Silent Heart

by Amy Lane

  And then he’d left that behind for freedom and his brother.

  But a place with a couch and throw pillows, with dogs and warmth—hell, with a baby across the backyard, if Belinda and Ozzy had their way—

  “I’m not moving in with you after one good night,” Damien said, because his rapidly beating heart was a traitorous traitor who traited.

  “No,” Preston said, oblivious to Damien’s wobbly voice, his complete lostness. “You’ll move in with me because we care about each other, and you like having sex with me, and because we would have a good home together.” He grinned. “You said it yourself—a home with dogs is a good home.”

  Something about the word home hurt. Damien swallowed and went to roll out of bed before Preston stopped him, a hand on his arm. “This isn’t over. I won’t forget this conversation. And we are sleeping in the same bag, the same bed, and the same place whenever we’re together. Are we clear?”

  Damien opened his mouth to say, “No, Preston, you can’t just dictate a relationship like that!” But Preston stopped him with two fingers on his lips.

  “I’m sorry. That was rude. I want us to sleep in the same place whenever we’re together. Can we do that?”

  Maybe it was the way he said it—like a schoolboy being forced to learn his lessons. Maybe it was the fact that he had tried, with no prompting whatsoever, to not be an autocratic asshole who dictated the terms of the relationship, when Preston had always known exactly what he wanted and obviously had no shame going for it.

  And maybe it was the way his fingers felt on Damien’s lips.

  “This….” Oh God. “This won’t be the end,” Damien conceded.

  Preston’s slow smile made him wonder what Preston thought he’d said. “That means it’s a beginning. Excellent. Do you want to shower?” He sniffed experimentally. “We both smell like sex. This might be the last time we can have warm water for a while.”

  “Sure,” Damien said.

  “You go first, and I’ll take Preacher out to pee.”

  Damien looked over to where Preacher was sleeping on his towel, a travel bowl of water and one of food placed neatly by his front paws.

  “He’s such a good boy,” Damien murmured. The dog had gotten up once in the middle of the night, paced around the room steadily, sniffing all the corners, and then had gone directly back to his blanket.

  A dog that smart knew when he was being talked about, and his eyebrows went up hopefully.

  “All dogs are good boys,” Preston said fondly. “But Preacher is the best.”

  Preacher lifted his head and shoulders, and Preston got out of bed and reached for his sleep shorts and T-shirt—but left the underwear where he’d put them: neatly folded on the bed stand.

  “Forgot something,” Damien said, looking at the underwear and thinking about Preston just freeballing as he took Preacher for his morning walk.

  Preston regarded him, perplexed. “I barely wore them last night,” he said. “I’m going to want to wear them after my shower. Why would I put them on now when I smell like sex?” That self-satisfied grin popped out. “Lots of sex.”

  Damien wasn’t going to fault his logic—what would he say? “Preston, your big swinging dick might frighten onlookers?”

  “Never mind,” he said faintly. “I’ll be out in five.”

  In the shower he took stock, thinking that the “pleasant” soreness of his backside might not be so pleasant after three days on horseback, but otherwise nicely surprised.

  His leg felt amazingly good after Preston’s ministrations. He seemed to remember Preston’s bold fingers kneading and relaxing his muscles as he drifted off to sleep the second time, and a part of him was shamed for thinking Preston didn’t understand what it was they’d done. Preston understood that touch increased the bond between two people—or a man and his dog—and he knew what he was doing for Damien when he touched him.

  As far as Preston was concerned, sex was a way to make their bond deeper, stronger—better.

  Are you ready for that?

  Damien thought about that little voice in his head as he soaped up again. Was that his problem? Not that Preston might not understand the implications of two friends having sex, but that Damien wasn’t ready for them?

  What if I hurt him?

  Damien found himself swallowing rapidly, his chest tightening, his jaw growing so taut his ears hurt.

  Oh.

  That was the root of his problem.

  Damien didn’t know how to live a happy ever after. Preston seemed to—but what if Damien got it wrong? What if Damien ended up hurting the person he cared for the most?

  You were Glen’s friend first.

  Yeah, but Glen couldn’t do what Preston just did.

  Damien would die for Glen Echo—he’d established that in basic training, when their master sergeant had been spit-yelling in Damien’s face so hard, Damien felt like his eyeballs were rupturing. Sarge had turned toward another green recruit, and across from him, Glen had been wiping his own face in sympathy. Damien had risked a look at their CO and then had wiped his face in earnest, and as Sarge had turned around, they’d both stared straight ahead, innocent as little soldier angels.

  Damien couldn’t love another human being the way he loved Glen.

  But that thing he and Preston had done in bed the night before… that was very, very different from how Damien felt about his buddy, his brother, his best friend.

  As Damien got out of the shower and dried off, then put his underwear back on because Preston was right—they hadn’t worn their underwear for long at all—he heard Preston and an ecstatic Preacher coming back inside.

  “Good boy,” Preston said, his voice echoing into the bathroom. “Such a good boy. Took that big ol’ crap behind the cabin where nobody saw. So good. Here, have a treat. Such a good dog!”

  Damien imagined Preston, fondling Preacher’s ears, stroking his back and his flanks, scratching him at the base of the tail, and his entire body shuddered—including his own well-used ass.

  Preston had touched him all over too.

  Maybe Preston had it right. Touch was a deeper bond, steadfast, closer.

  Damien felt like Preston was a part of him now in a way no human being had ever been.

  Yeah, Damien would still die for Glen, but the things he’d do for Preston became gigantic, unfathomable, and frightening.

  His body tingled, remembering their moments of touch from the night before.

  Preston had called last night a beginning. An unexpected thrill of exhilaration shook Damien to the center of his being, a tingling that was at once wholly sexual and wholly emotional too.

  For the first time, he wondered what could come next, if a change between two people could start with a night like that.

  Maybe that’s what he was thinking when he left the bathroom wearing a towel instead of his briefs. Maybe he wasn’t thinking about anything at all, or maybe he was overthinking something that had simply felt good and he’d like to repeat.

  No matter what he was thinking, when Preston emerged five minutes later, a towel around his waist, Damien hadn’t dressed yet and was, instead, staring at the satellite pictures of that little place called Hole in the Rock.

  “Didn’t we do this last night?” Preston asked, looking over his shoulder again.

  “I swear, it looks like a resort hotel,” Damien muttered. “I just can’t figure out what would make that kid steal a mangy horse and risk Glen’s wrath by escaping to get there.”

  He became acutely aware of Preston’s steamy body behind his, and of the extra forty-five minutes they had to get someplace maybe ten minutes away.

  He turned slightly in his chair and put a tentative hand on Preston’s flank, thinking that Preston’s body was even more beautiful in the sunlight coming in above the curtain valances than he had been in the lamplight the night before.

  “What are you doing?” Preston asked, although it sounded like he had a pretty good idea.

  Damien
closed his eyes and buried his face against Preston’s taut stomach. “I’m appreciating your body,” he said.

  Preston’s low chuckle told him he understood better than Damien probably wished. With a quick, focused movement, he ripped off the towel and revealed himself as semihard already.

  “Do you appreciate it now?”

  Damien lifted his length and stroked it, and then lowered his head, taking it in, heat, length, girth.

  Preston made that sound again—it was starting to resonate in Damien’s bones—and Damien responded by taking him down to the back of his throat.

  God, if anybody knew time was limited and life was uncertain, it should be Damien, right? He’d taken a client into the air and his client had needed to rescue him.

  He had a moment here, to taste, to touch, to “appreciate” this man who had insisted they deepen their connection. It was high time Damien learned that a good thing like this might not last forever.

  He would taste this moment, this happiness, while it lasted.

  Least Favorite Animal

  “WE’RE late,” Preston muttered.

  “Sorry,” Damien said. He didn’t mean that—Preston was getting better at knowing that sound in Damien’s voice, that look on his face.

  “You are not,” Preston corrected.

  Damien paused at the corner of a very slow, dusty street and regarded Preston with a look that could only be classified as “amused.” “Are you?” he asked.

  Preston remembered what had made them late and smiled. “Not even a little.” He lowered his hand to where Preacher stood, waiting for the cues that would send him across the street. “But we’d better not tell Glen we were late because you wanted to suck my—”

  Damien flailed, his eyes growing large and frightened for the first time that day, and Preston was sorry.

  “Not so loud in public, Preston! There might be children around! Or assholes! Or perfectly ordinary people who don’t want to know what we were doing twenty minutes ago!”

  “Glen used to say that stuff around me all the time,” Preston told him, and Damien shook his head, looking appalled. Preston thought that expression was Damien’s funniest—he knew all the bad stuff Damien had done when he and Glen had been younger, and Damien being shocked by something Glen or Preston said was hilarious.

  “Well, your brother’s an asshole. Don’t be that asshole, Preston. Remember to talk about that stuff—”

  “Sex,” Preston clarified.

  “Sex, talk about it with an inside voice. Between you and me, okay?” Damien’s face relaxed, and Preston could see a little bit of happiness and a little bit of sorrow mixed together, and he didn’t know what to do with that look.

  “It was between you and me,” Preston said, forgetting they were late for a minute. “It was wonderful between you and me.”

  “Yes,” Damien admitted readily, surprising him. “It was really wonderful.”

  Preston narrowed his eyes. “You sound like we’re never doing it again. Is that why we had the… the thing twenty minutes ago? Because we’re definitely doing it again, and we could have been on time.”

  “We need to go rescue Glen,” Damien said, which wasn’t an answer. “And it’s going to be a while before we get anything resembling a bed again. Buddy’s going to be eating, and we’re going to want breakfast ourselves. He’ll be okay waiting.”

  Oh, Preston didn’t hear the important thing in that speech at all. “That’s not an answer,” he said, feeling his angry face snapping down like a garage door.

  “I’m just saying that the next few days are going to be challenging,” Damien said. “Come on, let’s cross.”

  The town was small—a brisk twenty-minute walk from end to end sort of small. Most of the cars were American make, around ten years old. A whole lot of trucks, and pavement that was cracked from apathy or heat.

  Relatively few people moved in that heat, which Preston could understand. He had trouble thinking in the heat, and Damien was making him grumpy. A block away, a woman in a flowered dress had her child by the hand to visit the drug store, and that was rush hour.

  The block next to them had apparently been hit hard by the earthquake—a couple of the buildings had tumbled in and were marked with yellow tape, and none of the businesses were open. But Buddy had told them there’d been no casualties in Las Varas, and the few major injuries were being cared for in the hospital near Puerto Vallarta. Glen’s supplies weren’t needed here, but some help rebuilding would probably be appreciated.

  As they crossed the street, Preston thought he could live here, except there weren’t enough dogs. Besides, he liked where he lived now. In fact, it would be perfect if he could only get Damien to see reason and live there with him too.

  “Well, after the next few days, we’re still going to do that again, right?” Preston insisted when they were done crossing.

  Damien looked at him, the unhappiness on his face so clear he might have written “doubtful” on his forehead in Sharpie. “Sure. We’ll do it a couple of times, and then you’ll get tired of my hours and decide there’s someone better close to home. And then I’ll be alone at night wishing I had a different job, any job, that would let me sleep with you more than once a week, and you’d be with someone else. And I’d remember the reason I do what I do and decide that it would never have worked. But we’ll definitely do it again.”

  “If you’re trying to read our fortune, you’re doing it wrong,” Preston told him. “For one thing, I don’t mind being alone. You know that. So if you have to be gone a few nights a week, I’m okay. For another, you have the exact job that lets you stay with me more nights than that. You ride a helicopter to work. God, people say I’m thick.”

  Damien made a sort of laugh that sounded like he got his tongue stuck next to his nose, and Preston glared at him.

  “You are thick,” Damien said in an inside voice, and now Preston had to smirk because it was a dick joke, and who wouldn’t laugh? Also, it was true.

  “Yes, I am,” Preston said proudly. “But you’re thick in the head. You can fix your job—either you can do something else or you can love what you do now. You can fix where you live—because you know how to fly. And you’re lucky. I didn’t get my driver’s license until I was twenty-one because I don’t process information that quickly. If I flew, I’d kill us in a minute—crash, boom, explode! No more us! Your leg is your leg; it will get better or it won’t. You work it and stretch it and do your best. What you can’t fix, you live with. But the rest of it, you can fix. If you don’t want to fix it so we can be together, that’s fair, but be honest. That’s a ‘Damien doesn’t want me’ thing, not a ‘Damien can’t have me’ thing.”

  Damien was just staring at him, mouth open, blinking rapidly.

  “What?”

  “That’s a lot to take in,” Damien said, his voice so strange Preston didn’t even bother to try to decode it.

  Well, not for Preston, but he’d learned a long time ago that not everybody thought like he did. “And?”

  “You missed some things.”

  Preston thought hard, and realized that there was… a block. A wall. He’d seen that wall before—when Ozzy had decked him in the tenth grade, he’d felt that wall. When Damien had told him they couldn’t have sex after his grandmother’s funeral, he’d seen it looming.

  There was a wall between what he saw and what Damien saw. But Damien had always been so good at explaining what was on the other side of the wall. Preston trusted him to show what he couldn’t see.

  “What did I miss?”

  “That there are ‘Damien is worried’ things, or ‘Damien doesn’t know how to do relationships’ things. And neither of these things means I don’t want you—it just makes it harder for me to be with you and not be afraid.”

  “I can help you not be afraid,” Preston said hopefully, but then his hope fell. “But I’m not good at relationships either. It’s why I want one with you so bad. You show me what I’m missing instead of gett
ing mad at me because I can’t see.”

  Damien let out a breath and then, much like Preston reached down automatically to touch Preacher’s head, he took Preston’s hand in a gesture so automatic, so without thought, it gave Preston great joy.

  “Whether last night happens again or not,” Damien said, “I’ll always be the guy who does that for you.”

  “But it would be better for both of us if we kept fucking,” Preston reminded him, because that was the important thing.

  Damien’s eyes narrowed, and he dropped Preston’s hand. “Unbelievable.”

  “What?” Preston asked, but Damien shook his head.

  “You’re relentless, and I’m hungry.” He paused outside a small diner with a painting of a very confused-looking chicken and the caption El Pollo Delirante. “Let’s get an egg burrito and find your brother.”

  “I’ll have two eggs, scrambled, and wheat toast,” Preston said, because that’s what he had every morning. “No spice, no sausage, nothing different. Coffee.” They pushed through the door into a small, neat, yellow-painted interior with white tile on the floor and clean Formica tables. The air-conditioning was blasting, and Preston felt himself relax with the temperature change. God, the next couple of days were going to suck.

  “Understood.” Damien searched his face, but eye contact was suddenly beyond him. “There’s a corner table. Your tablet’s charged.”

  Preston nodded. “Thank you,” he said, that need to be alone and settled in his own head almost undoing him. This wasn’t his place. Belinda made him the same breakfast every morning, and he sat at the table and played on his tablet, arranging his mind into neat little lines and columns before he planned his day. His grandmother had done the same thing. Before Glen had brought home the tablet, Preston had done number games—sudoku had been his favorite—and he still had clean paper books of little number grids in case the tablet died. The very first time he’d taken the dogs on a trip, he’d forgotten his sudoku pads and had been almost nonverbal by the time Patsy had guided him to his grandmother, so distraught he’d forgotten all of the things he’d learned about taking the dogs on a training run. His mother, his grandmother, and later Glen and Damien, had helped him develop and perfect the small, meaningful scaffold that helped him communicate with people outside his immediate circle, and helped him deal with new and unusual situations.