Testing Lysander

by L. M. Somerton

  He was also terribly afraid that he would never see Kyle again. He was just as afraid that he would, but that his senses and his body would not respond to Kyle’s dominance in the same way. His cock still stirred at the thought of being with Kyle as his submissive, but then doubts would set in. As the days passed, Brock grew resigned to never having the opportunity to test his responses again. Soon he would be able to go home. He had no way of contacting Kyle. He didn’t even know if Kyle was his real name.

  A consultant plastic surgeon came and talked to him about the scars on his back but Brock rejected the offer of more surgery. There were only three lash wounds that were likely to stay visible. He could live with the permanent reminder of his experiences etched on his body and he didn’t want anything to cause further delay to his return home.

  He made the transition out of bed and spent long hours in the hospital garden, sitting in the shade, reading or listening to music on an iPod that his nurse had lent him. As his tiredness abated, he walked more, gradually regaining his fitness until being confined at the hospital started to get on his last nerve.

  When the doctor finally agreed to discharge him, it felt like Christmas. Brock couldn’t wait to leave the sunshine and head back to rainy, windswept Northumberland. He’d spoken to his parents a few times and let them know that he’d been hurt, but he’d had to lie and blame a climbing accident. The lie wasn’t important, as long as he could appease his mother that he hadn’t lost any limbs and would be fine to travel home without an escort. The only traveling companion Brock wanted wasn’t available.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Four weeks later

  Brock walked steadily, relishing the bite of the cold air against his skin. His feet, ankles then shins sank into the moorland mud that seemed determined to hold him back. Hailstones blown by a wild, blustery wind pelted his cheeks and snuck past the shield of his coat to send icy trickles down his neck. Haworth Moor in the warmth of summer could be blissful with cheery pink foxgloves lining the bone-dry paths—the sun able to bleach all sense of brooding menace out. But today, the weather and the moor reflected Brock’s dark mood and he welcomed the solitude the difficult conditions brought.

  An hour earlier he’d left his car—well, his mother’s borrowed Mini—in the village next to the tourist office on the deserted main street. He needed no map, having taken the same circular route many times. He followed a narrow, cobbled alley to the churchyard gate and pushed it open. The path skirted rows of neatly kept graves to a second gate signposted Public Footpath to Penistone Hill and Oxenhope. He followed the signs through twists and turns until it forked. Brock chose the right-hand path, passing the sculptures of books half buried in the ground and over two dirt tracks. Just along from a couple of picnic tables, he went right by a large boulder, crossed the little stream using what was known as the Brontë Bridge and climbed a steep bank to a kissing gate.

  He paused in the gap between ancient stone pillars. It was just one more thing to remind him of Kyle. Kyle’s lips bruising his own, demanding his compliance. The taste of him. The graze of his stubble. Brock kicked the innocent metal and carried on. If he walked for long enough, maybe fatigue would allow him to sleep without dreaming of Kyle.

  The path curved upward, leading to a ladder stile. Brock’s boots slipped on the sodden, muddy wood and he banged his shin. A quick rub reduced the pain. After his experiences with Lupo and the surgery that followed, a slight bruise barely registered.

  Stepping-stones, just visible above the water, took Brock across a rushing stream. The climb became more demanding as he headed toward rain-soaked ruins on the horizon.

  Brock paused to catch his breath and regarded his goal.

  “Top Withens. Bleak as hell.” His mother had repeatedly told him that there was no evidence that the ruined farmhouse on Top Withens was the inspiration for Heathcliff’s dwelling in Wuthering Heights, but Brock liked to think that perhaps Emily Brontë was thinking of its moorland setting when she wrote, ‘One may guess the power of the north wind blowing over the edge, by the excessive slant of a few stunted firs at the end of the house; and by a range of gaunt thorns all stretching their limbs one way, as if craving alms of the sun.’ The ruins themselves were not that interesting, but Brock loved their position. There were excellent views of the moor, looking out over a landscape where boulders faced off against each other like knuckled fists, poised to fight over the remnants of crumbled drystone walls. The vista never appeared the same from one visit to the next and it was one of his favorite views to photograph.

  A group of soggy sheep huddled against one of the ruined walls. They were even more miserable than Brock. He got out his camera and settled back against the same wall. The sheep didn’t seem to mind. Brock swept the sky, searching for peregrines and merlins, but even the birds were absent. He stared blindly into the distance and the rain pattered to a halt. Through a break in the cloud, shafts of sunlight lit the moors and revealed the faintest carpet of purple.

  “The heather’s starting to blossom.” Brock captured the fleeting beauty with a few swift shots and a little of his despondency lifted.

  It wasn’t warm enough to tempt him to linger, so he set off back down the hill toward the Brontë Waterfalls. It wasn’t a great cascade, more a series of small stepped falls over grit stone layers, but the changing light scattered rainbows through the water. Brock took a whole series of pictures, delighted that his timing had worked out so well. Framing the beautiful images made him happy, if only for a few moments. “Maybe there is life after Kyle,” he whispered to himself. “In time.”

  * * * *

  By the time Brock had trekked back to the car and driven home, his chilled skin had warmed. Inside he was still frozen. Even the car’s heater going at full blast couldn’t do anything about that. He pulled into the drive of his parents’ rambling stone house and came to a halt in front of the triple garage. His father’s Range Rover stood there too, newly washed and gleaming. The back was open, several bags piled in the space next to the dog’s travel cage.

  Brock climbed stiffly from the Mini to be greeted by a cacophony of excited barking. A large, woolly beast hurtled toward him, floppy ears bouncing. Brock braced himself for impact and managed not to fall over as the enormous wolfhound-cross attempted to jump into his arms.

  “Grover! Get down!”

  The dog settled for resting its paws on Brock’s shoulders and giving his face a thorough slurping.

  “Ugh. I’ve been gone all of a day, Grover. This greeting is somewhat excessive.”

  Grover cocked his shaggy head to one side and gave him a quizzical frown. Brock gave him a scratch behind the ears. “Come on, you daft walking rug. It’s freezing out here and, though you might not be feeling it, I am, so get your hairy butt inside.” He pushed the dog down, rescued his camera from the car and walked around the house to the back door.

  Warmth and the scent of freshly baked bread enveloped him like a hug as he pushed the door open and went inside. Grover shoved past him and disappeared toward the kitchen. Brock took a left into the boot room and stripped off his waterproof jacket, over trousers and boots. His woolly hat was almost dry, his hair beneath it damp rather than soaked. He smiled when he saw his favorite sweater lying across the radiator.

  “Thank you, Mother. I can always rely on you to know what I need. Shame the same can’t be said of others.” He pulled on the thick jumper and gave his hair a quick rub with the old towel left in the room for just that purpose. He moved quietly in his thick socks to the welcoming glow of the kitchen. He paused in the doorway and watched as his mother pulled a tray of chocolate chip cookies from the Aga. Every available surface in the room was covered with wire trays stacked with cooling goodies.

  “Mum, are you cooking for a bake sale or something that I don’t know about?” Brock asked, amusement in his voice. His mother looked up, a smudge of something chocolaty across her cheek.

  “Brock, honey, you’re back. Did you have a good hike?”


  “Cold and wet, but there weren’t any others out walking in the downpour so it was peaceful.”

  “Get any good pictures?”

  He grinned. “Of course. The cloud broke across Top Withens and the waterfalls were beautiful today. The Brontë Society have been asking me for some more shots for greetings cards and postcards, stationery—that kind of thing. I think today’s shots might work for them.”

  “That’s lovely, dear. It’s good to see you a bit more cheerful. I worry about you.”

  “I know you do, but there’s no need. It’s taken longer than I thought it would for my shoulder to get better and it’s been getting me down a bit. That’s all.” He stole a warm cookie and juggled it in his hands.

  “It must have been a bad dislocation to need surgery. It’s a good job you were within range of a decent hospital.”

  Brock just nodded. He hated having to lie to his parents and had no intention of expanding on the fiction he’d already imparted. The less detail he gave, the less there was to trip him up later.

  “So… What’s with all the baking?”

  “Well, your father and I are going to be away for three weeks. You’ll need plenty to eat. You’ve lost weight, Brock, and you weren’t overweight to begin with.”

  Brock gaped. “All this is for me?”

  “Not all at once, silly boy. I’m going to freeze most of it.”

  A snuffling noise came from beneath the kitchen table.

  “Grover! Get out from under there.” An oven glove went flying in the general direction of the dog. “You are way too big and hairy to hide from me and you are not having a cookie. They have chocolate in them.”

  Grover gave a pitiful whine and turned his big brown eyes on Brock.

  “Don’t you go begging Brock that way either, you wicked dog.” His mum put her hands on her hips. “Brock, honey, why don’t you take Grover into the lounge and defrost yourself a bit. I’ll bring you through some warm milk and cookies to keep you going until dinner.”

  That roughly translated into, ‘Get out of my kitchen. I love you, but you’re in my way.’ Brock took his stolen cookie, whistled to Grover and did what his mother told him to do—always the best course of action when she was mid-bake. When he got to the lounge, the open fire was already blazing. He threw a couple of extra logs on to keep it going and settled into the armchair closest to the flames. Grover spread himself out across the full length of the faded hearth rug, thudded his tail a couple of times then closed his eyes. Brock stretched his legs and wriggled his cold toes in his socks. They would soon be toasty warm, unlike his heart that felt like a block of ice. The fire just served to remind him of the one he and Kyle had shared in the waterfall cave and the other pleasurable activities they had enjoyed there. He sighed and wondered how long it would take for the tight pain that came with memories of Kyle to begin to fade—or at least hurt a little less.

  “How are you doing, son?”

  “Dad… Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in.” Brock smiled at his father as he took the other chair by the fire.

  “Your mother’s cooking,” he said as if that explained every mystery in the known universe.

  Grover raised his head, decided there was nothing worth getting up for and flattened his chin back on the rug. For a few moments they all sat in companionable silence, staring at the flames. Brock’s mum bustled in with a tray, which she deposited on a small table between the two of them.

  “Dinner’s in an hour,” she stated and left, closing the door firmly—a clear message to stay out of the way.

  Brock picked up his glass of warm milk.

  “I swear she still sees me as a five-year-old.”

  His dad grunted and picked up his mug of tea. “Five… Twenty-five… She just sees her baby boy. Go with the flow, son. Resistance is useless. If it makes you feel any better, I get much the same treatment. Your mother believes that the male of the species never mentally progresses beyond adolescence and should be handled accordingly.”

  “Never tell her she’s right, Dad.” Brock lifted his glass and clinked his dad’s mug in a toast. The fire crackled and spat. Brock watched the embers shift and followed a lazy curl of smoke as it drifted upward. He sipped his milk then took a bite of his second cookie.

  “Mmm. Oh God… That’s good!” Chewy inside, crispy outside, the cookie melted on his tongue. “With the way Mum bakes, it’s a wonder you and I aren’t twenty stones apiece.”

  Brock’s dad patted his trim stomach. “Good genes.”

  Brock chuckled. In his dad he could see what he himself would look like in twenty-five years’ time. They were uncannily alike. The only difference was their eye color. Brock had been blessed with his mother’s cornflower blue, while his dad had hazel eyes. Everything else Brock had inherited was all his dad, from his blond hair to his height and build. At fifty-two, his dad’s hair had lightened but not thinned. Glints of silver shone at his temples. Laughter lines crinkled at the sides of his eyes when he smiled, which he did often.

  “Do you want to tell me about him?” Brock’s dad kept looking at the flames as he spoke.

  Brock turned toward him. “How did you know?”

  “You come back from a trip you’ve been planning for months with an aura of sadness I’ve never seen around you before. I know you were hurt and the recovery must have been painful and tedious for you, but your mood has nothing to do with that. You’ve been hurt before, and, though I know hospital time drives you insane, you always get through it. Your melancholy is because you’re missing someone—someone you got very close to. I doubt you’ve switched teams in the last couple of months, so that leads me to guess that there’s a special man somewhere in the world who seems to have broken your heart.”

  Brock put his glass back on the side table. He could still recall with absolute clarity the moment that he’d come out to his parents. Sunday lunch, a traditional roast on the table, his dad had just handed him the potatoes. He was eighteen and had blurted the words out with no warning at all.

  “I’m gay.”

  His parents had exchanged an amused glance. His mother had pushed the gravy boat in his direction with a smile.

  “Yes, dear, we know. Are you going to put those potatoes on your plate or just sit there holding the dish while everything goes cold?”

  And that was why he could talk to his dad about anything.

  “I did meet someone. His name was Kyle. I thought… I thought we had something special.”

  “He didn’t feel the same?”

  “I thought he did, but now I’m not so sure. Maybe it was just one of those holiday romances, not meant to last.”

  “Well, who knows what fate has in store for any of us? The right man for you will come along, son, and if this Kyle is in your future, who knows how things will work out? If he isn’t, it’s his loss.”

  Grover heaved himself up, came and sat next to Brock and rested his chin on Brock’s knee. Brock gave him a scratch between the ears. “Thanks for your support, Grover.”

  “We’ll be gone early in the morning, Brock. Now I know that you’re going to be fine on your own for three weeks, but your mother is on the verge of canceling the cruise to stay and take care of you.”

  “No! You’ve both been getting excited about this trip for two years.”

  “I know that and you know that. So, make happy tonight over dinner. Convince your mother that you’re not about to go into some kind of mental breakdown and we’ll be off to the Med and leave you in peace.”

  “I don’t want rid of you, Dad.”

  “I know. But some alone time is what you need right now, isn’t it?”

  Brock gave his dad a sheepish sideways glance. “A bit of solitude would be nice. I have to get my head around what I want to do next. Which commission to take.”

  “Well, take your time. There’s no rush to go tearing off abroad again too soon.”

  “It’s what I do.” For the first time in his life, Brock wondered if that was
still true. Kyle had turned his world upside down, exposed him to the possibility of using his skills to better effect. He had a lot to think about.

  * * * *

  Brock managed to follow his father’s advice and enjoy a pleasant family dinner. His mother produced all his favorites—smoked salmon with dill cream followed by pot-roasted chicken with fluffy garlic mash and carrots. Dessert was vanilla brûlée with a cherry compote. By the time the cheese and biscuits appeared, along with a nice bottle of port, Brock could barely move. They all relocated to the lounge and Brock’s dad refilled their glasses.

  “How about a toast?” Brock lifted his drink and swirled the deep red liquid around, admiring the ruby flashes in the firelight. “Bon voyage… Have an amazing time soaking up the luxury. Just please promise me that you won’t come back wearing matching lilac velour leisure clothes.”

  His dad almost choked on his drink. “That’s an easy promise to make—and keep. If your mother takes me anywhere near cruise clothes”—he made inverted comma motions with his fingers—“I’ll toss her overboard.”

  “Seems fair.” Brock and his father chinked their glasses together.

  “Neither of you are too big for a clip round the ear, you know.”

  “Sorry, Mum,” Brock attempted to sound contrite.