Seeking the Balance

by A. R. Moler

  Seeking the Balance

  by

  A.R. Moler

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright 2012, 2017 by AR Moler

  Cover illustration by P.E. Ash

  Chronology of stories in the Division P universe

  Braided Lives

  Hell Dogs Squadron

  Seeking The Balance

  Falling From a Height

  Zero to 165

  Don't Fret the Timing

  Braided Lives 2

  Begin and End With You

  The LD50 of Memories

  Part One: Blue Bike Blues

  Chapter 1

  One thousand ccs of smooth, raw power. Oh baby. Lt. Cameron Bradshaw accelerated up onto the highway on his brand-spanking-new electric blue Suzuki SV1000S. Three months ago, an assassin had arranged a very intentional “accident,” smashing a pickup truck into him while he was on his previous motorcycle. He had come horrendously close to dying, and only survived due to the amazing skills of an orthopedic surgeon who also happened to be a psychic healer: Dr. Mason Flynn.

  Six foot two and eyes of blue, wasn’t that how the phrase went? Cam thought Mason was the most delicious thing he’d ever known. And his best kept secret. F/A-18 Navy fighter pilots did not have male lovers. To the public world, Mason was his best friend, nothing more.

  After the murder of his roommate, a casualty of the same covert op that had nearly killed him, Cam had moved back onto the base. Bachelor Officer’s Quarters sucked. Okay, that wasn’t exactly true. It was a bland, boring, one bedroom apartment that was far too close to too many other people. For a psychic, that was a problem. So he escaped to Mason’s house near the Virginia Beach oceanfront as often as feasible. And that’s where he was headed now. He was eager to show his lover his awesome new toy.

  Cam took the Birdneck Road exit and turned toward the north end of the beach, threading his way over to Atlantic and up to 63rd Street. He pulled into Mason’s driveway and killed the engine. He yanked off his helmet and ran his hand through his hair. The driveway was empty except for his cycle; Mason must be running late. Not that that was uncommon with the doctor. Cam sat for a moment astride his bike, opening his senses, mentally searching for his lover. Finding people and things was his gift, with a little empathy thrown in. His tie to Mason had grown deep over the past weeks. These days he could probably find that man anywhere on earth, and he was nearly home.

  Swinging his leg off the bike, he set the helmet on the seat as Mason pulled his car into the driveway beside the motorcycle. The doctor got out of the car slowly.

  “So, like my new bike?” Cam asked with a grin. He traced a finger down over the bright metallic blue paint. The flash of anger hit him so hard he took a step back.

  “Are you out of your fucking mind?” shouted Mason. “I would have thought almost dying on the last one would be enough for you!”

  “That accident wasn’t my God damn fault! You know that!”

  “And what happens when someone nails you on this one?”

  “That’s pretty damn unlikely,” Cam yelled back. He was rapidly heading toward pissed.

  “Get the hell out of my driveway and don’t come back ‘til you find some sanity!” Mason strode to the front door, unlocked it and slammed it hard enough to echo.

  “Bastard,” Cam muttered and grabbed his helmet, yanking it on. He started up the engine and gunned it out onto the road, He was a full grown adult capable of flying an F/A-18. The motorcycle was a hell of lot less dangerous than a Navy jet. Mason Flynn could keep his frigging opinion to himself and Cam decided he wouldn’t be darkening the doctor’s doorstep anytime soon.

  ~

  The sound of the motorcycle engine retreated as Mason leaned back against the inside of his front door. How could that man be so fucking stupid? The “accident” had been so very close to being fatal, and Mason’s skills had probably been the deciding factor between life and death. He hadn’t known Cam then. Hadn’t cared about him, except in the way that a doctor cares for a critically injured patient. Now... The chances of him being present if Cam had another such crash were almost nonexistent. He wasn’t sure if he could face having to bury the pilot. God in heaven, he had even killed to protect Cam from that homicidal traitor who had been part of the whole stolen missile fiasco.

  Mason couldn’t decide if he wanted to punch something or just scream. Ultimately he did neither. He went out into the garage and flipped on the light. Pieces of a partially assembled mahogany chest lay on the saw horse and workbench. He picked up a block plane and began evening out the slight ridge on the piece of wood that was to be the lid. It probably would go a lot faster with a table saw and a random orbital sander, but he hated power tools. Steve Villetti, one of the other surgeons in the practice, teased the crap out of him, telling him he used more power tools on people than he did on his pet furniture projects. It was true. He loved the near silence of the hand tools and feel of perfect control that they imparted. Tiny curls of wood fluttered to the floor. It was soothing, relaxing, and best of all, for just a little while he didn’t think about the lover he had probably just driven out of his life.

  ~

  “Hey, you wanna grab a beer and some food at the Gator Grill?” yelled Curtis from across the parking lot.

  Cam looked up from where he was about to stick the key in the ignition of his bike. Curtis was one of the other guys in the Hell Dogs Squadron and they had just finished an exhaustive analysis of a simulated dogfight.

  “Sonja might swing by,” taunted the other pilot. Cam had dated the deliciously built blonde a couple of times. From a purely physical point of view a woman held as great an appeal as a hot guy. He and Sonja had even made it to bed once. No commitments, no expectations. Yeah, that sounded like what he needed.

  It had been six days since the argument in Mason’s driveway. Argument or fight? The word fight evoked images of fists and punches when applied to two guys. Six days that normally would have been broken by a couple of phone calls between them. At the very least, a handful of text messages, if their schedules were too tight to allow anything else. There had been nothing.

  He wasn’t going to get rid of his motorcycle just because Mason thought it was too damn dangerous. How dare he think he could run Cam’s life? Memories of the words -- don’t come back ‘til you find some sanity -- burned in his head and his hand clenched around the keys. Christ, what an arrogant prick that man was!

  And his chest ached like someone had torn a huge chunk out of his heart.

  “Yeah, sounds like a plan. I need to swing by an ATM and get some cash. I’ll meet you there,” said Cam.

  ~

  Make sure the blood flow is reaching all the way to the toes, Mason told himself, as he directed a trickle of his healing talent all the way to the bottom of the patient’s leg. His little eight year old female patient’s lower left leg had been virtually crushed in a car accident. All his colleagues thought he should amputate just below the knee. Not without a fight, he decided.

  He had already spent ninety minutes just cleaning and debriding the multiple open fractures. This was going to take at least another two hours. If it didn’t work, he’d probably be bringing her back to the OR in another twenty four hours to perform the amputation he was trying so hard to avoid. But he had an edge, an edge that almost no one knew of, one that he had recently been refining with the help of Division P’s top healer, Peter Vithoulkas.

  He gritted his teeth a little behind his surgical mask. He would make this work, damn it.

  ~r />
  Having Sonja squirm her butt down on his groin was a definite turn on, decided Cam. He and Curtis had been hanging out in the sports bar for a good three hours over dinner, a beer and several games of pool. Sonja had indeed shown up with Curtis’s girlfriend Liz, and Cam had done nothing to dissuade her blatant flirting. He was currently leaning on the wall waiting for Curtis to take a shot at the corner pocket. Sonja was slouched against him, the curve of her behind planted very deliberately against his crotch. It was a sort of deliciously uncomfortable pressure.

  “We should get out of here when you’re done with the game,” she suggested. He grinned at her.

  “Your place?” he asked.

  “If you like.”

  “I’ll follow you on my bike.”

  “You could give me a ride.”

  “I’ve only got one helmet.”

  “Oh. Then you need to get another helmet.”

  “Yeah, okay,” he laughed. “But I think it’s bit too late to buy one tonight.”

  “Bummer,” she smiled.

  It took another twenty minutes to finish the game, then they walked out into the parking lot. The late September air was still comfortably warm. Cam stood beside her car and pressed her gently back against the closed door. Judging by the smirk on her lips, he was sure she could feel the hard length of his arousal as his hips pushed against her. He kissed her slowly, savoring the taste of her mouth. It had been a while since he’d been inches taller than the person he was kissing. Mason was not quite two inches taller and if they both had shoes on, he usually ended up tilting his head back just a little. Oh God. Mason. Cam froze for a moment and then turned his head away.

  “Hey, did I do something wrong? I thought you were into this,” said Sonja.

  He was. No he wasn’t. He was letting his dick make decisions he was going to regret. He pushed back away from her. “Listen, I’m sorry. I’m seeing someone... and we had a fight. I... I just can’t. Not ‘til I know where I stand with him,” Cam said. She gave him a funny look.

  “Did you just say him?” she demanded.

  “Uh, yeah,” he replied uncertainly.

  She slapped him. Hard, across the mouth. Hard enough that he could taste blood.

  “Get away from me, you pervert!” she shouted, and yanked her car door open. He stepped back as she started the car and stomped on the gas, peeling out of the parking lot.

  He stood in the center of the aisle between cars, watching her go. He carefully felt his lip with his fingers. Ow. They came away smeared with blood. Damn. Even when he was absolutely furious, Mason hadn’t hit him. Cam slowly walked toward his motorcycle. Picking up his helmet, he swung a leg over and sat down.

  He wasn’t planning on apologizing. And he damn sure wasn’t going to get rid of his brand new bike. But he needed to talk to Mason. Despite the fact his body seemed to think it was a good idea, kissing Sonja had felt so very wrong. Betrayal wrong. Cheating wrong. Oh Jesus, when had this “thing” between him and Mason become... whatever the hell it was? When people asked who Mason was, he said, "my best friend." And he wasn’t lying. Best friend with benefits? Lovers? Partners?

  He sat on his bike for a long time, trying to compartmentalize what he felt. Depressed. Frustrated. Angry. Empty. Alone. Cam slowly put on his helmet and started the motorcycle. He had to go see Mason. It was midnight on a Wednesday. That should mean Mason would be home, probably in bed, but as he left the parking lot, he realized he was heading toward Norfolk. Opening his senses, he focused on the tugging sensation that guided him when he hunting for something or someone. Mason was at Norfolk General Hospital. Midnight in the middle of week, must mean he was on call and gotten yanked out of bed for an emergency. Maybe they could grab a cup of coffee when the doctor was finished, and talk.

  ~

  Mason sat down heavily on the bench in the locker room. Close to four hours of surgery on the little girl’s leg, accompanied by a vast output of energy in terms of his healing talent, had left him sweaty and exhausted. He grabbed a bottle of Gatorade from the locker and chugged it. That much healing took a marathon level of calorie consumption and was capable of leaving him with a dangerously low blood glucose level. He had wolfed down a power bar while his patient was being prepped, but that was long gone. Mason held his hand out in front of him. A fine tremor shook his fingers. Hopefully the carbs from the Gatorade would kick in soon. He ran a hand back through his hair. It was sweat damp. Shower time.

  It was incredibly tempting to just sit down on the floor of the shower and fall into a coma. He goaded himself to finish and returned to his locker to dress. He sat on the bench fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. Christ, his coordination was shot.

  “You look like shit,” said a voice beside him, and his head whipped around to see -- Cameron Bradshaw. The pilot was leaning on a locker, facing him, arms crossed.

  “Damn! Give a guy a little warning. You about gave me a coronary,” said Mason.

  “Sorry. I figured you heard the door open.”

  “I... wasn’t paying that much attention.” Mason said.

  “You done with whatever case dragged you over here?”

  “Yeah. For the night anyway.”

  “Give me your car keys,” said Cam.

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m driving you home. A guy too tired to notice he’s fucked up the buttons on his shirt is too tired to drive home without wrapping his car around a light pole,” replied Cam.

  Mason looked down at the front of his shirt and realized he had mismatched the buttons and the opening was hanging at an angle. He made a low growl of frustration and undid them. Then he dug his keys out and handed them to Cam.

  “You’re about to screw it up again. Let me do it,” said Cam, as he reached for Mason’s shirt. Mason stood with his hands hanging at his sides while Cam buttoned up his shirt for him. It was a meaningless practical gesture... except it wasn’t.

  ~

  How come you could make a satellite bounced phone call from the Mediterranean to the U.S., but the intercom at the drive through always sounded like the guy was on Mars? Cam pulled up to the second window and grabbed the Wendy’s bag that was handed to him. He passed it across to Mason.

  “Eat,” he said, pulling out onto the street. When he had walked Mason out to his car at the hospital, he had noticed that the doctor was shaking. They’d been through this enough times before that Cam knew food was a priority. Fast food wasn’t an ideal solution, but fast was the operative word.

  Mason ate while Cam drove, and it took roughly twenty-five minutes to get back to Mason’s house. Cam unlocked the front door. Mason followed him in and flopped onto the sofa, rubbing his hands down over his face. Cam sat down in a chair, facing him.

  “So what happened to your lip?” Mason asked.

  “I got slapped.”

  “I’m guessing by a woman?”

  “Yeah. Basically for deciding not to sleep with her.”

  “Any particular reason?”

  “I told her I was seeing someone. And...” Cam blew out a breath. This was hard. What exactly was he supposed to say? “I said we’d had a fight and wasn’t really all that sure where I stood with... him.”

  “And she hit you.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Come here,” Mason beckoned him with a finger. Cam slowly got up and walked over to sit on the sofa beside the doctor. Mason reached out and brushed his thumb across the swollen and bloodied lip. Cam grabbed Mason's wrist as soon as he felt the warm thrum of energy.

  “Don’t,” he said.

  Mason raised an eyebrow. “Why not? I can fix it.”

  “You’re so wiped out, you can hardly keep your eyes open. You don’t need to burn yourself out any further over something so minor.”

  “Maybe I want to.” Mason’s voice was barely audible and his expression so raw it tightened Cam’s throat. Cam hugged Mason’s hand to his chest.

  “I... missed you,” he whispered.

  “If you kill y
ourself on that God damn motorcycle, I’m gonna miss you a whole lot more.”

  “I’m not selling it, but I should’ve told you I was buying it. You... I should’ve guessed you would be stressed out by the idea.”

  “Cam, you nearly died in my arms... and I didn’t even know you then.”