“You’re jealous?” Tango asked, incredulous.
A flush came up along Ian’s aristocratic cheekbones. “You need your whores. Your biker sluts. Them I understand. The itch needs scratching. The monster needs to be fed. But what could that child possibly give you? How could you turn to her now?”
Tango swallowed with some difficulty. “Because she cares.”
“And I don’t?!” Ian roared.
Wires tore loose in Tango’s head. Barely-latched doors came open. He wasn’t Tango, wasn’t even Kev, but Loverboy again. Scared, self-loathing, hopeless.
“You weren’t there!” he shouted back. “And the second the words were out, more followed. “You weren’t there, when they shoved a broom handle in me! I wasn’t holding your hand. You…you…you weren’t there…”
He was going to cry, he realized. He was going to sob, and no matter how embarrassing, he could do nothing about it.
Ian’s angry mask crumpled. “Darling.” He took Tango’s face in his hands, pulled him in close. “Darling, no, no, I wasn’t. But I was there before. I was there the first time, remember? When it was just the two of us. I was there when–”
“She doesn’t know,” Tango said through clenched teeth. “She doesn’t know what I am, or what I’ve done.”
Ian’s auburn brows crimped together. His eyes glittered with unshed tears. “Love, then how could she ever give you what you need?”
“I don’t need it,” he protested. “I don’t.”
“My beautiful boy, of course you do. It’s in your DNA now. The craving.”
Tango opened his mouth, and no sound came out. He couldn’t breathe.
“It would only hurt her,” Ian muttered. “Hiding yourself from someone like that. She doesn’t have what you need,” he repeated.
What would Whitney say, he wondered, if she knew all the dirty secrets of his past?
His eyes fluttered shut.
And Ian kissed him.
A beautiful, expert, involved kiss. Lips. Tongues. He allowed himself to open to it. Relished Ian’s fingers sliding into his hair.
It was different with Ian; it always had been. So unlike anything he’d ever had with Jasmine or the club girls. The tender violence, the exquisite stirring of passion, and gentleness, and anger. Such anger. That sharp-edged kernel of self-hatred that turned the mating of lips and tongues to sweet red wine.
All his bitter resistance melted. Their intimate history wiped away all thought, all fear, all pain. This was the trap, the one he’d always entered willingly.
Hands pulling at fabric. Heavy wool and cheap cotton. The expensive weave of Ian’s suit jacket, and the rough denim of Tango’s jeans.
It was desperate.
You tried to kill yourself.
I don’t want to live with it anymore.
Come to bed with me.
Yes.
The mattress dipped beneath their combined weight. Soft comforter against his back. Ian’s face hovering above his own, his hair an auburn waterfall, his eyes liquid. “You’re all skin and bones. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You won’t.” He reached blindly toward the nightstand, managed to pull the drawer, curl his hand around what they would need. Offered the tube to his lover.
With incredible gentleness, expression soft, his touch tender, Ian settled over him, kissed his throat, joined them, that pressure Tango knew so well by now.
He closed his eyes, but the tears came anyway. This was the thing none of his brothers knew – what they could never know. Because they could never understand the magnitude of what Ian had given him. Two broken, ravaged, ruined boys, chained in basements, made to dance, made to whore themselves to sweating, disgusting, middle-aged men with sick fetishes. In the dark, they’d reached for one another through the horror and the pain, and in Ian’s arms, Kev had learned, for the first time, what it meant to make love, what it meant to find physical pleasure with another person.
He loved Ian.
And he hated him for reminding him of all the horrors of the past.
But oh to feed the beast, and to feed it with pleasure and love.
And Whitney wondered why he’d slit his wrists in the bathtub.
~*~
No matter when, no matter why, no matter who, the sex was always necessary. The pressure in his head, the weight on his heart, could only be alleviated by a physical release. He craved that sense of being filled – being full. Complete. A part of something outside his own sick self.
That was an insult to Ian. Because…this was Ian.
But even so, the aftermath always came. The cooling of sweat, the slowing of heartbeats. The doubt. The wonder.
Ian lay stretched behind him, arm around his waist, fingers playing against his chest. “Why didn’t you tell me you were thinking of it?” he whispered.
There were too many reasons to list, so Tango kept quiet.
“You know that you have to leave the club.”
Again, he didn’t answer.
“When they find out what you did,” Ian pressed, “they’ll never let you stay.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
Ian’s hand flexed, fingers stroking above his heart. “You know I’m right,” he said, gently.
“I know Ghost isn’t gonna say anything to anyone.”
Ian snorted, his breath warm at the back of Tango’s neck. “Maybe not now. Not until he needs leverage.”
Tango rolled over, so they were face-to-face, pressed together, damp skin gluing them to one another. Ian’s face was beautiful with afterglow. It felt wonderful to be in someone’s arms, to be tangled like this. He should shut his eyes, fall to sleep, and not question it.
But he said, “You know,” in a soft, defeated voice, “sometimes it’s the most tempting thing in the word. The idea of walking away from everything.”
“Then why don’t you?”
“Because it won’t solve anything.”
“And slitting your wrists will?”
He didn’t get to respond. There came the sound of the apartment door opening. Aidan’s heavy, graceless footfalls; jangle of keys. The pause, when he saw the jackets on the floor. Deep inhale.
“Tango?”
Tango disentangled himself from Ian and sat up, reached for his jeans on the floor.
“Did Whitney leave?” Aidan asked. “Did…”
The bedroom door was open, and Aidan appeared between the jambs. His expression, hopeful, worried, curious, turned sour when he saw them. He turned away quickly. “Jesus. Put some fucking clothes on.” And he moved out of sight.
“Shit,” Tango muttered. His vision swam as he bent to step into his jeans. His head felt light, empty, a balloon on top of his neck.
Behind him, he heard Ian sit up in bed. Heard him sigh. “Kevin. Why are you shaking?”
He was, fingers fumbling as he tried to work the jeans up to his hips.
“He already knows,” Ian continued. “Why should it matter that he sees?”
It seemed to take years to do the zipper, the button. Then he turned to Ian, shaking so badly now that if affected his voice. “It doesn’t matter that it’s you. It doesn’t matter if I’m gay, straight, or bi. It matters that all I am, all I’ve ever been, all I’ll ever be is something for people to fuck.”
Ian leaned toward him, started to speak.
“Go. Please. Just go.”
And for once, Ian didn’t act lordly and superior. Sadly, he complied. Tango turned away as the man climbed from the bed and dressed.
He didn’t rush, but he was efficient, and when he was finished, he placed a hand on Tango’s shoulder. Brushed his hair aside and kissed the back of his neck. “Eat something, darling. You’re much too thin.”
Tango listened to him leave. Then he went to face Aidan.
His best friend stood at the kitchen sink, staring out the window above it, smoking, gray trails curling around his head.
Tango joined him. “I know what you’re going to say.”
“I doubt that.”
“And you’re right.” Tango took a deep breath and let it out in a rush. “I need help,” he admitted, for the very first time. “I think…I think I need therapy.”
Seven
The sky was black beneath the veil of a new moon when Whitney pulled into the driveway. Lights glowed in the windows, beamed yellow rectangles out onto the brown winter grass of the lawn. It was easy to pretend, as she sat in her car, that this was a happy home, a place full of cheerful voices and delicious cooking smells.
But she knew better.
After leaving Kev, the rest of her day had seemed to drag. She was restless, preoccupied, too consumed with replaying their lunch together to pay much attention to the customer service calls she fielded. One woman grew flustered, cursed her, and vowed to call Whitney’s manager before hanging up. Even that hadn’t lifted the fog.
It was worry that had plagued her. That sense of drowning she’d felt when Jason was going from pills to heroin, and she’d had no way to break through to him. So she’d cooked a few hamburgers and hugged Kev. How could that possibly be helpful?
Inside, she encountered the stench of something burning. “Oh no!” She dumped her purse and keys on the floor and rushed to the smoking stove. A pot of rice had been allowed to boil over, clumps of rice blackening on the electric coils beneath it. The bubbling and hissing was awful. How had anyone missed the noise? Much less the smoke!
She snatched up a dish towel and shoved the pot off the eye, clicked the unit off.
“Madelyn?” she called. “Are you here?”
In the living room, Ashley and Charlotte were in front of the TV, somber, not arguing for once.
“Where’s your mother?”
“In her room,” Ashley said, chewing her lip. “She’s mad.”
“About what?”
“Everything.”
Out of the mouths of babes…
“You two stay here,” Whitney said, “and I’ll make dinner in just a bit.”
They nodded.
The house, she couldn’t help but notice, was even more of a sty than normal. The laundry she’d folded and left in a basket just inside the linen closet was strewn across the hallway floor. She stepped over an upturned glass, its liquid contents already soaked into the carpet.
“Madelyn?”
Her sister-in-law was in her room, face-down on the bed, snoring softly.
It struck Whitney as repulsive, suddenly. All of it. The clothes spilling from the hamper, the drawn curtains, the unmade bed. Madelyn was greasy, disheveled, and reeked of alcohol.
Was everyone in her life going to come unglued?
She felt a small inner snap, and the confrontation Kev had suggested came boiling to the surface, same as the rice that was now baked onto the stovetop.
“Madelyn,” she repeated, voice hard, and stepped up to the bed, gave the woman’s shoulder a hard shove. “Wake up.”
“Wha…” Madelyn pushed up on her arms, groggy, swaying. She blinked a few times, smacked her dry lips.
“I’m making coffee,” Whitney informed her. “And you’re going to clean yourself up and come spend some time with your girls.”
With seemingly great effort, Madelyn sat up, pushed her hair from her eyes, and yawned.
Whitney found jeans and a reasonably clean sweatshirt on the piled-up dresser. “Here.” She tossed them onto the bed. “Why don’t you grab a shower while I make the coffee? You’ll feel better.”
Madelyn blinked a few times, then turned glassy eyes on Whitney, finally. She scowled. Her voice came out a rough croak. “Why’re you back so late?”
For a year she’d been patient. She’d picked up the slack, overlooked the mess, pretended things would go back to normal. But seeing Kev today, touching him, however briefly, had begun a launch sequence of sorts. And so her patience and kindness wavered.
“I always get home at the same time,” she said. “Come on, get up. Maybe we can get some of this mess picked up before bedtime.”
Madelyn drew herself upright. Her face – puffy, flushed, bleary-eyed – pinched up with anger. “Are you telling me what to do right now?”
“Yes. And high time, too. You’re letting this house, and yourself, and this family go to hell.”
“This family?” Her lips peeled back in a nasty sneer. “This isn’t a family anymore, dumbass.”
Whitney took a deep breath. She wanted to scream. She wanted to track down every vodka bottle in the house and pitch them against the wall. The idea of the shattering glass, the satisfying smash, was infinitely appealing.
Instead, she said, “Madelyn, Jason’s gone because he was a junkie. How is you turning into a drunk going to help the situation?”
With an angry snarl, Madelyn heaved forward off the bed. Her legs buckled and she fell, catching herself against the dresser.
Whitney watched in horror. Her once-merry, always-smiling sister-in-law was well and truly gone. Same as Jason. “Look at yourself,” she said. “You can’t even stand up at six-thirty in the evening.”
“Shut the hell up!”
“Look at this house,” Whitney continued. “God, Madelyn, look at your daughters! They lost their father; do you want them to lose you too?”
“Shut up!” she shouted. “This isn’t your goddamn business!”
Tears stung her eyes. “Yes, it is,” Whitney shot back. “It was my brother who got hooked on the needle. My brother who got me locked up in a drug lord’s basement. You’re my family, you and the girls. This is completely my business.”
Madelyn tried to slap her. She lost her balance and had to clutch at the edge of the dresser. “Don’t talk to me about Jason!” Tears flooded her eyes. “Don’t you dare!”
“My brother,” Whitney repeated. “I can talk about him.”
“Not here you can’t. Not in front of me.”
~*~
It was shaping up to be a cold night, the frost already sparkling on the grass, the stars already winking to life overhead, the sky clear and windswept. Mercy’s breath plumed like smoke as he went up the back sidewalk. He felt the air testing the hem and sleeves of his jacket, looking for a way to his skin, trying to make him shiver.
A few long strides carried him to the back door, and then he was inside, shutting it against the night, locking it.
Home.
He was assaulted, always, by the ordinary beauty of it. His and her jackets and helmets hung up in the mud room. Scent of dinner cooking – tonight he smelled homemade chicken noodle soup, and knew it came with sourdough croutons for dunking, roast veggies, maybe even a cake for dessert; he smelled something sweet. His Ava Rose knew he needed more than regular-man portions at the end of the day. He strained for the sound of her voice, the boys’, sweet with innocence and childhood. Their house, so full of their things, their conversations, their love.
He passed through the kitchen, saw the soup simmering on the stove, the cake cooling on the counter. Ava and the kids were in the living room, Remy and Cal on the floor with blocks and trucks, Ava holding Camille and peering at the screen of her laptop, all set up at the writing station Mercy had installed for her in the window.
“Hi, baby,” she called.
“Daddy!” Remy exclaimed.
Cal said, “Di-deee!”
Home.
Greeting them all was the usual joyous circus. He loved swinging his boys up into the air, hearing them shout with delight. Loved the clean, fragile smell of baby when he kissed Camille. Love the press of Ava’s hand over his heart when he finally got to kiss her sweet mouth.
His family. The people who were his.
He’d be dead or incarcerated if not for them.
They traded news of their days. Ava was nervously awaiting an email about a magazine article. He told her about one of the day’s customers that made her laugh until she was breathless.
It was when they were finally at the dinner table that he brought up the heavy stuff.
“I had
lunch with your dad today.”
She drew upright in her chair, spoon frozen above her bowl, instantly alert. “Just the two of you?”
“No, Aidan too. He wanted to talk about Tango.”
She nodded.
“Tango?” Remy asked, and Mercy locked eyes with his wife. They weren’t going to be able to discuss adult things around the kids much longer.
“Yes, sweetie, Uncle Tango,” Ava said, turning a smile to their oldest.
It would be better to wait, he decided; better to stick to benign topics for now. “If your story gets accepted, have you got another ready to send out?”
“Uh-huh. I’m working on something serialized right now…” She spoke enthusiastically about her projects, and the plan she was hatching for her career, but he could see her wild curiosity about Tango, simmering just under the surface.
The boys were in bed and Mercy was just getting out of the shower when Ava finally pounced on him. Well, figuratively. Not literally, because she was sitting up against the headboard of their bed, nursing Camille.
“Lunch with my dad,” she prompted, dark eyes serious.
He wanted to smile, watching her go from bedtime story mama to motorcycle mama in a matter of seconds. Instead, he sighed and went to sit next to her.
“Aidan stayed with him last night.”
“Right.”
“And Kev woke up from a bad nightmare. He wanted to call Whitney; he said that’s what he usually does when he can’t sleep.”
“He wakes her up?”
“Apparently she stays up most nights painting.”
“God,” Ava said softly, expression sad. “They’re really attached to each other.”
He nodded. “I know he’s the one with the demons, but I think she’s just as manic about it as he is.”
“Hmm. You know, a professional would say they need to learn to stand on their own, come to terms with their problems separately.”
He sensed she wasn’t finished. “But what would you say?”
Loverboy (Dartmoor Book 5) Page 7
