by Amy Lane
Worst moment of his life, waiting for Preston’s dogs to mark bodies. But then, Preston had been in love with Damien since Glen had brought him home when they were both cadets—hadn’t been a picnic for him either.
“Stories I could tell,” he said, voice gruff and tight. “Your friend get in trouble?”
“Drugs,” Cash murmured. “They were everywhere. I used some but never got a taste like she did.” He shuddered. “It got… bad.”
Glen had seen bad. Guys he’d grown up with, including his first lay. Glen hadn’t been in love with the guy, but seeing him go from a fun kid to a junkie with brown teeth had hurt.
“Rehab bad?” Glen knew the answer to this one. Clive had told him.
“Yeah.” Cash rested, searched his face, and Glen wasn’t sure what was there—he wasn’t known for being cuddly—but something must have reassured him. “I went too. I’d like to say it was just for company, but truth was, I needed to get my shit together. Doing blow ’cause you’re bored is no way to live.”
“And a good way to run through your profits,” Glen agreed, not judging. Nothing to judge, really. When Glen had been young and stupid, he’d had the Air Force and Damien. This kid had the record business. Glen couldn’t say he would have made better choices; he was pretty sure his would have been worse.
“That too,” Cash acknowledged.
They were quiet for a moment, and the voices they’d heard earlier faded into the night.
“How much you got left?” Glen asked softly. Being back against the wall financially could make a man desperate—witness the poker game that night.
“In the bank?” Cash’s mouth pulled up at the corners. “Plenty. But….” He grimaced. “It will sound paranoid to you. The whole story is… is really James Bond.”
An hour ago, Glen would have guessed that he’d been ready for nothing more than a beer and bed—but now, this kid’s shadowed, troubled eyes shiny in the dark, his low tenor voice soothing Glen’s rough edges, he could say this with a whole heart.
“Go ahead, kid, I’ve got nothing but time.”
What followed was a tumble of a story.
Cash and his friend Brielle had signed up for rehab—Jalisco had some good ones, and Cash’s mother had money. Brielle had been struggling, though. They had enough friends and Cash had enough fame to make keeping temptation away problematic, to say the least.
Brielle may have had a taste for candy, but she was, as far as Glen could tell, the only one in Cash’s entire life who he could talk to. She’d been the one to tell him to audition for Clive, the one who had encouraged his music in school and through college, and the one to tell him to insist on some creative control. But listening to Cash’s narrative, Glen could hear the yearning in her, the wish for someone, anyone, to help her find peace with herself.
At the end of the band’s first tour, Cash had gotten back to his hotel room to find it trashed, a naked, confused Brielle weeping in the center of it.
In spite of Cash’s protest that he needed “to get his shit together,” according to Glen’s intel everybody had known it was for the girl. His friend had needed him, and he wouldn’t bail.
But she wasn’t ready after the first twenty-eight days, so Cash had gone looking for something out of the way, secluded, where nobody was going to bring cocaine by with your good-luck teddy bear. He’d found a little place outside of Agujero en la Roca called Tranquilo Paz—and Cash, who spoke fluent Spanish, thought that sounded good. Tranquil Peace. Perfect.
“We didn’t realize until we got there that that was the name of the guy,” Cash muttered. “He called himself Tranquilo Paz, and he… he said everything was voluntary. But then he’d set it up so we didn’t eat, or didn’t sleep, or didn’t even take a piss unless we’d earned enough ‘trust’ as he called it. I spent a week there—and he was canny. He did it slowly. First it was ‘Say please, my children.’ Then it was ‘You’re so beautiful, you can live without for just another hour.’ And then it was ‘You filthy whore—how dare you disobey me by fainting?’”
Glen gasped, and Cash nodded miserably.
“The first time he did that, it was to someone we didn’t know—but we didn’t get a lot of time to talk, to know each other. I told Brielle that evening, when we were supposed to be working the garden, that I was taking off. She said she’d come with me, but when I got to Agujero en la Roca, she wasn’t there.”
“Why didn’t you stay at Hole in the Rock?” Glen asked curiously.
“Tranquilo—he had guards. Big strapping guys. Mercenaries, I think, because some of them were American and some had other accents. Anyway, there were two of them on my heels. The lady in the bakery hid me, but as soon as they turned back toward the center, I caught a ride with someone coming down here for supplies. I’ve been trying to get enough money together to hire some muscle so we can go and get her out.”
He let out a sigh and leaned his head against the bed. “It’s getting harder. Most everyone is wise to me now.”
Glen gave him a tired smile. “Yeah, well, you’re easy to spot. Pretty kid like you killing it at the table like that. You’re lucky I showed up—those guys had weapons.”
Cash waggled his eyebrows suggestively. “Well, that depends. What’re you packing, soldier?”
Glen tried to be unimpressed. Cash was ten years younger than he was, and for all his tough talk and obvious street smarts, there was something… vulnerable about him. Clive had been trying so hard to help this kid; he’d literally called Glen up out of the blue when he’d heard Glen was in the search-and-rescue business. Glen had tried to explain that “search and rescue” usually meant people lost in the wild or unable to help themselves due to natural disasters, but Clive had been adamant. He needed a search done on this kid who literally had the world at his feet.
Glen had scoffed at first—for all he owned the band’s album and listened to it whenever Damien wouldn’t catch him and had seen the concert special. Cash was the lead singer, the one with the charisma. The other guys seemed to know this was their one shot at fame, but Cash Harper had a career of songwriting ahead of him.
Why would that guy need Glen’s help?
But Glen could see it now. Cash didn’t expect help from anybody—and that made him an easy target for the world at large.
“I’m packing enough resources to get us back to Tranquilo Paz and get your friend back,” Glen said grimly.
Cash’s eyes showed a flash of hope that quickly dimmed. “I know Clive isn’t paying you for that,” he said, his voice stony.
“Kid, sometimes money isn’t the bottom line. You’ve got to know that. I’ll help you get your friend back—I promise.”
Cash leaned forward until he was on his hands and knees, face close to Glen’s in the sultry quiet. “You can’t make a promise like that and not keep it,” he whispered.
Glen licked his lips, suddenly aware that he was in real peril. “I don’t make promises often,” he said. “That promise I’ll keep.”
Cash let out a breath and leaned a little bit closer.
The Real Bottom Line
Present
CASH had never seen anything or anybody who looked better than Glen Echo.
Sure, he looked more tired—and thinner—than the last time Cash had seen him, but he was mobile and not in a hospital bed, and, oh God, not looking at Cash like Cash had broken his heart.
Of course the bastard had always been handsome.
He had dark blond hair and his beard grew out auburn, but that was hard to tell with scruff. His piercing blue eyes were surrounded by black lashes and dark eyebrows, making them even more surprising, especially when he was being an asshole. And his full mouth was so often twisted into sarcastic lines a person could forget how sinful it was.
Cash hadn’t forgotten.
He pulled himself together, wiping his face on Glen’s hoodie before raising his face to Glen’s and smiling slightly. “I’m so glad to see you,” he whispered.
Glen swa
llowed, and Cash’s heart stuttered in his chest as Glen’s expression closed off.
“I’m glad to see you too, kid. Me and Clive were really worried.” Glen took a step back and fumbled in his pocket for his keys. He opened the door and held it for Cash, then followed, kicking his boots off in the foyer and leaving his flight bag on a peg that looked designed for that exact purpose.
“Spence?” he called. “Spence! You here!”
“Napping, asshole!” came the groggy reply, and Glen’s mouth relaxed enough to smile.
“Sorry. Company. Don’t stress.”
A first-rate grunt issued from one of the rooms inside this truly cozy apartment. Colorful area rugs decorated the beige carpeting, a bright blue runner leading them from the foyer to the living room. The living room was meant for big men watching sports—sturdy leather couches and thick wooden end tables surrounded a big-screen television, and the dining room to the left was an afterthought.
Cash imagined Glen would rather eat cereal in front of the TV in his underwear than cook an omelet in jeans.
“Don’t want him freaking out when he sees me?” Cash asked.
“Don’t want him chasing you around with his penis,” Glen muttered. “Horny bastard will come on to everything that moves.” Cash must have looked alarmed because Glen shook his head. “He listens to ‘no,’” he added. “And he’s considerate enough—I mean, we share a wall, and I’d hear complaints. But no gay man in South San Francisco is going to come within a mile of this place if he doesn’t slow down. I swear he buys lube at Costco.”
Cash snickered. “Lucky him.” He sobered. “How about you? You having a, er, lube shortage?”
Not subtle. That was not subtle. But then, they hadn’t needed subtlety that night in Las Varas.
“No,” Glen said, looking him dead in the eye. For the first time Cash got a look at the pain there, at the damage, and his heart twisted. He’d done that, and no matter how necessary it had seemed at the time, Cash could feel the damage done by that breach of trust. “Not since you.”
Well, at least Cash could give him this. “Me neither,” he said gruffly. “I… not since you.”
Something glittered in Glen’s eyes, and while Cash couldn’t put a name to it, it made his heart a little lighter in his chest.
“Good.”
Cash smiled, biting his lip. “Yeah. Backatcha.”
Glen’s face shuttered again, and Cash sighed. “Can I… can I shower?” he asked plaintively. He looked at Glen, who appeared almost as rumpled and travel-stained as he was pretty sure he did. “Or, you know. We could shower together.”
Glen shook his head. “You can go first. Do you have clothes?”
Cash shook his head. “I, uh, anything you could lend me. Everything in my knapsack is none too clean.”
“It’s all too big,” Glen muttered. “Jesus, kid, you been living on sweet air and promises?”
Cash raised his hand and feathered a touch down Glen’s cheekbone, underscoring the leanness and the fact that Glen looked possibly worse than he did. “Like someone else I know.”
“Recovery sucks,” he said, and Cash didn’t have to fake cringing back. He’d left, and they both knew it. Glen had been about to go into surgery for that shoulder—for an injury he’d gotten while he’d been following Cash around in an earthquake zone—and Cash had left.
“I… I talked to Clive, you know,” Cash told him. “Made sure you got out of surgery okay. Made sure you got home.”
“That was real fuckin’ sweet of you. Did you give him a location for your own damned self?”
Cash looked away.
“I’ll go get you some clothes. I think Spencer’s last lay left something—he was about your size.”
“What happened to Damien?” Cash remembered Glen’s friend—the one he’d been so terribly worried about—and how he’d shown up and bailed them both out of the fire. Stunningly beautiful, he’d had Glen Echo’s hero’s swagger, and Cash had thought at the time that it was a shame Glen and Damien hadn’t been a couple.
They were both strong enough not to need sunglasses to shade their eyes from the glare of hanging out with gods.
“He’s living in Napa with my brother,” Glen said, and then he disappeared down the hallway, knocking courteously on the second bedroom door to his left.
Oh. That… that was sort of stupendous, actually. Preston had been special. Cash hadn’t had a lot of experience with people on the autism spectrum, but Preston’s very singular mind had been inescapable.
As had his compassion.
Cash had been afraid for him, afraid a hero like Damien would hurt him, wouldn’t appreciate someone not similarly gifted.
Wrong. Wrong again. Damien had apparently seen Preston’s gifts for the blessings they were. Cash wondered if he could ever trust in someone like that.
Glen came back, a pair of boxers, sweats, and a T-shirt in Cash’s size crumpled in his hands. “They’re clean,” he said. “You go shower. I’ll warm something up to eat.”
Cash went and gave in to temptation, allowing the hot water to sluice away some of his worry, some of his stress about coming here. Brielle was alive—he had to remind himself of that. He’d found her: he knew her situation. He was coming to Glen for help.
(And forgiveness.)
He ignored that little voice. He’d found Glen, tracked him down, as soon as he realized he couldn’t get Brielle away from Tranquilo Paz all by himself. He’d learned something, he hoped, from his and Glen’s adventures in Nayarit, and part of what he’d learned was that he didn’t know everything. He needed Glen’s expertise, his military knowhow, his resources.
(And forgiveness.)
Glen knew people—Damien, Preston—they both had skills he could use. And, a little part of him admitted, he’d liked Preston and Damien. As much as he’d dreamed about seeing Glen again, Glen’s family had appealed to him as well. He’d wanted to reconnect with people who meant something to him.
(And forgiveness.)
And God, what he wouldn’t give for Glen Echo to hold him again, like he had when Cash walked through the door, like there wasn’t Cash’s desertion and a whole lot of pain between them.
But first he had to earn forgiveness.
When he finally dressed and got to the kitchen, Glen had set two places on the table, and a big bowl of hearty homemade stew sat at one.
Glen thrust another one into the microwave, a paper towel on the top, and set the timer as Cash walked in.
“I’m gonna take my shower while that cooks,” he said gruffly, putting a gallon of milk on the table with two glasses. “I’ll be back out in a minute.”
Cash sighed. “You’re… you’re going to have to look at me eventually. You know that, right?”
A muscle twitched in Glen’s jaw, and he swung those bright blue eyes to Cash’s face, holding nothing back.
Hurt, anger, longing—Cash read it all there, and his heart ached in his chest. He opened his mouth and closed it, searching for something, anything, that would make that desertion in a hospital in Jalisco okay.
Glen shook his head and turned toward the hallway. “There’s seconds in the fridge,” he muttered and strode out.
Cash sagged against the table as he went, holding himself up long enough to shove himself in the chair.
Ask for forgiveness. Sure.
Past
IT was funny how Cash remembered their conversation almost word for word. Usually when he was attracted to someone, he was down to fuck and that was it. Even in relationships—the few he’d had—being together always meant sex, but doing things together wasn’t in his repertoire.
He’d always had Brielle to understand him. A lover didn’t have to do any heavy lifting.
But the handsome pilot who had wiped the floor with half the badasses in Nayarit was surprisingly easy to talk to.
Sardonic, sharp, and surprisingly kind, he listened to Cash’s story about Brielle with those stunning eyes intent on Cash’s face. He
asked questions, pulled out information Cash hadn’t realized he had, and dropped the occasional zinger while he was doing it.
Sort of an asshole? Yes. But never once had he threatened Cash with the wrath of the wronged at poker—and he could have. Never once had he threatened bodily punishment or bodily restraint—and given how much his friend had invested in Cash’s ass, he probably had the right.
He’d merely sat there and talked quietly, ears alert for the steadily dissipating mob outside—and responded to Cash’s rabidly escalating come-ons with “I’m too old for you, kid.”
And then he’d made that promise, and Cash had wanted to cry. God, he’d been so worried—he’d contacted Brielle’s parents when her drug use had started getting out of hand and had gotten nothing beyond “She’s an adult, and she’ll make her own decisions.” He’d contacted Clive in the bitter hope that Clive could help him, and Clive had promised her rehab if Cash could get her there. But Clive didn’t have an emotional connection to her—Cash had that, and he was damned if he could find the words or the conviction to get her to commit to something that didn’t promise to ease the loneliness that had haunted her since they’d been friends in high school.
Just for once to have some help—even the illusion of help.
Cash didn’t care if Glen Echo was as old as Methuselah. That promise, the way he listened, his general badassery—all of it would have given Cash a boner without the whole handsome rogue thing and the weaponized eyes.
“I can make promises too,” Cash whispered, leaning closer. He smiled mockingly when Glen scooted away.
“Kid—”
“Twenty-five, old man. Not a kid. Not a virgin. You’re not my first hookup, trust me.”
Glen swallowed and then licked his lips. “Doesn’t put us on an even playing field, Cash. Not even close.”
