Smothered. Even though he wasn’t lying down, he still felt the crushing weight against his chest. Sarge. He struggled to get the body off him.
“It’s me. Adam. You’re safe, Damián.”
Not Sarge. Adam.
“You did everything you could. It’s not your fault.”
“Oh, God. I tried. I fucking tried. I couldn’t…” He wrapped his arms around Adam and held onto the man who had become his lifeline. Surprisingly, the smothering feeling receded a bit.
“You did everything right. You couldn’t save everyone. No one could.”
“Why? Why’d he have to die? Why not me?”
Adam continued to just hold him, but Damián noticed that his former Top’s heart was pounding hard against his chest. When he spoke, Adam’s voice had become raspy. “That’s above my pay grade—and a question I’ve asked myself a million times, too. But you have to quit blaming yourself.”
Easier said than done.
“I will, if you will.” But Damián knew they’d both probably go to their graves asking themselves the same question.
Adam cleared his throat. “What you have to do is find something or someone that will make your surviving worthwhile. Find a cause that moves you. Find a woman who needs you. Just fucking find something you can do to make the world a better place for at least one other person.”
Damián held on tighter. He knew tears were falling onto Adam’s chest, but didn’t want to ease away and reveal the evidence. The man had been like a father to him the past six months, taking care of him day and night. Making sure he did his PT exercises. Forcing him to wear the god-damned prosthesis until finally it stopped rubbing his stump raw.
The man had had no fucking life as a result. Adam should have been enjoying retirement, not babysitting him. Why hadn’t he just left Damián in San Diego to finish off what the grenade had started? How could Damián ever repay him for the sacrifices he’d made?
Puckered skin? Damián’s hands rested against what felt like puckered skin on Adam’s back. What the fuck? He pulled back and felt Adam’s body go stiff.
Damián looked him in the eye. “Turn around.”
“You don’t give me orders, son.”
“What happened?”
“It was a long time ago. Kandahar. Ambush. I took some shrapnel to the back.”
While he rattled off the cold, hard facts in a non-emotional way, Damián knew from the pain reflected in Adam’s eyes that the man must have battled his own demons. From where Damián’s hands explored, half the man’s back must be riddled with shrapnel wounds. The master sergeant had been through just as much as Damián had.
How had he stayed so strong, so normal, so sane?
Was Damián his cause, to help him handle his own survivor guilt?
Maybe there was hope for Damián yet. He needed to quit feeling sorry for himself and find some worthwhile cause to dedicate himself to.
But what?
Section Five
The Masters at Arms Club
Three months ago
Adam would be glad to get this meeting over. Damián wanted to add live music to the club. They’d finally opened in 2008 and were doing well, so they could afford it. Adam just didn’t go in for most of that heavy-metal stuff Damián liked.
“Edgy?” Damián asked.
He looked at Damián and Marc as they searched for just the right word for the classified ad. Well, Marc seemed about as much into the conversation as Adam was. What the hell ailed that boy lately?
“I like it.” As long as it doesn’t put me over the edge. Adam watched as the younger man he thought of like a son scribbled that addition onto the notepad on the desk between them. “Read me what we have so far.”
“‘Private club. Friday & Saturday performances only. Eclectic, edgy music—heavy metal and Goth welcome. Auditions start at 3 PM Wednesday. For location and additional info…’ Then the phone number and e-mail.”
“Sounds good to me,” Marc said. He seemed distracted this afternoon. Actually, he’d been that way for well over a year, but refused to tell Adam what was eating at him. Probably still hadn’t gotten over that woman who had dumped him last year. What was her name? Pamela? He’d only brought her to the club a couple times. She seemed nice, but there wasn’t much chemistry between the two other than the Dom/sub thing.
Marc hadn’t talked with him about the relationship, and Adam didn’t go looking to butt in. Still, he thought the younger man could benefit from some advice, if he ever asked for it. Sometimes he came across as too arrogant and manipulative to suit most women. He seemed to have some kind of wall up that always kept them in their place, but that place was never quite as close as women wanted to get.
Marc stood. “I’m sorry, but I’m pulling a night shift to help out a friend, so I’m going to have to hit the road. I trust whatever you both decide to do.”
They said their goodbyes and Adam watched him leave. Maybe he’d try to have a word with him before the club opened up Friday night. With Marc’s SAR work schedule, he didn’t see much of him, though.
Damián, on the other hand, practically lived here and helped run the club.
“Son, you’re in charge of hiring the entertainment.” Adam wouldn’t know what young people wanted to hear if it hit him over the head. Besides, he needed to keep Damián busy so he wouldn’t dwell on things outside his control. He said the nightmares were rare now, but Adam could tell when he showed up with circles under his eyes that he’d been visited by his demons.
Being a Dom helped Damián regain some of the control he’d lost over his life, but Adam worried that he sometimes went a little too deep into SM. He knew it wasn’t the boy’s nature to inflict pain and he thought maybe he was just using SM to release his anger, rather than as an expression of his sexual nature.
Damián slid the notepad across the desk toward Adam. “If we could hire two or three acts—have a mix of styles—we can rotate them and keep things from getting stale.”
Adam pulled the notepad closer. “Sounds good. I’ll e-mail the ad to the online newspaper.”
After discussing some other business matters, mostly about ways to improve the experience at the club for members and their guests, Damián went to set up a new piece of equipment in one of the private playrooms.
Adam watched him leave his office. Damián wore his trademark black leather Harley vest and black jeans. He had long ago ditched the crutches, then his cane. He’d gotten used to walking on the prosthesis and, only when he was overtired, did he walk with a limp.
Here in Denver, Adam, Marc, and Damián had gotten to know each other as civilians and friends. Whenever he thought back to that day in Fallujah, where he’d nearly lost them both—and had lost Miller. Thank God they, at least, had managed to get the rest of the troops home alive.
And these two men had become his family. When he’d lost Joni, he hadn’t thought he’d ever feel he belonged anywhere again.
The three of them were pretty much at the service of any of the subs at Masters at Arms who needed a top. A number of bottoms came to the club solo, just wanting to have a scene with one of them. Marc was the only one who’d seen anyone seriously and that had lasted only a few months. Usually, the three of them were able to accommodate the subs, which might be why so many of them kept coming back and bringing their friends.
Damián told him about a girl in San Diego he’d dated once. Still seemed hung up on her, but he said he hadn’t been able to find her when he’d been home to visit his sister and her kids last Christmas. She must have been something to keep him thinking about her all these years.
Under Adam’s and Marc’s tutelage, Damián had become a knowledgeable and attentive Dom. Good thing, because Marc had become more and more scarce at the club in the past year. A few months ago, Damián had taken over the training of the new unattached subs.
Even though Damián served the needs of the masochists when he wanted to get off, his gentle side seemed to come out with the more ine
xperienced trainees. He was very vigilant to the needs of the subs, knowing how far to push them without going beyond hard limits.
“All done,” Damián said, returning to the office. “It’s going to be fun trying that one out.”
Adam smiled. Marc had recommended the new spanking bench. Said his SAR partner had made him one for his home playroom. He wondered when Marc had time to entertain anyone in that playroom. He didn’t seem to have his heart in BDSM scening these days.
“Son, have a seat.”
“Yes, sir.”
“When are you going to quit that ‘sir’ shit? It’s Adam. Hell, even Dad’s better than sir. I only want to hear Sir from a subbie.” He’d reminded the kid of that many times. Damián just smiled. He’d probably ignore the order this time, too.
“You’re doing a great job with the trainees. The subs are raving about what an excellent trainer you are. And the doms have noticed the improvement in the subs’ level of discipline, too.”
“Thanks.” Damián looked away. He looked serious. Then his gaze met Adam’s again. “Remember how you wanted me to find a cause—something that would help me make a difference for someone else?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I think I have.”
“Great! Doing what?”
“The Patriot Guard Riders. They provide motorcycle escorts for military funerals, and keep protestors far enough away they can’t bother the families. I’ve been supporting them as a non-rider for a while now, but my Harley is just about ready down at the shop. I’d like to ride now, too, whenever the call goes out.”
Adam felt a lump the size of Minnesota in his throat. As he came around the desk to sit on the edge in front of Damián, he cleared his throat before trying to speak. “I think that would be the perfect cause for you, son. I know you’ve worked hard restoring that hog, too.”
Damián looked away, then back again. “It might mean going on rides when the club’s open.”
Other than the club and his work at a local Harley repair shop, this was the first thing the kid had gotten interested in since he’d moved to Denver. “To hell with the club. Any time you need to go on a ride, go. I can get people to help out here as needed. Hell, most of our regular patrons are ex-military. They’ll want to support what you’re doing, too.”
“Thank you, sir.” He cleared his throat and surprised the hell out of Adam. “I also want to thank you for pulling me back from the edge.”
Adam reached out and squeezed Damián’s shoulder. “God didn’t bless Joni and me with children. We lost a son…” Adam stopped until he could control the shaking in his voice before this turned into an all-out bawl-fest. He still couldn’t think about Joni or their stillborn baby boy without regret and pain. “I couldn’t have asked for a better son. I’m proud of you for fighting your way back.”
Adam cleared his throat before continuing. “I’ve told you this before, but I think of you more as a son than a business partner.” He felt Damián’s shoulders shake with emotion. The kid had been very close to his own parents. But his father had worked himself to death trying to support their family, dying when Damián was only twelve. Adam surmised the loss of his father and the need to protect his mother and sister had played a big part in what led him into trouble with the law before he joined the Marines. Reminded him a lot of Adam’s own misguided youth and reasons for joining the Corps.
But the Marines had turned Damián into a fine young man. One anyone would be proud to call son. Adam certainly would continue to think of him as his son until the day he died. Even if Damián wasn’t looking for a replacement dad.
* * *
Would the ache ever go away?
Karla plucked a tissue from the box in her lap and stared at Ian’s photo lying beside her on the burgundy-velvet antique settee. Every day for the past two months, she’d fought to accept and understand Ian’s death. Fail. She’d lost the ability to function on a day-to-day basis. Last night, she’d been fired from the club.
Escape. She looked around her Soho loft, the place where she’d lived since college. Five of her college roommate’s oil paintings dominated one wall; their vibrant colors usually able to cheer her up. Not tonight.
She should be singing at the club. Ian had come to hear her perform whenever he was in the city. With the bright lights blinding her up on stage these past two months, she’d often imagined him sitting there in the front row, smiling up at her. But when the show was over, she realized he hadn’t been there. Would never be there again. Then last night, she hadn’t even been able to walk onto the stage as she was hit with a full-blown panic attack.
She’d never frozen like that.
Last week, her contract with the record label had fallen through. She just couldn’t concentrate long enough to write anything new. With her career sufficiently down the tubes, she needed to get away from the city and regroup. But where could she go?
Her parents kept trying to talk her into moving back home. She knew they needed her, but being in the house where she’d grown up with Ian was too painful. Every time she passed his room or stared at the empty chair at the table, she’d think of him. Her chest tightened as tears welled in her eyes. No, she couldn’t move back there.
Maybe a visit to her college roommate’s mountain cabin would help. She usually showed up at Cassie’s in the fall when the aspens were so beautiful. Her gaze moved to the painting of a stand of the trees with their yellow-gold leaves nearly quaking against the off-white bark. Karla remembered being with Cassie last year as she created the painting.
The artwork complemented Karla’s mix-and-match style furniture. The wooden dining table with funky chairs of aspen yellow, azure blue, and crimson. The bar with its vinyl-covered red, green, and blue lunch counter stools. No one could accuse Karla of being dull when it came to colors. Well, except for her wardrobe.
And yet, the joy she usually felt here was gone. Even the few walls of the loft were closing in on her. She looked at the bookshelf where Adam’s framed photo in his dress blues had been displayed proudly beside Ian’s portrait ever since she’d moved into the loft.
Adam, I need you.
Few days passed since that Thanksgiving weekend without some thought of Adam. Her heart still ached with images of his kneeling down before her in the bus station’s ladies room as she cleaned up the wounds he’d received trying to protect her from harm. Memories of his arms around her had infused her with the strength and courage to return home and face her parents.
The sight of him half naked in her parents’ kitchen in the wee hours of that Thanksgiving Day had made an indelible mark on an impressionable, young girl’s mind. The corner of her mouth lifted in a half smile. No man had ever measured up to Adam; not that she’d really seen many men without their shirts. She’d focused solely on building her career.
And now that was gone. Tears welled in her eyes.
The few letters he’d managed to write while deployed also were among her most prized possessions, along with the printouts of Ian’s e-mails. Neither was a prolific correspondent, but she understood how busy they were. But after Adam retired from the Marines, he’d kept in touch with a letter every month. In recent years, he’d even e-mailed her. But she preferred the letters. More personal.
Adam had surprised her when he told her how much he loved listening to the music she’d sent him while he was in Fallujah. She’d hoped to send him a copy of the professionally mastered CD of her Gothic rock love songs. But that wasn’t going to happen now.
Adam had always sent her a bouquet of roses dyed neon pink for her birthday, reminding her of that awful hair color she’d had when she met him. She smiled. He always seemed to have a genuine interest in what she was doing and wanted to make sure she was okay. He’d check to see if she needed anything. Offer advice whenever she’d asked on matters small or large.
Mostly small matters, she realized now. She hadn’t been able to tell him about Ian.
Guilt plagued her for not responding to hi
s last two letters. Karla couldn’t find the words to tell him about Ian’s accident. Tears stung her eyes again. She grabbed a tissue and blew her nose.
Go to Adam. He can help.
Karla needed Adam more than she’d ever needed anyone before. With nothing left to hold here her in New York, she picked up the phone and booked a red-eye flight to Denver. She’d find some small club where she could sing that wouldn’t be as demanding as the one in Soho. Just enough to help pay the bills while she licked her wounds and healed.
Karla pulled out her suitcases and started packing. She’d keep the loft for now, until she knew what she’d do. Maybe she could sublet it to a friend. Only a few possessions would go with her, though. The two bundles of letters. Her performance costumes. Copies of the CD she recorded last year. Everyday clothes.
She placed Ian and Adam’s framed photos safely inside her carry-on bag, wrapped in one of the long gothic dresses she’d wear for auditions and, she hoped, performances. No way would she risk losing their photos if something happened to her luggage. Three years of living in the loft and everything that meant something to her, except for Cassie’s paintings, fit neatly into two suitcases and a carry-on.
She made out a check to the landlady for two-months’ rent to hold the apartment, just in case things didn’t work out in Denver. Then she called a cab and closed the door on her independent life in New York City.
Karla hoped she’d be able to find Adam once she got to Denver. She only knew his e-mail address and his Post Office box number. She’d reply to his last e-mail once she got settled in Denver.
* * *
Damián listened as the metal band’s lead singer spewed his gritty lyrics. He wasn’t sure the band was quite what the club needed. Not that any of the others he’d heard audition this afternoon were any better.
His mind wandered back to his talk with Adam last week. Adam had pulled his bacon out of the fire in San Diego back in 2005, when Damián had been just a day or so away from putting an end to his sorry life.
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