Cliff's Edge

by LAURA HARNER

  “Wait. What? Which casita? And what the fuck is going on with Cliff?”

  The twitch turned into a full-on smile. “And you call yourself special ops? The casita with Cliff’s Jeep in front of it…you know, the one that looks a helluva lot like yours? There’s a spare bedroom. And as for what’s going on? That’s not my story to tell.”

  Chapter Four

  Flipping on the lights and banging on the door, Cliff yelled, “Hey, Rhino, wake up, time to go…”

  Ryan bolted upright, his hand wrapped around the handle of his throwing knife. His eyes locked on the target Cliff made in the doorway. For half a second, he wasn’t sure Ryan would put it together quickly enough—which would leave Cliff with his hands full of an angry Rhino—or a blade in his chest.

  “Cliff?” Ryan said, his knuckles white on the balanced steel. “What’s…uh…shit.”

  He rubbed a hand over his face, then cleared his throat. “Jesus, Cliff. You fucking trying to commit suicide?” He dropped the knife onto the bedside table with a thud.

  “Come on, sleepyhead, you’ve slept all day, they’re expecting us at the main house for the party.”

  Without any further explanation, Cliff turned away and was halfway to the kitchen when the faint brush of breeze warned him of the attack half a breath before Ryan slammed into him. He whirled, riding Rhino’s momentum, absorbing the blow and driving the smaller man into the wall. In the narrow space, and with his bigger size, Cliff would have the advantage for a few minutes, now that the surprise part of the attack was over. Unless Rhino had a weapon. Since he wasn’t already bleeding, chances were better than average he’d left the knife on the table.

  “Hey, Ry…man, come on,” he said softly, just in case he’d triggered a flashback instead of just pissing the man off. He pressed his forearm against Ryan’s chest, Cliff felt like an ass. “Ryan, come on, are you with me? I’m sorry, that was a shitty thing to do to you—unh.” Cliff grunted as Ryan head-butted him, catching him on his left cheekbone.

  “Ow…hey. Stop it.”

  “Goddamn right it was a shitty thing to do,” Ryan spat, shoving away from Cliff and stalking back to his bedroom…naked. Cliff had to close his eyes to keep from staring at those tight, muscled globes bunching and stretching as Ryan retreated. Damn…some things were hard to unsee.

  Moving to the kitchen to make a cup of coffee because despite the mid-afternoon time on the clock, Ryan did just wake up, he ground the beans, popped the reusable filter into the Keurig, and set it for strong. By the time Ryan appeared—fully clothed in a faded gray T-shirt and worn button-front jeans, his bare feet sticking out from the frayed hems—two cups of coffee were on the table.

  Grabbing a banana from the bowl on the counter, Ryan peeled it open and popped half in his mouth before he pulled out one of the heavy ladder-back chairs and joined him at the table. Watching Cliff the whole while, he swallowed the banana, before taking a sip of coffee. Staring back, Cliff waited him out.

  “Asshole.”

  “Yeah,” Cliff agreed. “I had the stupid idea in my head if I could piss you off enough, you might let it go until later. I forgot what a stubborn ass you are.”

  “What a stubborn ass I am? What about the time you—no wait—you are not going to sidetrack this conversation. When I couldn’t find you after the skipper’s cryptic remarks, I was mildly concerned—but to go fucking dark? Without even leaving me a way to reach you? Now you’ve got me scared. No bullshit here, Cliff. Will you tell me what in the fuck is going on with you?”

  “What did they say at the base?”

  “Say? They think your mom had surgery. Carly says hello by the way.”

  “You talked to my mom? For fuck’s sake—I’m forty years old. Why would you do that?”

  “Cliff, listen to me, will you? The only thing I know is the old man said you’d exhibited an unfortunate lack of judgment. That’s fucking it. Charlie over at BUDs said you went on emergency leave. I don’t have a fucking clue why you’re here, or what you think everyone at the base knows, but man, you better start talking because otherwise I’m going to kick your ass.”

  “As if. At least not until you finish your first cup of coffee.”

  Ryan didn’t even crack a smile at the long-running joke. They stared at each other for a full sixty clicks of the kitchen wall clock, then with a sigh that seemed to start somewhere in his boots, Cliff gave in. “I royally fucked up, Ry. Bad enough that it’s cost me everything.”

  “What? Tell me what it is you think is so bad? I mean seriously, what’s the worst? They cut you loose from BUDs and you go back to a team?”

  “Not even close. My retirement papers are already processing. And I’m probably fucking lucky I get to keep that.”

  “Bullshit—Cliff, you’re killing me. I can’t even in my wildest imagination come up with anything you’d do that would merit forcing you to retire…you’re just not that guy.”

  Raising his mug, Cliff bought a final few seconds. He’d rather lie down in a bed of fire ants than admit what he’d done, but to hell with it. He’d lain in a lot a shit over the years—Ryan would probably laugh his fucking ass off, then go back to the Navy, and Cliff could stop worrying about it. Mostly.

  “You know your friend Draco?”

  “At Hard Labour?” Ryan blinked.

  Cliff snorted. “How many Draco’s do you know? And fictional characters don’t count.”

  Leaning back in his chair, Ryan crossed his ankle over one knee and draped an arm over the back of the chair. Cliff recognized the open and relaxed pose for what it was. His friend was telegraphing his willingness to listen.

  “Okay, so you know I’ve been hanging around you too long, because your, uh…interest in domination is, uh…mildly interesting. Except in a way that doesn’t involve tits and shit.”

  At that, Ryan laughed. “Tits? Come on, I bet they’re as many gay men sporting tit rings as there are straight women.”

  “Holy shit, I hope I find them soon, ’cause that’s fuckin’ hot.” They shared a smile, and just for a moment, Cliff wondered if just maybe everything could work out. Not the Navy—done was done—but maybe he and Ryan could still hang out when he wasn’t out of CONUS.

  “I asked Draco to talk with me a little about getting more involved, on what he would recommend. Beyond just coming to the club regularly, I mean.”

  “You could have asked me, you know,” Ryan said quietly.

  “Uh…hello? You’ve been gone for six months. I don’t know what’s wrong, Ry. I’d have talked to you when you got here, but I’ve been so fucking restless, you know?”

  “The assignment to BUDs school?”

  “Yeah, I think so. The guys are great—hell, I think we both know almost all of them—but I just wasn’t getting the same satisfaction from having a daily routine. I know that doesn’t make much sense, because on team we train every day when we aren’t deployed—but there was always that sense of building something that I’m just not getting.

  “Hell, maybe it’s just too much time on my hands. Anyway…this idea has been growing for a while now—that something’s…missing.” Afraid he might be revealing too much of himself, Cliff looked up and caught nothing but empathy on his friend’s face.

  “And the idea of finding someone who fits you is appealing—and given the shitload of BDSM buzz in the media and fiction, it always sounds like the Dom finds the perfect sub and they complete each other,” Ryan guessed.

  “Shit. When you say it like that it sounds stupid, but yeah, something like that. Maybe when you’re hanging around I don’t notice it so much, because there’s always someone to work out with or catch a movie or whatever—but, man, when you were deployed this last time and I was stuck on shore duty, I just couldn’t shake the boredom.”

  Ryan finished off his coffee. “Okay, you went to see Draco. Nothing to get the Navy too bent. What happened?”

  “I went to the club…flirted with the new bartender—a dude named Gentry—then went to
Draco’s office. We talked for a bit, what he said…I don’t know how much I bought into it for a long-term thing for me, but I won’t deny it was hot. He’s got a bed in his office, so one thing led to another—”

  “Whoa—steer left of the TMI if you’re getting ready to tell me who topped and bottomed,” Ryan laughed.

  Cliff’s cheeks heated. He stood, pushing his chair back hard enough it almost clattered over. “Hey, shit—I forgot. Ty’s waiting for us. We gotta—”

  Ryan was in his face in a nanosecond, backing him up against the counter. A part of Cliff welcomed the aggressive contact, was tempted to pick Ryan up and carry his pit bull ass outside so they could spend an hour beating the shit out of each other. Maybe then his brain would stop itching with all the thoughts that had been keeping him awake. Before he could act on the thought, Ryan tugged on his arm, dragging him toward the couch.

  “No—shit—you’re not going anywhere, Cliff. Goddammit, I shouldn’t have said that. I was being a smartass… Okay, so you let him fuck you. Seriously, no big deal.”

  “No, actually we didn’t fuck.” Cliff shrugged, then turned to face the darkened television. “I can’t say we wouldn’t have—things never got that far.” He gave the information like it was a briefing. The handcuffs, the three gangbangers, Gentry and Draco—and his total failure to do anything except lay there like a fucking victim while the bad guys took out innocents.

  “Aww…shit,” Ryan said when he finally stopped speaking.

  “Yeah.” Cliff snorted. “That about sums it up. Of course the fun was only just starting,” he said, bitterness lacing every word. “Fucking first cops on the scene thought it was a riot to catch a gay Navy boy all trussed up. It would have been worse if they’d known I was special ops, but the gray hair threw them off that scent. Of course once the detectives arrived and the serious questioning started, they got my command—so it’s not like I could have avoided it forever. Once I made it out of the PD, I went straight to the commanding officer and told him everything.”

  “You fucking noble—”

  “Ryan, I had to tell him. I’m a witness, I saw these guys—the two that got away. I’ve spent hours poring over mug shots, making statements, all kinds of shit. Supposedly, the real target was the club records, and these guys got away with the backup files. I have no idea how current anything is they took, but that’s why the DA is all over me—to keep me isolated from the rest of the investigation so there’s no chance of contamination—her words, not mine. She wants me in some local’s version of witness protection until the killers are ID’d. Trust me when I tell you there wasn’t a chance in hell of keeping this from the Navy—and goddammit—the skipper deserved to hear it from me first.”

  Nodding, Ryan reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled foil-wrapped stick of Big Red. After removing the wrapper, he popped it in his mouth‚ the scent of cinnamon filling the air as he started to chew. Still saying nothing, he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. Classic ‘Rhino thinking’ posture.

  Taking advantage of the moment, Cliff stood and went to the kitchen, returning a few minutes later with four opened bottles of Corona. He set three bottles on the table, then drank deeply of the fourth.

  Ryan raised a brow. “Are we getting drunk?”

  “Maybe. Told you we were late for the party. I figured we could start here and take the other two to-go.”

  “What party? Is somebody celebrating?”

  “No doubt someone is, but not the Chargers fans. The Pats and the Seahawks are in—the damn commercials better be good.” Cliff tilted his head back to drain the bottle.

  “The commercials—oh shit. It’s Super Bowl Sunday? Well tie me up and call me bad,” Ryan said, his face perfectly composed as he stared at the bottles. “Oh wait—that’s your role.” He looked up, his mouth twitching at the corner as he fought the laugh.

  Cliff lowered his bottle and blinked. He couldn’t believe his best friend had the balls to say something like that. His lip started to curl as a spasm rippled across his stomach muscles. Without further warning, beer spewed as the laugh he’d momentarily fought won out over swallowing.

  Ryan’s eyes went wide as the spray of Corona went everywhere, including over his shirt. Then the two of them lost it, laughing until they were both gasping for air.

  “I can’t believe—” Cliff started, but broke off as another fit of laughter nearly doubled him over.

  “Oh my god…” Ryan looked down at his splattered shirt. “You are such a pig.” The effect was ruined when he snorted at his own joke.

  The knock at the door didn’t even slow them down as Ty stepped inside. “I thought the party was at my place— Oh, are we having a wet T-shirt contest?”

  Laughing even harder, Ryan slid off the couch, knocking his elbow into a bottle of beer, and then catching it before it could tumble over. Cliff sucked in a huge breath, forcing a fragile calm he wasn’t sure he could maintain.

  “Sorry, Ty—we’ll clean up and be right there,” Cliff offered, his voice wavering with more suppressed laughter.

  Still chuckling and wiping the tears from his eyes, Ryan nodded. “Yeah…right there. Sorry, man…Cliff got tied up.” The bottle landed on the table with a thunk, barely remaining upright, as Ryan fell over sideways onto the floor, clutching his stomach as a fresh bout of laughter seized him.

  Ty’s gaze flickered to Cliff, who was barely holding it together. “Glad to see you have this all straightened out, see you soon.” Ty backed out of the door, smiling and looking as if he was fighting his own laughter.

  Feeling lighter than he had in days, Cliff reached out his hand, and Ryan accepted the help up. “Come on, Rhino, before Cookie gets pissed and we don’t get any of the ribs he’s grilling.”

  “Yeah…no sense in letting a little thing like this Dominate our evening…”

  Cliff rolled his eyes, before giving in and joining the laughter once again.

  ****

  Ryan munched on a rib and watched the other men as they moved comfortably around the living room of the main ranch house. Ty and Cass were relaxed hosts, expecting everyone to help themselves. The dining room table and sideboard were practically groaning with platters of ribs and wings, and a build-your-own-taco bar. Periodically, Ty would disappear for a few minutes, then return with some new goodie…like the layered chili and beef nachos that appeared at the beginning of the second quarter or the delicious potato skins that showed up between the halftime show and the talking heads over-analyzing every detail of the game as if world domination were at stake.

  Beyond the hot food there were veggie trays, chips, salsa…even a frijole clam dip that Cliff swore was to die for. Ryan would take his word on it. There were too many other goodies to take a chance on fishy beans…but no matter what Ty brought out, the men just kept eating. Twenty-one of them, in fact. He knew…he’d counted.

  Black, white, Hispanic, tall, short, slender, husky, bald, long-haired, blonds, brunettes, even a redhead. What there wasn’t was a woman. Not one.

  Men held hands, or sat next to each other on the sofas or floor pillows. No one thought anything about a kiss or a pat. Or a nothing. He and Cliff weren’t the only men in the group not touching each other romantically. Even as the evening wore on and the drinking and trash talk escalated, it was clear that not everyone was paired up and no one gave a good goddamn one way or the other.

  “Oh, no!” Cliff groaned along with half the men there as the Seahawks’ receiver let a ball slip through his hands. “This is going to require copious amounts of booze to get through.”

  Cliff patted Ryan’s thigh, pushed himself from the couch, and stalked into the kitchen. Ryan’s gaze followed him out the door, then he caught a movement from the corner of his eye and he discovered Ty watching him watch Cliff. Ty raised his bottle in a silent toast, before turning back to his lover, and whispering something that made the other man smile. Ryan wished he knew what the toast was for.

  Replaying the scen
e through someone else’s eyes, he realized he and Cliff looked as much like a couple as many of the pairs here. They sat jammed hip-to-hip on the crowded sofa, smacking each other on the shoulder or leg, bringing each other drinks, making small inside jokes, their laughter private.

  Just like they’d done at dozens of football parties over the years. Or beach parties. BUDs graduation parties. End of mission parties. Hell…he couldn’t remember the last party he’d been to without Cliff. Cliff rented an apartment in the same complex as Ryan’s condo. They even DVR’d their favorite shows to watch together. They knew each other’s secrets.

  No wonder Marco said they acted like an old married couple—they practically were.

  Cliff returned, carrying a dark bottle of beer in one hand and a fishbowl masquerading as a margarita in the other. He handed the icy concoction to Ryan before he squeezed into the spot on the couch between Ryan and an old rodeo cowboy named Jesse.

  “Holy shit, if I drink another one of these, you might as well pour me into a tub and cart me home.”

  “Hah. You must be getting old, then. I’ve never seen a couple of margaritas put you under any table.” Cliff bumped his shoulder. “Seriously, you okay?” he asked quietly. “We can go if you want. I know your ass must be dragging.”

  “Nah…I’m good. At least until I finish this.” He raised the glass, took a swallow, then squinted at the television. “Jesus, please tell me the game clock is blurry? Is that a six or an eight?”

  Cliff laughed. They’d been doing a lot of laughing over the last few hours…it felt good. “It’s three minutes, forty seconds.”

  Ryan did a triple take, before his eyes convinced his brain that Cliff was jerking his chain.

  “Shit…you nearly had me. It’s eight minutes. God…I thought my eyes really lost it there. Would make the offer from the Skipper pretty easy to turn down if I couldn’t pass the physical.” As soon as the words left his mouth, Ryan wanted them back. He could only hope Cliff was too involved in the game to pay much attention.