Dutch loved of his safety and identity, he did it to protect him.
And even if Dutch died with each stroke, each thrust, even if he disappeared, it didn’t matter.
As long as Patel was alive.
As long as he didn’t know Dutch sold himself to secure his freedom.
****
He was required to stay until morning. Until the sun was up. He did. He never slept in that bed. His eyes could never close beside that man, but Dutch could pretend after all.
At seven-sixteen, he rolled out from under Pearson’s possessive hold and dressed. Put back on his suit and the coat while Pearson watched him. Then they did the other thing, where Pearson would put on his pajamas and walk Dutch downstairs, to the door.
Hug him.
Kiss his neck.
Whisper, “See you next time.”
Dutch walked out the townhouse to find Kyo sitting on the hood of the car, smoking a cigarette that he immediately dropped to the ground and stepped on.
They didn’t speak. No words. Not yet.
Dutch got in on the passenger side. Kyo took the wheel, and they drove off. He stared straight ahead, already tasting the bile at the back of his throat.
He gripped the armrest, lurched forward. Kyo took his hand, squeezed his fingers. Dutch couldn’t look at him. Gaze straight ahead. Kyo would see him crumble soon enough. He just…not now. Not now.
Twenty minutes later he was inside the elevator, leaning heavily on Kyo who was doing his best, but Dutch was gone. Fucking Gone. Outside his door, Ky
o held him upright with a hand on his chest while he fiddled with the lock.
Dutch stumbled inside and when the door closed he collapsed back against it.
“No.” Kyo spoke for the first time since Dutch couldn’t see him do sign language, not with his eyes closed. “Come on. Come on.”
He was shutting down, and like every other time Kyo had to drag him into the bathroom, strip him. Just as he turned on the shower, Dutch’s stomach gave up. He slumped over the toilet bowl, retching, shaking, sweating.
Naked.
Crying.
It took everything he had. Every single thing. One day. And it took everything from him, stripped him down to this weak man unable to lift himself. Wipe the vomit from his chin.
Kyo did that for him, helped him into the shower, and washed him. The both of them in there, Dutch locked in Kyo’s embrace, the silent man getting soaked as he took care of Dutch. No one else would ever see him like this.
Not even Patel.
Especially not Patel.
Kyo helped him out the shower, dried him, and put him to bed. Dutch was too spent, too drained to do anything more than put his head on Kyo’s chest. Sometimes, in the mornings after, he’d have Kyo take him, try to restore him back to normal.
Never worked.
But he tried.
Today, he just wanted to close his eyes and reopen them when he was Dutch again. Not Dane.
Not Pearson’s Dane.
Or Hunter.
He hadn’t been Hunter for a long time. Hunter could never do what Dane just did.
Hunter never truly had anyone but himself to protect.
Dane had everything.
It was Dutch’s job to protect them all.
A hand on his shoulder roused him when he would have been sinking into blissful sleep. He jerked upright.
Kyo was crouched over him, eyes wide, hands a blur as he signed.
“Someone at the door.”
Dutch blinked at him, eyes gritty from lack of sleep. And the tears. Don’t forget those. “Who?”
“Patel’s wife.”
Shit. Dutch jumped off the bed, gaze searching for clothes. Kyo tossed a pair of pants at him. Then a shirt. Stoyan Patel at his door was never a good thing. Once he was dressed, he flicked a gaze at Kyo who gave him a nod.
So Dutch went to his front door. Opened it, and called up a tight smile for Stoyan Patel. “Stoyan, what’s—”
She never could tolerate his bullshit. Stoyan narrowed her gaze at him. “He’s missing again.”
Despite knowing what that meant, Dutch shrugged. “What do you want me to do about it? He’s a grown man.”
“Save it for someone who doesn’t know the deal, Dane.” Her Trini accent was flowy, almost like she was singing. He loved to hear her talk. Just not now. She pursed her lips. “Do you know what today is?”
“No. Why would—” His eyes widened. “Motherfuck.”
“Yes.” She nodded. “Find him, please.” She turned away, but Dutch grabbed her hand, stalled her.
“I can’t. You know I can’t.” Patel didn’t want anything to do with him, and Dutch really couldn’t meet the man’s eyes today after…last night.
“You can.” She met his gaze and her expression softened. Dutch really didn’t want to know what she saw when she looked at him. “The only one stopping you from doing what needs to be done is you,” she said softly. “How about you tell him and see what he decides to do about it, eh?”
Dutch stared at her. Had she lost her mind?
As if she read his thoughts, Stoyan’s mouth twisted. “Can’t have that, can you? Afraid he might choose you?” She chuckled. “What will you do then, I wonder?”
“You’re his wife!”
“Then I should know what the fuck I’m talking about, shouldn’t I?” She turned away, and this time he didn’t stop her. “Find him. Fix it.”
He shouldn’t. Not in his condition. Especially not in his condition. But Stoyan knew the game she played. She knew Dutch would never leave Patel out there alone today.
The anniversary of when he’d lost his father. Some things Patel still didn’t remember about his time in captivity, thank God. But he remembered his father’s death. His mother’s desertion.
And Dutch’s abandonment.
Yeah.
So under Kyo’s censoring watch Dutch went out to find Varun Patel. He didn’t have to search, because he had agents on Patel and his family after the names of the agents who worked for Dutch had been compromised. Finding Patel was as simple as calling up one of the agent’s phones, and Dutch had an address.
One that was too damn familiar.
He let Kyo stay in the car.
The house looked unassuming, but Dutch knew better. He knocked on the door, and when the owner peered through the small flap, Dutch growled at her.
“Let me in, Atta.”
She did, and stood back when he stepped inside. “Dutch, you here for trouble, ah wah?” She held her yellow dressing gown tight around her ample body and eyed him suspiciously.
“Depends.” Dutch didn’t stop walking. “Where is he?”
“Wey yuh tink he dey?”
Right. He made his way to the kitchen, and ducked through the door leading to the underbelly of Atta’s establishment. Sometimes Patel went off the rails, and came here.
Just Dutch’s luck that Patel remembered Atta’s place when he didn’t remember much else about being under Pearson’s thumb.
“On your knees.”
He stopped when he heard Patel’s voice. Aww fuck. He shouldn’t have come. He wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near Patel. He didn’t trust himself to be anywhere near that man, not in the state he was in, but Dutch stood in the open doorway as a painfully skinny woman with obviously fake tits, clad only in the tiniest scrap of black underwear, went to her knees between Patel’s legs. His shirt was unbuttoned, chest exposed, lines of white on his abs.
This wasn’t happening. Not today.
Dutch strode into the room. “Hey.” He jerked his thumb toward the door when the woman blinked wide eyes at him. “Leave. Now.”
“You can’t—”
He tossed some money at her. “Right the fuck now.”
She scrambled away, while Patel reclined back on the rumbled bed, jaw set as he watched Dutch.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
“I was about to do Cheri,” Patel said calmly. “What are you doing?”
“Your wife is worried about you.”
Patel licked his lips, flicked his gaze down to the coke still on his body. “And you? Are you worried about me, Dane?”
“Let’s go.” Dutch shifted away, but Patel grabbed him by the pant leg, tugged on him.
“Answer the question. Were you worried?”
Dutch gave him a nod, glanced around the small room. “I was worried, yes.”
“Huh.” Patel cocked his head, gaze mocking. “You like a little white?” He motioned to the coke on his belly. “Hope you don’t mind sniffing it off me.”
Jesus. “I know today is hard for you,” Dutch said softly. “I’m sorry, but you can’t do this.”
Patel got to his feet, the powder on his stomach falling to floor as he crowded Dutch who held his ground, keeping his gaze on Patel’s face. Not a good idea, being this close to Patel. Not a good idea. He tempted Dutch in ways he could never comprehend. And after last night…
“That night was the worst night of my life,” Patel murmured. “You and me. That hotel room.” His lashes dipped. “Worst night of my life, Dane.”
Those words sank under Dutch’s skin like barbs, hooked him and bled him dry. “I’m—”
“And the best, too.” Patel’s eyes were on him again, dark and unrelenting. “The absolute best.”
Dutch had no words then. Nothing. Because Patel grabbed both of Dutch’s hands.
“You destroy everything you touch.”
Dutch didn’t flinch. At least not outwardly. He nodded. “Yes.” Nothing but th
e truth.
Their gazes locked, and even though Dutch wanted to look away, hide himself from the knowing in Patel’s gaze, he didn’t. He stayed right there as Patel brought both of Dutch’s hands up to his naked chest. Dutch’s body jerked at that, the heat of Patel’s skin under his fingertips.
“Finish what you started,” Patel whispered. “Ruin me.”
Books in this series
Hidden Scars – Sullivan and Carter (Loose Ends #0.5)
Scars and Ruin – Dutch and Patel (Loose Ends #2, Coming Soon)
Run This Town series (related books):
(Watch Me) Break You – Dima and X
(Watch Me) Body You – Reggie and Israel
(Watch Me) Unmask You – Elias and Lucky
(Watch Me) Save You – Tek and Quinn
Standalone
So Far Gone
Keep Me Wanting
About the Author
A Grenadian (West Indies) transplant, Avril now lives in Tucker, GA., with a mad tolerant husband. Together they raise an eccentric daughter who’s pretty meh about reading and school. Avril’s earliest memories of reading revolve around discussing the plot points of Nancy Drew and the Hardy Boys with an equally book-minded mother.
Always in love with the written word, Avril finally decided to do the writing in August of ’09 and never looked back. She’s been nominated for numerous awards, including Best Author, Best series (Brooklyn Sinners), and Favorite All-Time Author. In 2013 Avril won Evernight Publishing’s Reader’s Choice Award for the LGBT (Male/Male) category. Recently she took home the Golden Ankh award for best Male/Male romance for her bestselling novel, Sinner’s Fall.
Addicted to cake, the ID Channel and the UFC, Avril writes Gay and Erotic Romance with happy endings; she remains a believer of love in all its forms.
Visit her website: http://www.avrilashton.com
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