Searching for a Soul to Love

by J P Sayle

  Giving them a minute, he considered the next plan of action. He would need to go to his house and grab a few things, more importantly a gun. You couldn’t be too careful. If, in fact, it was Joel stalking Joe, then he needed to be prepared. He had never taken Joe’s or his instincts for granted. He knew better than anyone what shit was inside Joel’s head. Not that he could tell Joe that. That would make him appear like a crazy fool. No, he’d learnt the hard way. His extra talents were better kept to himself and Max.

  Glancing back at Joe and Stuart, he stood, scraping back his chair, making as much noise as possible. “Come on, you two, we need to get this show moving if we are going to catch this crazy fuck.” His harsh tone had both men pulling apart, giving him dual sheepish smiles.

  “Stuart, you can stay here and watch Princess as she has been on her own all day, I’ll come with you Aaden to grab what we need. I think it might be better if you stay in the spare room, Aaden, for the time being. Your house is a mess, man. You don’t need to live like that when we have the space.”

  Joe’s cajoling tone was countermanded when Stuart’s brows pinched together a second before he dropped his eyes to the table in front of him, his fingers twiddling with the placemat.

  Not wanting to get in the middle of a fight, he chose to ignore Joe’s offer, for now. “We’ll sort that later. Right now, let’s get this show on the road.” He strolled to the door, but he didn’t turn when he heard the distinct sound of wet, sloppy kissing.

  Shaking his head, he moved his hand surreptitiously, pushing his wayward cock down when the lusty sounds grew more enamoured. He left the front door wide open, hoping the cold air would cool their ardour. A sense of urgency had him increase his pace when he heard Joe’s light pattering feet follow him.

  Unease spread, increasing his heart rate tenfold. He scrubbed at his eyes when the throbbing behind them grew worse with each step he took. Grinding his teeth, he drilled his fingers into his temples, hoping to hold the pain at bay. Aaden wanted to shout in frustration when his eyes wavered.

  Now is so not the time to have a vision, for fuck’s sake!

  Aaden took several deep breaths, hoping it would calm his heart rate. As he opened his front door, he strolled as casually as possible to the stairs. Not looking round at Joe and praying his voice sounded normal, he spoke, “I won’t be a second, Joe. Make yourself at home or at least try to. I’m just going to grab some stuff.” Aaden let his voice trail off as he gripped the filthy banister, all but running upstairs, shouting for Max.

  Greg crept around his bedroom, being careful to avoid the wooden posts at the end of his pine bed. His habit of kicking them wouldn’t usually have bothered him, but he didn’t want to wake Vic and have another lecture on his clumsiness. Stealing a breath, Greg gently opened the bedroom door before tiptoeing out, holding on to his running shoes. He eased the door shut behind him. Only then did he let go of his breath in a sigh of relief.

  His boyfriend….

  The word boyfriend jammed into his mind, making the uncertain feeling he’d had for the last few days creep back in. Thoughts of the text he’d received the night before not didn’t make him feel any better.

  You in, Greg?

  His response had been the same as always.

  Why?

  Greg knew why, but he asked anyway. It had been the same for the past several weeks. He could easily have predicted the message he’d get back.

  I’ll be there in 20

  Disappointedly he hadn’t been wrong. There was no “would you like to do something or is it all right if I come round?” He wasn’t sure when they had migrated from boyfriends to what? Fuck buddies, a hookup, a quick shag. He worried his lip, and his eyes widened when it sunk in to his obstinate brain that they all fitted.

  Shit, I can’t remember the last time we went out on a date or were seen in public together.

  His brows rose alarmingly high at the reality of the Sunday evening texts being their norm, and Vic, it seemed, was not prepared to offer anything more.

  Was this why I’m awake at stupid o’clock on a Monday instead of grabbing what extra hours of sleep I can before work?

  With pinched brow, Greg considered the pine door, unable to miss the reverberating snores that made him feel his bed was levitating. The vibrations, yep, that’s why he was up so early. It had nothing to do with the odd sensation in his chest he’d had since Friday evening.

  He absently rubbed at his chest, chastising himself instead for forgetting to purchase more earplugs to drown out the noise. To his mind, that sound would surely wake the bloody dead, nevermind his neighbours. How anyone could sleep through that was beyond him. It was also a reminder of why he didn’t encourage Vic to stay over more often.

  His aching arse on the other hand, and not in the “you had great sex” way but more “you had sex with your boyfriend and he couldn’t be bothered to prep you properly” way also wasn’t helping. Vic had ploughed him like a farmer would plough a field, completely oblivious to what was in front of him as he pushed on to get the job done.

  His frown deepened, and his eyes crinkled as he stared at the pine door as if it held the answers to the universe. His hands twitched with the urge to go back and suffocate Vic with his snuggle-down pillow. Air wheezed past his tight lips as he turned on the landing, using the light filtering through the hall windows to guide him downstairs and out of harm’s way.

  Greg stopped, hovering midstep, his sleep-deprived mind finally latching on to what it was trying to tell him. The reality slammed home like a sledgehammer into a derelict building, knocking him for six. His foot wobbled while he tried to stop himself from pitching forward for the invisible impact.

  Vic hadn’t even noticed he hadn’t gotten off last night, or now that he considered it, any of the other times. An angry flush heated his cheeks when a light bulb flashed over his relationship, making the glaring problems stand front and centre. His face scrunched, thinking hard to when Vic had last made any effort.

  Shit, the bed! I can’t remember.

  Shame filled him. Why had he not noticed how little effort Vic used to get him aroused or never bothered to try and find Greg’s prostate. It wasn’t like you needed a roadmap to it. It was pretty easy to see if you looked for it. Okay, maybe not see, but you could definitely feel for it at least. Unaware his head was bobbing angrily, Greg chewed absently on his plumping red lips.

  Have I been blinded by Vic’s face and body that I haven’t noticed that it was never about my needs or what I wanted? Greg continued to chew on his lips like a dog would his chew toy, gnawing it to death, all the while contemplating what it was about Vic that had attracted him in the first place.

  His six-foot lean body was okay, he supposed, but nothing special, especially if he considered he wasn’t very strong, more of a weakling. His deep cherry-wood-brown hair was lovely when styled with products when they went out, which recently was never. His face was attractive, a large forehead with sharp cheekbones and hazel eyes, though his lips were a little pinched. Greg wondered if that was because he never really smiled, or maybe he just didn’t smile for him?

  Greg’s brow furrowed as he focused hard on trying to find some redeeming quality that he liked. Stumped, he slapped his hand to his mouth, “Well, what a knob chob.”

  Not quite sure whether he was talking about Vic or himself, Greg floundered on the stairs like a fish out of water, mouth gaping.

  Why am I letting this arsehole use me as a fucktoy?

  He might not be the best-looking guy on the planet, but he wasn’t the hunchback of Notre Dame either. Greg walked with purpose down the remaining stairs, turning on the hall light. He headed straight to his most favourite possession, his gilded, bevelled-edged, full-length mirror situated by the front door.

  He was staring at his reflection now. At five foot five he wasn’t petite, but he wasn’t tall either. He gave his long, lean legs a hard look, checking the musculature. He grinned at what he found. The fell running, along with his
weekly yoga sessions at Shine Om, were keeping him toned and his muscles, though not overly big, were solid.

  Pulling up his tight-fitting T-shirt, he flexed his pale hairless abs, pleased when the muscles rippled attractively. Dropping his top back in place, he examined his face as he swiped his long, shiny red fringe back off his face, remembering too late he’d run out of hair gel. He mentally added it to his to-do list before scrutinising himself.

  He supposed his eyes weren’t too bad. A lovely shade of sky blue with ultra-long red eyelashes, his mother had complained bitterly should have been hers, rested on his cheekbones. Red Cupid’s bow lips he felt somehow matched the red of his hair that currently was layered around his small elfin face.

  His gaze wandered to the bane of his life, pale skin, and though it didn’t have any blemishes, it was covered in freckles. Who on God’s earth thought it was fun to cover a person’s skin with freckles? He huffed at how unfortunate he was when he considered they were everywhere you could see and in places you couldn’t.

  He observed the flush creeping up his neck, reaching his cheeks when he thought about the freckle situated at the top of his dick. He had developed a habit of having sex in the dark to avoid any comments about it. He’d had the misfortune to date a cretin who thought it was funny to laugh his arse off when he had discovered the large one on the tip of his dick. He could still feel the sting of mortification when his cock had wilted under those laughing eyes.

  He stopped his perusal when his cheeks decided crimson was his new primary colour. Ignoring the heat, he bent to put on his running shoes and searched for his coat and car keys. He knew exactly where he could run off his morning mood. He considered briefly going back upstairs for a pair of joggers when he took in the dark blue shorts. Not the best attire for running when it was nearly winter. He cursed himself because he knew he didn’t want to go back up with any chance he might wake Vic.

  He halted as he opened the door, letting in a draft of freezing air. Reconsidering for a split second, he glanced at his coat. He grabbed for it off the old wood coat rack he’d found in a flea market, shutting the door quietly.

  He checked his phone was still in his coat where he’d left it after heading home from his friend, Gemma’s, after he’d received the text from Vic. Greg could feel the whine wanting to escape at leaving his friend high and dry, for what?

  Remembering the look of sympathy as he’d left did nothing to improve his morning mood.

  What a friggin’ mess.

  He shivered when he skipped quickly to the car, and he shrugged into his bulky jacket, pressing the key fob to open his pale blue Skoda Octavia. The shockingly chilly morning air had goosebumps dance across his bare legs, making him jump inside and ignore the ache it caused in his arse as he hit the cold leather seat. Turning on the engine, he put the heater on full pelt. He checked his wrist and growled at the window. His Fitbit, he was sure, was sitting next to his bed.

  “Shit.” Should I go back? Hunching into his coat, Greg felt his grump wanting to take over at Vic’s presence pushing him out of his own home.

  He switched on his iPhone, connecting it to the car’s Bluetooth. He took his time to select some upbeat tunes, hoping it would lift his mood.

  His fingers drummed to the beat of the dance anthem music filling the car, and his foot hit the accelerator. The movement of the car made him feel instantly lighter as he got further away from Vic and his own moody thoughts. Driving to the Quarterbridge and up Bray Hill towards the traffic lights, he enjoyed the near-deserted roads.

  Greg gave the skyline a passing thought as the dark edged towards greyness. The end of British Summer Time last week had depressed him. The bright nights were gone for another six months. His lip poked out before he could stop it. He rolled his eyes at his own silliness. Concentrating on the road, he pulled up at the traffic lights and let the engine idle. He considered the sky again. His hand reached for the indicator to flick to go right instead of left. Thinking about going to the prom to run instead, he recalled that they did those early morning boot camps there.

  Switching the indicator to left as the lights changed, he went back to his original plan, driving along Ballanard Road.

  He really wanted the quiet of the mountain to sort out his head and allow him space to think about what the feck he was going to do with his loser boyfriend.

  The deserted roads had him grateful it wasn’t June. The TT races that occurred at that time of year made life difficult for road users. There was zero quiet with bikes roaring from one place to the next. The mountain was madness, and only fools used it to travel. Although they had made it one way a few years back, it was still a nightmare to get across with machines hurtling along at God knows what speed.

  The problem was the island’s national speed limit was non-existent, and that included the mountain. Bikers could go as fast as they wanted as long as they were in control because who knew if they were in control at hundred and sixty miles an hour!

  He eyed the Manx stone walls as he drove past them. The local radio presenters at TT referred to it as roadside furniture; he’d never understood why. There was nothing comfortable about brick walls, large trees, signposts, or high grassy banks covered in brambles, especially if you hit it at force. Greg shuddered at what that meant for some. He tried not to think about the accident he’d witnessed the previous year. The biker had sat on roadside furniture at speed, and he sure as hell hadn’t looked comfy splattered all over a brick wall.

  Pushing the pictures out of his mind, he turned up the music, hoping it would stop his mind from wandering places he didn’t want it to go. The music pounded against the glass for the next couple of miles as he sang out of tune to “Silence” by Delirium.

  Aaden pushed back his dark tangled hair while he strode across the dark road trying not to think about how fucked up everything was since Joel had somehow managed to kidnap Stuart right from under their bloody noses, only hours earlier.

  He acknowledged the thing that had bothered him most was that the vision he’d had right before Stuart had been kidnapped appeared to have nothing to do with Stuart and everything to do with the picture of the red-haired man he’d seen in Stuart’s memory on Friday. The same one who he’d scented.

  Aaden raked his hands over his tired face.

  Why is my mind playing tricks on me? All the years I’ve had this gift, and now it fucking decides to kick my bloody arse. Why?

  Looking up to the heavens, he let his dark fathomless eyes search the darkness as if it held the secret to the universe. His life had always been complicated since he’d acquired Max, but the last few months had him feeling off and that Max knew the reason why or at least had some clue. But was the little fucker sharing? No, of course not. He was using the house clearance as an excuse to avoid him.

  Then there was last evening when all he’d got was radio silence when he called to him when the vision started. Now he was acting all weird and shit over Princess at the vet’s, avoiding all his questions about why he’d not seen this coming, and then to top it off, the bugger had blocked him after he’d shouted to Aaden there was something wrong at Stuart’s.

  How and when had Max ever been able to block me, for Christ’s sake? Hell, why would he even need to?

  He let out a frustrated cry when he couldn’t answer the questions.

  He forced himself to keep walking home, taking one last glance back at Joe’s van before stopping at his front door.

  Joe, he was sure, would be working diligently, searching for information on Joel so they could locate Stuart.

  His earlier anger at Joe’s stupidity surged through him, taking the early morning chill off him.

  How does anyone forget basic training?

  Christ.

  Not checking the van before attempting to get in it, after all they’d been through, was a definite no, no. Joe, should fucking know better.

  Aaden hunched into his coat, thinking he should maybe have given Joe a little leeway before manhandling h
im. His hands fisted at his sides, bunching his arms and shoulders. His black combat jacket stretched tightly across his back, straining the seams. His whole body felt wire taut as he struggled to rationalise Joe’s behaviour and stress.

  He flicked another look at the van. His eyes narrowed as he chewed his thumb. He supposed it wasn’t often you found out your lunatic ex-boyfriend had kidnapped your current boyfriend. Aaden grasped on to that thought, trying to shake off his temper. He huffed in frustration. The tension in his body remained when his mind wouldn’t let go.

  “Bloody prick.”

  Okay, nope, as far as I’m concerned, there is no excuse for Joe trying to get us both killed.

  Hell, it may not be a war-torn bloody country. Nevertheless, we’re still in a battle. Only this time it was to save one life, the most important one, judging from Joe’s devastated face, which means getting lost in your head was a massive no-no to my mind.

  No boyfriend should fuck up your mind that much for Christ’s sake. How could your feelings make you completely forget basic training. How?

  He told the negative, nagging voice to take a break as he rubbed the stiffness out of his neck. Pausing, he slapped his hands down on his legs and checked for his keys. Only to remember they’d not locked the door in the rush to get out.

  Stepping inside, he reminded the negative, nagging voice in his head how brilliant Joe was, and his van was testament to where his true expertise lay. There was nothing Joe couldn’t do with a piece of electronics, and his van was an engineering masterpiece. To say he’d been flabbergasted would be an understatement when he’d first set foot inside it and seen the complex computer systems built from scratch. Joe had lovingly explained how they linked to any major networks, regardless of security access. Basically his crafter Volkswagen van was a work of moveable electronic art.

  That night, he prompted himself, was also the night of his biggest regret. It still rubbed him raw that Joe had persuaded him to be lenient with Joel.