So I gave in, not wanting to, and told him about what I'd been wondering, and how I'd called Colin but had ended up feeling stupid. "We used to date," I added, though he already knew. I suppose I wanted to know if he was jealous.
"He's probably right," said Ell ruefully. He gave me a quick, weighing look, slightly shy, slightly naughty. "Not that I want to ever agree with anyone who has such poor judgment." And he launched himself at me and kissed me firmly on the mouth.
It caught me by surprise, that he would say my ex was probably right, while at the same time siding very much with me. I liked it.
#
To curb my restlessness, I worked out more, possibly a way of building muscle to build confidence, but whatever. Ellery and I also took up table tennis and, despite starting out slowly and tentatively (at least on his part, clumsily on mine) we soon had some vicious, brutal games.
Ellery definitely had a bloodthirsty side when it came to sports. I swear he laughed and twirled his paddle in triumph if he won. And he wouldn't be a nice winner, either. He was a total braggart.
"I won, I won, I won," he'd snicker, walking back with me afterwards, a bounce in his step, a bit of his hair plastered down with sweat, a grin on his face like he thought he'd won Wimbledon or something.
"Yeah, well, I'll get you next time," I'd grumble.
"Ha ha." He'd nudge me with his shoulder, friendly and affectionate, before starting to brag yet again.
"You're such a little shit." I managed not to smile.
"Look who's talking."
There was usually some play-wrestling after that, and laughter, and maybe making out. I liked seeing him excited, happy, and content in his own skin. It happened more these days. He didn't seem to mind our restricted life at all.
Of course, we were more pampered than restricted, but I'm the kind of guy who, if you tell me I can't do something or go somewhere, is going to feel restricted. Especially if that thing is, "Don't leave the damn building, Durphy." Kev never said that to me, but one of the CEOs did when I was giving him some shit about it. The man called me up and made a fuss about the fuss I was making, and in the end I was suitably chastened . . . but still pissed off.
Security was tight but after a while invisible. It was easy to take for granted. We weren't harassed by 'job offers,' rubbernecked at for being gay, or given unwanted attention (positive or negative) for being success stories of the ESRB.
We were, however, contacted by a gay magazine, to our intense surprise. They were putting together an issue on interesting modern couples, and the prestige and cachet of our job, as well as the romantic notions many people had about talents and what they meant for daily life, gave us appeal. Apparently we would also make a good photo spread. I was incredulous but excited; I do love some positive attention.
Ellery, however, was a nervous wreck. The idea of being in a magazine filled him with dread and brought up a bunch of insecurities about his body, his abilities, and the dread of being noticed he'd lived with for most of his life. It was okay now, and this way of being noticed wasn't bad, but his breath grew tight and his heart frantic more than once while we were discussing this.
I was excited about it at first, but just as willing to give it a miss if he wasn't keen on it. It wouldn't be any fun doing it without him, and I didn't want him upset. However, the ESRB and The Shardwell Group both wanted us to do it, which was a rare occasion, and Ellery caved to the pressure, with a lot of reassurance from both.
We'd get some approval on the article and photos before they ran; we'd also be doing some good in the world, showing that it was OK to be gay and talented, that there were lots of good ESRB-related jobs for all sorts of people. The ESRB wanted the publicity; The Shardwell Group wanted the publicity. Ellery's nerves didn't hold out against their persuasion. And while I'd have been glad to back him up against them all if I knew that was what he wanted, he seemed far more eager to get it over with than to go against the flow and argue his way out of it.
Since we couldn't go to them (and it was as much about the work as it was the people), they came to us. Ell was a nervous wreck until we met the writer, a smiling and clever-eyed man with tortoiseshell glasses. He had a slight lisp and an elegant, flowing walk, which comforted Ell, I think. He hates it when he's the least-butch man in the room, although he doesn't buy into those stereotypes on purpose; it's just something he's lived with long enough that it makes a difference to him.
The guy was a pro; he drew interesting quotes from us, watched us keenly and made notes, and charmed us both with his quick wit and sympathetic chatter. When we read the article later — for our approval before publication — we were surprised how well he'd captured us and our relationship in so few words; things we barely remembered saying, an offhand comment or look between us that he magnified, revealing us like flies in amber, but cuter.
I loved the article. He made us look good. Ell wasn't a nervous wreck or a barely-escaped mental patient; I wasn't a failed private eye with attention span issues. We were a committed, hard-working young couple finding success in a relatively new field, turning our burdens into gifts for the world. We came across as thoughtful and articulate and compassionate, and not weird, nervous losers. It was amazing. I felt about ten feet tall after I read it the first time, and we called him personally to thank him.
For the other part of the article, they photographed us inside the building. I especially liked the pictures they'd taken in the plant room. They managed to do wonderful things with the light that made us look mysterious and very handsome.
My favorite shot was of us on the bench. I was facing the camera, the light was plentiful, the room was gorgeously green with growing things, and Ellery was beside me. My hand was coming up to rest on his back, and he was in profile to the camera, having just looked at something to the side, focusing on the room's beauty rather than his nerves about the shoot.
He looked shy and mysterious and achingly pretty; I looked protective and engaged and clever. The light had hit my eyes just so, and the smile in them was clear. I'd never looked so good in my life, sexy but with a mysterious and sweet quality of intelligence and grace and openness. Ellery looked beautiful and thoughtful and as shy as a little wren. I thought it captured him well, giving dignity to his hesitancy rather than baring him to the world with ugly, harsh lights and quick snapshots.
There were a few more posed shots, but it was no fashion shoot and it didn't get ridiculous. We looked great in our suits in the shot in the boardroom, though, I must say. Really powerful, trim, and hot. The photographer had us standing in the same sort of posture, and we looked very much alike in the way he had captured us. In other shots, he caught our individuality. In all of them, I noticed we had stuck close to one another. The warmth of our relationship seemed to come through, and even I hadn't realized we often stood so close. It seemed natural to me.
They had taken more snaps than ended up in the magazine, of course. A whole afternoon getting our pictures taken, and so professionally, too, yielded only about three pictures that made it into the magazine. But we got copies of all the best ones, gratis.
I was vain enough to want to frame them and hang them on the walls, but Ellery vetoed that.
"There's no way I'm looking at myself blown up to three times my size on the wall every day," he insisted with rare spirit. "It's not happening."
"Well, we could just hang me," I suggested.
He gave me a dark, narrow-eyed look.
A man passing us in the corridor did a double-take and looked back at us nervously. As an empath, I felt his spike of confused concern. He'd probably caught enough to get nervous.
"We're not blowing anything up," I said quickly. "Or hanging anyone."
He nodded quickly, eyes widening, then moved away in a hurry.
"Damn it," I muttered, running fingers back through my hair. "I don't think that worked."
Ellery laughed and grabbed hold of my arm. "You sounded so suspicious when you said that! Even I didn't bel
ieve you. How did you make it onto the police force?"
I pretended indignation. "Hey, I was a consultant!"
"Did you advise them in . . . fishy behavior?"
After that, tickling happened. He deserved it.
#
Riding high off the article and settling into my life, I was starting to feel better about everything and was pulling out of the depression I'd been dealing with. I was lucky to have a good support system; I knew that. Depression wasn't as debilitating for me as it was for some people, but I'd dealt with at least some level of it on and off my entire adult life.
At least lately I was dealing with it in more healthy ways, not drinking too much or having lots of casual sex to distract myself — or barely getting out of bed and feeling miserable and thinking about death. I'd done both of those as coping strategies in the past, and they hadn't worked out well. Exercise, routine, support, and counseling seemed to help me more — oh, and eating right.
So far, I hadn't needed anti-depressants (or if I had, I'd never been prescribed any). Maybe I'd never have to find out how I'd do on something that would make me gain weight or feel drugged. I'd always been scared of the side effects and hadn't sought such treatment, although I honestly didn't know if I'd end up with side effects or not.
These days, I was feeling more like myself. We hadn't had another vacation scheduled yet, and fortunately neither of us seemed to need it. Ell and I were both prospering in our jobs, were well cared for and good at what we did. I wanted to maintain that, and was working hard to do my best and not get overwhelmed by life again.
I'd also had to abandon thinking about Damon too much. His situation was upsetting, he was upsetting, and I didn't seem to have the emotional stamina to dwell on upsetting stuff without ending up down in the dumps lately. So that was helping, as well. I couldn't fix it, so I needed to not dwell on it, either.
Ell was doing well, too. He hadn't had a breakdown or an anxiety attack in some time. His mental health seemed stable, and he was healthy and generally pretty happy. I didn't even seem to get on his nerves much, which was a nice state of affairs, let me tell you. I was well used to how annoying I could become, even to people who cared about me, just by being myself. Ellery seemed to like me even when I was my most hyperactive and noisy self.
He found me cute. Cute. But, hell, I liked cute when it was the alternative to annoying-as-hell. And I liked cute when it meant he looked at me with warm, laughing eyes, finding humor and pleasure in watching me talk a mile a minute, or bounce off the walls when I was wound up, or be unable to sit still after I'd been in a meeting — even a short one.
He looked at me with such fondness, such pride. Even though I couldn't hear thoughts, sometimes I almost thought I could hear what he was thinking: That's my Peter.
But if I was doing better, Kevin was not. My best friend and boss had been struggling under some kind of cloud lately. He hadn't wanted to talk to me about it, so I'd tried to give him some privacy. It felt like he was struggling to make a decision, fighting himself about something — a quandary, or a moral dilemma.
I trusted his moral compass more than my own most of the time, so I was sure he'd make the right decision. My concern was more for how he was feeling: not happy, not sure of himself, torn on the issues, whatever they were.
It was probably about work, but it didn't feel like it was. In fact, it felt like it was about me. That seemed impossible — or at least unlikely — and very egocentric of me to even think that, so I dismissed that impression and gave him his space.
Then one day he came to me, having made his decision, and said, "Peter, I need to talk to you."
We went into his office. And he talked.
It had been about me, after all.
"Pete." He sat on the edge of his desk, arms crossed over his chest, nervous but determined. "I know it's been hard for you lately, all the rules and restrictions and dangers of working here. I want you to know, I can't change a lot of that right now. But if you're not happy here, if you want to go — I'll help. I'll help you find somewhere you can be happy. A better job, or a safe place to retire, whatever you need. The job's not more important than you, and if you can be happier somewhere else—"
I stopped him, reaching out to grip his arm, looking him in the eye, feeling my brow crinkle and my throat grow tight. "Kev, no. I'm here. I'm with you. We'll work it out. I don't need to leave."
His face relaxed, and his heart swelled with feeling, like a kid being told he could go to Disneyland. "Oh. Well. That's excellent." He cleared his throat, trying to look like he wasn't feeling as emotional as he was. He steeled himself again. "But if that ever changes—"
I silenced him with a hug. "I knew," I muttered against his shoulder. "I always knew you'd put me above the job if I ever needed it. But I won't. I'll be here for you. I won't leave."
He cleared his throat again, several times. His hug was very tight. I snuggled shamelessly closer into his strong arms, enjoying the feeling of being perfectly safe. I do love a cuddle, even from Kev.
#
Darkness.
Dripping.
Mental confusion.
My head hurt, and there was a funny taste in my mouth. I couldn't feel my hands, and I was lying in a funny position.
Where was this that I was waking up? And why couldn't I remember . . . ?
My thoughts drifted back, forming slowly into a chain of circumstances. And then I wished I hadn't remembered after all.
I was with Kevin, in France. I'd gone off to wander the beautiful streets and take in the Parisian atmosphere. I'd stopped to get some authentic baked good — what had I been planning to get, a croissant or something like that?
I never got it. I'd had my security officer with me, a strong and competent bodyguard. But it was a busy street, a crowded street, and someone had made a plan.
I was snatched. Grabbed from the queue, shoved into the back of some kind of van, and driven away from there quickly. I'd tried to struggle free, but I was less than useless in the dark, with a couple of angry thugs holding on to me, giving me a thump in the ribs every time I tried to move.
By the time we'd arrived, I'd been subdued, and it was hard to breathe, every inhalation an effort, causing me pain. I was also shivering very hard, which made me pretty angry. I'd always been a tough bastard, springing up if I was knocked down, coming back for more, fighting guys bigger than I was and winning.
Granted I preferred not to have to fight, but it happened sometimes, and I wasn't the kind of person who shivered and flinched from blows. At least, not usually.
This felt . . . different. More ugly and less personal, somehow. I was here for a reason, and these men had no grudge against me personally but would do whatever it took short of killing me to keep me in line. And I could sense that they had a very, very long laundry list of things that would be short of killing me.
Did I want to lose a finger or two? How did I feel about internal bleeding and a broken jaw? I could keep struggling, if I wanted to, if I thought I could see anything in the dark and rocking van. I certainly could.
By the time they ejected me from the van, we had stopped. The building we were in — some kind of garage, I think — was dim and made me deeply nervous.
I was tossed out — hard. After I hit the concrete floor, and before I could hop up, I was hauled by my underarms (which hurts more than you'd think) into another vehicle. This time they took the trouble to bind me and duct tape my mouth. Considerate, I suppose. Now I couldn't struggle, and there were no more love taps on the ribs.
I was in a pretty good state of panic at this point, my terror feeding off their calm coldness. I kept trying to use the techniques I'd been taught in counseling. I kept telling myself Kevin would find me, free me. He would go all Liam Neeson on my kidnappers' asses — or hire someone who could. No one would hurt me — not really; I was too valuable alive. I'm afraid I didn't quite believe my own assurances, although I tried very hard to.
I had fallen
into a fitful dose, more shock than sleep, I think, by the time we finally stopped. I'd lost all sense of time — it felt like forever. I was bundled out of the van, blinking in shock at the sun. It didn't seem to have changed positions in the sky at all. Did that mean I had spent a full twenty-four hours in one vehicle or another?
I couldn't tell if we were still in France, but I was hauled out of the vehicle in a small, neat garage that looked like it belonged to a pleasant home. They neither untied nor untaped me, and by this point I had to pee pretty badly. I was uncomfortably aware that there were damp spots on my face, where maybe I'd been crying without realizing it, and my nose was running, which made it hard to breathe.
The van was dusty, okay?
Inside the house — which looked normal, cozy, and pleasant — they plunked me down onto a kitchen chair, which was uncomfortable because my hands were still tied behind my back.
I wondered if I should pee myself. I wondered what I should do when I had to take a dump. Most likely my body was too scared to, and I hadn't had anything to eat recently, but eventually, they had to untie me and let me use the bathroom, right? I was growing so desperate to pee that even my terror couldn't compete. I tried wriggling around, but there was no way to speak or motion or mime, and they showed no interest in me anyway.
The two of them walked around, making cups of tea and coffee, and then sat down and drank them. They ignored me, except when I tried to get up from the chair. Then I was put back with enough roughness to remind me how much my ribs hurt. At least that made my bladder hurt a little less. I was going to have to pee myself. Would they hit me for that, too? I couldn't take much more of this, but I had no choice. I couldn't leave; I wished Kevin would find me.
Had anyone told Ellery that I was missing yet? If they had, he was probably feeling as desperate as I did. I could imagine him curling up miserable and broken, unwilling to speak, barely able to breathe, terrified for me.
SURE (Men of the ESRB Book 3) Page 15
