Flying Free (Rough Love Book 8)

by Leighton Greene

  “What did that fucker tell you?” Ben demands, and Xander has to hide his amusement at the unconscious white-knightery Ben displays sometimes.

  “He told me he couldn’t sleep when he knew I was right there beside him, wanting to hurt him. Like I had no control over myself. Like I was some kind of…” Xander hates the word.

  “Psychopath?”

  Xander hates that word because every time he thinks about it he has to differentiate his own actions and prove to himself that he’s not a psychopath. “Yes,” he tells Ben. “That.”

  “But you’re not,” Ben says quietly, and reaches out, pulls him closer by the waistband of his jeans. He might as well be tugging Xander by the heart.

  Ability to form emotional ties with other human beings: check.

  “If you were a psychopath you would never even bother with aftercare stuff,” Ben points out.

  Ability to empathize with other human beings: check.

  “I know I’m not a psychopath,” Xander says, and sounds tenser than he would like. “But back then, I’d just about killed someone, I’d stopped hanging out with Zee, and I wasn’t in the scene anymore; what had become normalized behavior through kink became abnormal again. And Adam…”

  “Adam made sure you thought you were abnormal. Let’s stop talking about that loser now,” Ben says. “Five minutes, dinner will be hot again, and in the meantime, I think I should see how fast I can get you off. Race the timer.”

  This is just one thing that makes Benjamin so damn compelling for Xander. He’s changeable, impulsive, he has a laugh that makes it impossible not to laugh along with him, and damn, those eyes, close up, Xander forgets just about everything except the word Benjamin when those blue, mischievous eyes are all he can see.

  He still wonders how he got this lucky, as Ben sinks to his knees and looks up at him.

  Chapter Nine

  “Tell me the rest?” Benjamin says the next morning. Xander has only half woken up and he gets the feeling Ben has been awake for a long time, watching him sleep, waiting for the sun to crawl high enough to call it a new day instead of last night.

  “Mmph. I’m asleep.”

  “You’re talking; ergo, you are not asleep.”

  Xander rolls over to look at Ben, who is balanced on one bent arm, head in hand. He reaches out to smooth Ben’s hair away from his forehead, where it’s curling over. “Baby…you need to stop thinking about him. It’s not doing you any good.”

  “I’ll stop thinking about him when I hear the end of the story.”

  Benjamin is not to be dissuaded this morning, it seems. Xander pulls him close, stroking his hair repetitively like he’s petting Noah. “There’s not much more to tell, really.”

  “You frightened him.”

  Xander is very careful not to let his hand falter in its stroking. “I did. Yes. In the end, I did. I pushed him too far. But it wasn’t just that.” He hesitates, thinking it through. Maybe this is what Paul wanted him to see? “These things we do together, you know as well as I do that they can bring up dark things.”

  “Like dredging up the silt at the bottom of the lake,” Ben suggests.

  “Indeed. You never know what might be lurking in that mud. What sunken things might drift back up to the surface…”

  “What drifted up in Adam?”

  Xander thinks it over. “You know, I’m not entirely sure. Because the thing with him was, he loved what we did while we were doing it, but he hated it afterwards. Hated me. The drops he had afterwards, they were fierce.”

  Ben slips his fingers into Xander’s and gives his hand a squeeze. “I hope Adam steps in a convenient pool of quicksand,” he says, “but I do feel compelled to point out, in the tiniest shred of defense for him, that the drop can be pretty fucking brutal sometimes.”

  “Yes. But…”

  “But?”

  “He would never let me take care of him.” Xander still feels the sting of rejection. “He’d sit out in the backyard and get stoned and tell me just not to come near him.”

  “I’m sorry,” Ben says quietly. And then: “Dumbass missed out on the best part. Your aftercare is freaking amazing.”

  That, at least, makes Xander smile, and he squeezes Ben’s hand back.

  “Did you ever do a 24/7 with him?” Ben asks, casually, so casually.

  Xander is very pleased to be able to tell him no. “Definitely not. Even I could see it wouldn’t work, and besides, I never wanted that after the collaring, uh, experiment early on in my kink career. No. The only person I’ve ever really wanted to do that with was you. And, well, you know how that turned out.”

  “It sure was something,” Ben says with feeling. “But I think we’d be better at it now, if you wanna try it out again sometime.”

  “Mm. Maybe. Last time we did it, it drove me back into therapy.” He’s only half-kidding. It did dredge up a lot of Xander’s own silt.

  Ben gives a laugh. “What was that like, that first time you saw Paul?”

  “I’ll tell you, if you promise not to hate on Jung too much.”

  “Can’t promise. But I’ll try.”

  If Xander could have been anywhere else, he would have been. He would have rather been doing a million other things. A million billion other things, anything, even something pointless. Counting grains of sand. Counting stars.

  Stars…

  Xander shifted in the too-soft sofa chair.

  The waiting room was quiet and discreet, but Xander had never been very good at simply sitting and waiting. He glanced up at the Salvador Dali print on the wall (a head, unravelling like a peeled orange) and wondered if it indicated a sense of humor in his new therapist, or something darker.

  The door opened.

  Xander had tried to wipe away his expectations, but he couldn’t help the fleeting shadow of surprise when he looked up at the man walking towards him. Two, three steps, and Xander stood to meet him. This guy was middle aged, but not old. Sandy brown hair, not white. No glasses. A beard, neatly trimmed.

  “Alexander? I’m Paul.”

  No Austrian accent. But there was a hint of something European there; of international experience and the kind of savoir faire that Xander cultivated but still felt he lacked, but that Zee had oozing out of her very refined pores. In fact, Paul’s whole being reminded him very much of Zee.

  Xander had a speech he’d gone over all morning, involving grand thank yous and references to mutual friends and interests, which he knew they had because Zee mentioned them, but instead he just cleared his throat and said, “Nice to meet you. Just Xander is fine.”

  “Xander. Please come in.”

  The jovial smile had a hint of Santa Claus in it. The eyes creased more than Xander’s; Paul had close to two decades on him. Two decades more of doing those things that they did. Xander hoped those decades would count for something.

  Paul was dressed in clothes that looked shabby, or at least well-worn. Comfy, soft jeans and a button-down Oxford with a white t-shirt underneath. He was solidly built.

  Paul’s office was not small, but was so filled with books and paintings and posters and objets d’art that it felt cozy at least, everything snug in its place, just the right side of crammed. In the middle of the room on a Persian rug there were two leather armchairs seated opposite each other; huge, claret-colored masses. Xander slowed his steps and frowned at them. They looked like hulking beasts ready to pounce on each other.

  He glanced around at the bookcases instead, and curiosity drew him closer. Lots of Jung, naturally. Freud, Adler, Erikson. Books on Gestalt therapy, client-centered therapy, primal scream therapy, attachment theory, the Bible (several versions), the Talmud (several versions), the Koran (several versions). Poetry and literature. Then philosophers, names Xander had heard, names he hadn’t—

  “Please feel free to borrow anything you’d like,” Paul offered. He was sitting in one of the leather armchairs, legs crossed, hands resting naturally across his middle. “Books are no good on shelves.
I encourage my clients to treat this as a library.”

  Xander looked at him over the pages of Nietzsche. “Thanks.”

  Paul inclined his head in acknowledgement. He said nothing, just watched Xander with polite interest, his lips not smiling but his face relaxed and expectant. Xander wondered what Paul would do if he spent the whole session browsing the shelves instead of talking.

  He had an uneasy feeling, though, that Paul could out-wait him. Could see through the deflection and the distraction techniques in which Xander had become expert; could wait until Xander had gone through his entire repertoire until he was left with no further defenses.

  Might as well jump in.

  Xander slid into the opposing leather armchair and relaxed back into it, letting his legs fall where they would. He grasped the armrests and smiled at Paul.

  “Thank you for fitting me in. I guess you have all kinds of big names vying for your time.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “So expensive. Besides, only the rich can pay for something as navel-gazey as Jungian analysis these days.”

  “I work on a sliding scale,” Paul said.

  “Oh,” Xander said.

  They sat for a moment, and Xander felt his grin dropping, dying. The façade was slipping. But that was why he was there, after all. It wasn’t supposed to be a challenge for his own damn analyst to get to know the real Alexander Romano.

  Xander was there because he wanted this. Needed this.

  Right?

  “Why don’t you tell me a little about yourself?” Paul suggested.

  “I’ve seen a lot of analysts, but it never really stuck. They all thought I was a monster, blah, blah, blah.” He waved his hand. I’m airy. I’m casual. “I came to you because Zee said you were good. That you’d get me.” Xander leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and he couldn’t help it; he put his game face on.

  Just to see what would happen.

  “I asked you to tell me about yourself, Xander.”

  Well, shit. “I’m in my late twenties and before my current boyfriend, I never had a relationship for longer than four months.”

  “Your self, Xander. Please.”

  Shit. “I’m an actor?”

  “Acting is what you do. Not who you are.”

  Shit. “Okay, fine, how about this: I get off on hurting people. Terrifying them. Making them submit to the fear. Making them enjoy it.”

  “Anyone? Or just those who consent?”

  “Consent, of course.” He was stung. “Jesus, Zee trained me better than that. I’m a sadist, not a psychopath.”

  “Now, I think, we’re getting somewhere.” Paul leaned forward, mirroring Xander’s body language. But his face remained placid, even kind. “You say you’ve been to many analysts. Only Jungian, or have you tried other methods?”

  Xander gave a small nod. “I have. Jungians aren’t always easy to find. But I tend to get the furthest with them, and I like Jung.”

  “And you are familiar with the process of individuation in theory, if not practice?”

  Xander nodded, his lips pressed tight together as though he couldn’t risk the words that might come out.

  Paul sat back, and Xander mirrored him this time.

  “You will be afraid at times,” Paul said. “But you must learn to trust me to see you through.”

  What didn’t Xander know about fear? He’d seen it across faces, felt panic flutter in pulse points; he’s loved it, courted it, aroused it and tamed it. And in himself it rose without warning, made him hurt the people he loves.

  Fear was an intimate companion.

  “I know,” he told Paul. “I know I’ll get scared. I always do in therapy.”

  “But this is not therapy, not technically. It’s important you understand that. Analysis and therapy are not the same thing.”

  “Oh,” Xander said. And then, “Can you clarify that for me?”

  “Therapy is a process of healing. Analysis is a process of individuation—of understanding and refining your self. It can heal, almost certainly will, but it has wider goals. And it will affect us both. It is like a tide that we will build between us, pushing and pulling our unconscious seas. The goal is to build you a boat that can sail by land and sea; by the conscious and unconscious. And for you to learn to navigate those oceans on your own.”

  Xander felt his eyes prickle. He turned on his most ironic voice. “And how exactly do I navigate? By the stars?”

  “If you are comfortable with those stars, then yes. Xander, you look pale. Do you still wish to continue?”

  Xander cleared his throat and rubbed a hand across his mouth. His palm was clammy. “Yes.” His voice was a harsh whisper, but Paul seemed to believe him, because he went on.

  “You must be the commander of your own vessel, but the seas of the unconscious can be stormy. It’s good to have a first mate to rely on. That’s where I come in.”

  “Shouldn’t my first mate be…” Xander frowned. Paul waited. “Ben? My boyfriend, I mean?”

  Paul’s silence had an expectant air to it that time.

  “I guess not,” Xander said. He looked at Paul. “It wouldn’t be fair to him, maybe? But he gets me, more than most people. He understands me, even though he isn’t like me. But even so…” He was caught up in the argument with himself, frowning at Beyond Good and Evil where he’d set it on the small table next to the chair. “Even so, it wouldn’t be fair to expect him to do that for me. Because he has his own ship to sail. Right?”

  Finally, he drew a smile from Paul. “You told me you are afraid, but you obviously have courage, Xander. Yes, you understand why he cannot guide you through this process. In fact, he is part of your process. He is changing you, and you him.”

  “You said before that my analysis will affect you, too.”

  “Jung tells us that the meeting of two personalities is like contact between two chemical substances: if there is any reaction, both are transformed. The profound work that we do together will enact profound change in both of us.”

  Xander grabbed Nietzsche and waggled it at Paul. He attempted insouciance but landed on something darker. “But when you gaze into the abyss, and all that.”

  “Whoever fights with monsters should see to it that he does not become a monster in the process. And when you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss also gazes into you.” Paul contemplated Xander’s face and then added, “Do I surprise you?”

  “A little,” Xander admitted. He hadn’t been around people who could quote Nietzsche off the top of their heads for a while. That was Zee’s crowd.

  “You’re not the only one who feels the need to slay dragons, Xander. And for a time, if you’ll let me, I can fight alongside you. But that fight must be for acceptance of your monsters—not defeat. It is vital that you understand that. And remember: those weaknesses can become our strengths.”

  There was no way in this world, Xander thought, that his Shadow shit was ever going to be a good thing. All he wanted to do was find a way to cage it, keep it locked down for the rest of his life.

  But those thoughts, Xander didn’t share. He had the feeling Paul would disagree.

  “You’ve been in therapy before, Xander.”

  “Yes.”

  “Jungian analysis, even.”

  “Didn’t make it all the way through, but I guess I get partial credit, right?”

  “So you’re aware of the mechanics of the process? The tools we’ll be using?”

  Xander shrugged. “Yeah.” Paul waited, smiling pleasantly. “Dreams. Art. Journaling. That kind of thing.”

  “Good. So you’re aware you’ll be required to share your dreams, and that part of your commitment to the process is doing everything you can to remember and record them?” Xander couldn’t stop shifting around in the chair at that, and wondered why Paul was harping on that particular subject.

  “Yes,” he said. “I am aware.” And Paul waited again until Xander added, “My dreams can be…violent. When I first talked t
o Ben about them, he thought I was describing nightmares. And once—” Did he really want to share this? Too late, it was spilling out: “Once I went to a therapist who said my dreams indicated an underlying psychosis. He tried to medicate me. Because of dreams! I mean, how absurd is that?”

  He laughed.

  Paul didn’t.

  “I’m sorry that happened to you, Xander. I can imagine it must have felt like a violation of the trust you’d placed in him.”

  Xander felt his eyes sting with tears for the second time in the session. “Yeah.” He took a moment to compose himself. “I mean, it didn’t feel fantastic.”

  “I realize it can be difficult to talk about some desires, and some dreams. But you should know that nothing you say will shock me. None of it will disturb me. I can promise you that.”

  Xander laughed at that. “No, you can’t. Of course you can’t. What if I’m a serial killer?”

  “Are you a serial killer, Xander?”

  Xander wanted to say yes, wanted to try to scare this guy and make him admit that he was wrong, but in the face of Paul’s calm professionalism, it seemed childish. “I am not a serial killer,” he said eventually.

  “Do you feel like a serial killer?”

  Xander cleared his throat. “Sometimes.”

  “I see. Would it please you to scare me?”

  “Yes,” Xander said, after a long silence. “Yes, I guess it would. I get off on that kind of thing. I like making Benjamin afraid of me.”

  “Benjamin—Ben?—is your partner?” Paul asked.

  “Yes.”

  “You called him Ben before, but now Benjamin.”

  “So?”

  “I wonder, are there particular times that you call him by his full name, Benjamin, as opposed to Ben?”

  It took another awkward pause before Xander said, “Yes, alright? It’s something I learned from Zee. A technique. But it’s got nothing to do with anything.”

  “A technique for what?”

  Xander had never been closer to standing up and walking out, but there was a part of him that was curious as to why this part of the conversation was the one that had disturbed him the most. “For domination,” he said simply. “When we know the true name of something, and we use it, we can take away its power.”