Demons Within [For Love of Authority] (Siren Publishing Ménage and More)

by Rhiannon Ayers

  Part of him, he admitted silently, already knew it was going to happen. He’d never quite been able to believe it when Sidri and Tatum said they loved him. Oh, they might believe they did right now, might even be sincere when they said the words. But there were too many demons in Allen’s life, too many things that could climb up out of the darkness of his soul, to allow him to keep their love. Eventually, they would revile him just as much as God did, as much as his father did, and there was absolutely nothing he could do to change that.

  But Allen did love them. Both of them. That fact was crystal clear, because even though his emotions were all locked up tight right now, he could still feel that much. He loved them fiercely, desperately, and without reservation.

  Which was why he had to leave.

  The events of today only crystallized that fact in his mind. If he stayed, if he kept trying to have a relationship with them, more things from his past would come back to haunt him. That was just the way these things worked. And as much as he loved them, as much as he wished things could be different, he knew it could never be. He needed to leave, to free them of his damning presence, so they could move on and find someone less fucked-up to love. If he stayed, he would only drag them down with him, only hurt them all the worse.

  The best thing he could do right now was leave them behind, remove himself from the equation. Then, once they got over being angry with him, they’d see he’d been right, that they were much better off with Allen gone. They’d see it, and they’d thank him for it.

  Eventually.

  So it was a very good thing the bandages were there, keeping his emotions muffled right now. If he gave into the pain he knew was waiting to engulf him the moment he stepped outside his cocoon of numbness, he’d never be able to do what he needed to do.

  He could do it. Would do it. For all their sakes.

  Even if it killed him.

  “You don’t have to get out if you don’t want to,” Tatum said quietly. “We can go somewhere else if you don’t want to be here.”

  Allen blinked. It was as much surprise as he could muster, even though he’d completely forgotten Tatum’s presence. He looked out the windshield and sighed. Damn. He’d been so lost in his own mind, he’d missed the whole drive back to the house. Now he had to get out of the car, go inside, and convince his lovers he was okay enough so that they would go back to work and leave him alone. He took a deep breath, let it out slowly. He could do this. Had to do this.

  There wasn’t any other choice.

  He glanced at Tatum, tried a smile, but probably just ended up looking like he had gas. Wrenching his door open, he climbed out of the classic Camaro and headed for the front door, feeling as if he were walking through dense fog. He stood on the porch, staring at the door handle, waiting for Tatum to join him.

  The crunch of tires on brick announced Sidri’s arrival. Allen turned, watching helplessly as those impossibly sexy legs appeared under the driver’s side door. Fuck, she looked good driving his car. The woman was sex incarnate. He had so many fantasies involving her and his car—her and all of their vehicles, really, including one where he and Tatum fucked her in the ginormous trunk of the Camaro.

  So many fantasies that would never come true, now.

  Shuddering, Allen turned away, shoving his hands in his pockets. Tatum reached past him, opened the door, and held it open as Sidri joined them on the porch. Allen walked inside, took two steps up the stairs, and stopped.

  “You guys don’t have to stay with me,” he said over his shoulder, unable to look at them. If he looked at them, the bandages might come loose. He couldn’t afford to fall apart yet. Not yet. He cleared his throat. “I’m just going to go lie down. I’ll be fine.”

  “Allen,” Sidri said quietly.

  He closed his eyes, squared his shoulders, and met her gaze, wondering what was going through her mind—but her expression was closed to him, eyes blank. Her emotions were just as locked up as his were right now. She stared at him in silence for a long moment.

  Then—“I love you.”

  And she turned around and left.

  Allen stared after her, stunned. She was leaving? Just like that? He’d been dreading having to deal with his lovers, dreading the need to fend them off. He’d expected them to mob him the moment they walked in the door, expected them to throw their arms around him and demand to know how he was feeling. Instead, Sidri said exactly four words, turned around, and left.

  Guess he didn’t matter that much to her after all.

  That’s not fair, and you know it. She’s giving you what you wanted, isn’t she? You can’t be upset with her for that. This hell is of your own making. Live with it.

  Swallowing, he faced Tatum. The big man had one hand wrapped around the banister, his blue eyes filled with shadows. He watched Allen, face blank, for a long time. Then he took a deep breath, backed toward the door, and said, “I love you.”

  And he left, too.

  Just like that, Allen was alone. He stared after them, stunned, for a long time after he heard Tatum’s engine leave the driveway. They left him. Didn’t make him fight for it. Didn’t protest, didn’t argue. They just left.

  The numbness lifted just a teeny, tiny bit—and the wall of pain behind it had Allen staggering to his knees. Sobbing, he scrambled up the stairs, threw himself on the bed, and buried his face in their pillows. He wasn’t sure how long he lay there, shaking violently, but finally the storm of anguish faded enough for him to realize he needed to get himself together and get the hell out of there. It was obvious to him, now, that they wanted him to be gone when they got back.

  Well, he wasn’t about to disappoint them.

  Back inside his cocoon, Allen heaved himself up from the bed and opened the closet doors. Fortunately, he’d only moved in last night—none of his stuff had had a chance to “wander” around the house yet. All his clothes were hung right by his three empty suitcases, easy enough to toss everything back in the same way it came out. Nothing else in the house belonged to him, anyway.

  He could leave it behind without regret.

  Right?

  Right.

  Bumping and clumping the whole way, he managed to get all three suitcases down the stairs in a single trip. It took longer to figure out how to get them all in the Viper—the car wasn’t exactly meant for family road trips. But he managed it, and after going back inside to retrieve a bottle of water from the fridge, he closed the door behind himself and locked it tight.

  The symbolism was not lost on him. He’d opened a door to something he’d thought would be beautiful and wonderful, only to discover his own personal hell had simply followed him inside. Now that he’d realized his error, he could close the door to that part of his life and throw away the key—literally and figuratively.

  Except he couldn’t bring himself to take Sidri’s house key off his key ring.

  He stood on the porch for a long time, just staring at the key in his hand. He should take it off, stuff it under the door mat. They’d find it eventually and know for certain he was never coming back. It wasn’t like he needed the damn thing—no use keeping a key to a door that would never open to him again. But he couldn’t make himself do it.

  Cursing himself for a fool, Allen strode down the steps and got in the Viper. He stared at the house for a long moment, blinking back tears, then revved the engine and hauled ass out of there. At least he hadn’t been there long enough to grow attached to the house.

  Even if it already felt like home.

  Dashing yet more stupid tears from his cheeks, Allen tightened his mental bandages and concentrated on driving. He needed to figure out where he was going, obviously. The townhouse was out—that was the first place his lovers would look for him, if they decided to look for him at all. With the way they’d simply left him earlier, he doubted they would bother. They’d already known he was going to leave them, even though Allen hadn’t had the courage to tell them outright. Obviously, they knew he’d be gone when they go
t back, and they knew looking for him would be pointless since he’d only leave again if they did find him. Sidri had told him, from the very beginning, that if he ever decided in his own heart and mind that he couldn’t be with the two of them, they would let him go, no questions asked. And right now, he was glad of it, since it avoided so many awkward conversations. He could leave, make a clean break, and not worry about any painful scenes or tearful good-byes.

  Yep, definitely much better this way. Easier. Cleaner.

  So why did it hurt so much?

  Scowling, Allen hit the gas and wove through the light traffic on the freeway, not paying attention to his direction or even what road he was on. He’d figure things out as he went along. Probably stay at a hotel tonight. He had enough money saved up that he could live pretty comfortably for a long time if he needed to. He wouldn’t have to rush into another job, could take his time finding a new city to live in, since he couldn’t bear the thought of staying in Houston. Even four million people weren’t enough to ensure he wouldn’t run into them again, somewhere. And the advertising community in Houston was tight enough that if he went to work for any other agency in the city, they’d know about it immediately. So he was going to have to leave everything behind, make an entirely new start.

  He drove for hours. Despite his attempts at tunnel vision, a few things did register in his brain. Like the fact that he passed through Downtown—that meant, since he’d come from the house in Katy on Houston’s western edge, that he was on I-10 traveling east. Which was fine. It would take him to Louisiana, if he decided to go that far. Maybe he could make for Lake Charles, stay at one of the casinos there. He was just contemplating getting drunk and spending the evening losing all his money at the blackjack tables when he realized he was already exiting the freeway.

  Stupid autopilot. Allen sighed, looking around, trying to figure out why he’d gotten off the interstate. Then the area he was in registered, and he felt a chill down his spine. Apparently, his subconscious already had a destination in mind, even if his conscious mind hadn’t—he was in Beaumont, already heading down streets and making the turns that would take him back to Buddy Sorensen’s house.

  He had no business going back there. He and Buddy had parted ways when Allen turned nineteen and moved out of his tiny, one-bedroom house. They talked on and off for a while, occasional phone calls, but he hadn’t seen the man in years. When he got the job at MM&M, Allen had called him to share his good news—and afterward, when the money started rolling in, he’d sent Buddy a check every single month. Not as payment for the three years Allen lived on his couch.

  As a thank you for saving his life.

  Before he knew it, Allen was pulling up in front of Buddy’s house. The place looked even smaller now that Allen was grown, well kept for all that it was over seventy years old. Buddy must have repainted recently—the porch, shutters, and trim all glowed bright white. The postage-stamp-sized yard had been mowed recently, the hedges along the steps lovingly trimmed. It looked exactly like what it was—a tiny house that was well loved by the man who owned it.

  He should leave. Allen had no business inserting himself in Buddy’s life again. As he sat there, debating, the front door opened and Buddy hobbled out onto the porch.

  Allen was out of the car in a shot, running up the front walk as Buddy stared at him in open-mouthed amazement. The old man blinked, blinked again, then rubbed the heels of both hands over his eyes and blinked a few more times. When Allen mounted the steps and stopped in front of him, Buddy looked him up and down, mouth working silently.

  Finally, after a stunned, breathless pause, Buddy whispered, “Allen?”

  Allen nodded, throat suddenly tight. “Hey, Buddy. How are you?”

  Buddy stared at him for another long moment—then threw his arms around Allen’s neck and buried his face against his chest. “Allen. Oh, my son,” he whispered hoarsely, tears thick in his raspy, old voice, “You came home. You finally came home.”

  Chapter 25

  Flabbergasted, Allen stood woodenly for a moment while Buddy attempted to hug the breath out of him. Then his amazement lifted, and he wrapped his arms around the frail old man. They stood holding each other for a long time while Allen fought yet more stupid tears.

  At least this time they were tears of joy.

  At long last, Buddy pulled away. He gripped Allen’s shoulders, looking up at him with misty eyes. He squeezed then suddenly pulled away, wiping at his face surreptitiously. Allen pretended not to notice.

  “Good to see you, son,” Buddy rasped. He cleared his throat. “Let me move my truck so you can park your car in the garage.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to do that,” Allen protested instantly. “I can just…”

  Buddy snorted, shooting Allen a sardonic look. “Trust me, son, you don’t want to leave a car like that out on the street in a neighborhood like this. Won’t be there when you come back.”

  Chagrined, Allen nodded. Buddy hobbled back inside the house, shooting over his shoulder, “Just pull it in all the way, and I’ll help you get the suitcases out.”

  Walking slowly, totally thunderstruck by this entire situation, Allen made his way back to the Viper and got inside. Buddy pulled the ancient garage door open then backed his rickety old truck down the driveway and turned toward the cul-de-sac to make a U-turn. Allen revved the engine and pulled the car into the garage as Buddy pulled his truck up into the driveway right behind him. They got out, and together closed the garage door, locking the Viper in the relative safety the small room offered.

  Ironic, really. This was the only place Allen had ever felt safe, too.

  Buddy stumped around the Viper, shaking his head and whistling. “Damn, kid. You really have made something of yourself, haven’t you? Imagine driving a beast like that every day.”

  Allen couldn’t help a grin as he hauled one of his suitcases out of the tiny trunk. “Yeah, I admit it, it was an impulse purchase. Not practical at all, but hey, a guy’s gotta be a guy sometime, right?”

  Buddy snorted again. “Uh huh. I’ll have to take your word on that one. Me and old Betsy out there been together far too long to change now.” The old man sighed, cracking a grin as he took the suitcase out of Allen’s hand. “Come on, grab one of them other cases and let’s get us a drink. Wouldn’t know it was still February, would you? Damn Texas weather.”

  Allen laughed and followed his friend through the garage entry door that led to the aisle kitchen. He looked around, bemused. “You haven’t changed a thing, have you? Same old ’70s kitchen and god-awful wallpaper.”

  Buddy shrugged. “Like I said, too old to start changing things now.” He rolled the suitcase toward the hallway that led to his bedroom and propped it against the wall. “Put that there, young’un, and I’ll grab us some Cokes. Take a seat. Couch is still right where you left it.”

  Allen chuckled as he did as instructed, gazing around the small house in wonderment. Everything was exactly the same. The pale-green paisley wallpaper, the rough gray carpeting. The ugly green plaid couch still sat in the middle of the tiny room, facing an even tinier flat-screen TV on a small swivel table that held a DVD player on a shelf underneath. Shelves lined one wall, covered with framed photographs—Buddy’s lost family, his wife and two sons, all of whom passed away long before Allen came shivering into Buddy’s life. Allen had stared at those photos for three years, wishing he’d been born into Buddy’s family so that his photo would sit on those shelves, too.

  Then he blinked. His photo was on the shelves—right in the center, where it could easily be seen by a person resting on the couch. It was a shot of Allen and Buddy, grinning like madmen as a couple of Hooter’s girls posed around them. There were also several framed prints of Allen’s professional photography, along with a couple of news clippings with articles about the awards he’d won, both as an amateur photographer and as a professional working for MM&M. Allen turned to find Buddy watching him, hands shoved in his pockets. When Allen raised both br
ows in astonishment, the old man just shrugged.

  “Proud of you, Allen,” he said quietly. “Not every day a kid I know makes something of himself. Can’t blame a guy for wanting to brag on you. Everyone in this whole damn neighborhood knows how good you done. They’re just as proud of you as I am.”

  Allen turned away, ignoring the burn behind his eyes. Damn it, if he cried one more time today…Clearing his throat, he sat on the couch while Buddy took a seat in his favorite recliner. They stared at each other in silence for a long time.

  Finally, Allen took a deep breath. “You haven’t spent any of the money I sent.”

  Buddy scowled. “Don’t want to spend your money. You earned it, not me.”

  Allen shook his head. “You kept me alive. I owe you for that. Please, use the money. You need it more than I do, especially since you retired last year.”

  The old man grimaced then closed his eyes for a moment before heaving himself up off the chair. “I did spend a little of it,” he admitted gruffly. “Wait here.”

  He stumped off, leaving Allen alone briefly. When he returned, he was carrying a huge, hand-crafted photo album with engraved silver hinges and the words “Sorensen Family” written in bold script letters across the cover. He sat down next to Allen on the couch, propping the huge book across both their laps as he flipped to the first page.

  “Had this made a while back. Needed a better place to keep these than that old shoebox in my closet. Got a right fine display for ’em now, don’t you think? Go ahead, take a look.”

  Allen couldn’t help smiling as he flipped through the pages slowly. Buddy’s whole life was depicted in those photos. The first few pages showed him and his wife, back when they were teenagers just getting to know each other. There was a picture of them at the movies, another one of them at a go-cart track, grinning like fools beneath their helmets. Another page showed Buddy on one knee, his wife Allison standing in front of him with both hands over her mouth as he held up a ring. Then came the wedding photos, a modest affair held in her parents’ backyard, followed by snapshots of the house, the very one Allen sat in now, with Buddy carrying his wife over the threshold.