Beyond the Footlights, page 8
Kilmer remembered wondering why his Dom had been so kind to someone else’s sub, even if it was his best friend’s sub, and never seemed to show that kind of openness to him anymore. Had it been going wrong even that long ago? Had Jacko read the signs as far back as that? Further? And done nothing?
And now he was gone, going on tour with Vance. For fuck’s sake. Why the hell hadn’t Vance told him? He snarled and downed the rest of his drink. It was only just past ten in the morning. At this rate he’d be raging drunk by noon. He poured another, but managed enough restraint to take only a sip before he set the glass down and scooped up the small key to the lock around his neck.
He stomped to the bedroom and the mirror above the dresser, fingered the chain and lock and spent a minute fumbling with the backward image of himself. The whiskey made his limbs loose and his fingers fat. In the end he gave up trying to get the damn thing open and very nearly threw the key across the room.
His gaze fell to a small bell on the dresser. Why was it still here? He picked it up and worked it onto the keychain, then slipped them into his jeans pocket. For a long minute, he gazed at his reflection. It was easy to see why people were worried. He looked disheveled. Hungover. Hollow.
“Fuck that.” Turning his back, he headed for the kitchen and his drink. Who cared what time it was? He swallowed a healthy swig, slammed the glass down, and stormed into the living room where he fished a crowbar out of a bucket.
Maybe if he took out some of his anger on that stupid uneven bench under the window….
He and Jacko had tried their hands at a home reno together and built the bench after he’d bought the house. Now he figured dismantling the thing would help him feel better. He pried carefully at the top a few times, loosening the already wobbly structure. A sharp tang of gratification at the sound of cracking wood giving way around the screws quickened his blood. He pried harder, forced the bar deeper into the crack he’d made, and heaved.
It gave with a loud snap and satisfying spray of splinters. “Fuck yeah.” Grinning, he found another purchase and repeated the process, digging the blunt fork of the crowbar into soft wood with a heavy thrust.
“Fuck you, Jacko,” he muttered as he gripped the broken bits and jerked it back. It gave and he staggered but then tossed the loose wood aside to pry at another panel of the window seat. Moving faster and faster, he worked until he was heaving the bar around with abandon, no longer trying to pry apart bits of the bench and surrounding shelves, but crushing everything within his swing radius.
Every time the bar hit and stopped, the jar rippled up through his arms and shoulders, torqued his back, and he bunched the muscles in his legs and stomach for more support. He swung the heavy bar like a bat, making the wood splinter and fly apart. Like his life. Like his heart. His body thrummed with the repeated swing and jolt of contact.
Childish? Maybe. Satisfying? Fuck, yes.
He suddenly understood Len’s struggle with anger control. It felt so goddamn good to rip and tear at all the memories this room held of times with Jacko he was never getting back. The window seat was obliterated. Why be reminded constantly? A pressboard shelf crumbled under the impact of the crowbar, less satisfying than the shattering of real wood. He swung at it again and again until the vague dusty outline of his former life was nothing more than a pile of pretend-wood chunks on the carpet. What did it matter if everything physical he had left of his life with Jacko was smashed to smithereens, pieces as fine as those his heart was in?
The counter between kitchen and living room took a little more effort to dismantle. They had learned a thing or two by the time they’d built that. It was sturdier, but it had to be. They spent a lot of time there, eating, talking, writing out their contract. Fucking. Then they were done.
“So much for anyone ever bending me over that again.” He swung once more, this time at the drywall under the opening, hitting and crushing until a fine white powder of plaster hung in the air. Drywall hung from its paper backing around the hole he’d created, and his footing grew uncertain, trampling over the rubble of his home.
The triumph left him hollow. The sounds of destruction echoed in his head, and he hefted the bar, searching for something else to vent on. He eyed the kitchen table, cabinets, chairs, trying to decide what would be the next to go. His gaze fell on the guitar and he lifted the bar high.
“Jesus fuck!” Tanner’s voice, quickly followed by his hard grip around Kilmer’s wrists, startled Kilmer out of his frenetic daze. The crowbar was yanked away, and the clatter of it hitting the linoleum loud in the ensuing stillness.
Dust hung in the rays of sunshine slanting across the front rooms. The rubble of the window seat, television unit—and everything that had been left on it—and an antique wooden table that had sat behind the couch littered the living room floor. He had a vague moment of relief the flat-screen was hung on the wall, escaping the devastation below it.
“I wasn’t even gone an hour,” Tanner whispered. “What happened?”
Kilmer began to shake. The cathartic release of smashing apart his house drained away, and his breakfast made a sudden and urgent nuisance of itself. He ran for the toilet.
When he was done puking up eggs, bacon, and whiskey, his head pounded more fiercely than before.
Tanner leaned on the bathroom doorframe, the dog pressed to his legs. “I’m probably going to regret offering, but if you’re done self-destructing, we should start the clearup.”
Kilmer groaned. “I need a dr—”
“Oh hell no.” Tanner pushed off the doorframe and offered a hand, which Kilmer ignored as he got to his feet.
He headed for the kitchen to find his whiskey bottle propped upside down in the sink. “Fucker!” He whirled to confront Tanner only to find him reading the note Kilmer had left on the guitar case.
“No,” he croaked, afraid the letter gave too much away. He snatched the paper and crushed it against his chest.
Tanner remained still. “What do you want to do about the dog?” he asked, lifting his gaze to look at Kilmer.
“Whatever. Keep him. He hates me anyway.”
“Poor thing is miserable.” He jerked his head toward where he lay at the far end of the hallway, head on his paws.
“He ain’t my dog.”
Tanner just stared at him.
“Fine. Probably shouldn’t be in here until I get my mess cleaned up.”
“Shouldn’t have been in here when you were making it.”
Kilmer managed, just barely, to hold back a growl. He was surprised out of his anger by a wet nose against his palm and looked down. The damn thing was at his side, tail waving cautiously, eyes glued to Kilmer’s face.
Tanner’s lips twitched slightly. “Feel better?”
Kilmer glared at him and jerked his hand away to wipe on his jeans. “Seriously?”
Tanner shrugged. “Must have felt good. Breaking shit.”
It did. And it didn’t. His chest hurt and he tried not to show the sudden struggle to breathe. When the dog nosed his palm this time, he cupped his hand around his face and focused on the sigh of fur against his palm.
“Okay?” Tanner asked.
Kilmer gave a curt nod.
“I couldn’t let you kill the guitar. That was a step too far.” He ran a hand over the case. “Should I babysit her too?” His eyebrows lifted and he watched Kilmer.
Letting out a groan of release and chagrin, Kilmer dragged his hand down the dog’s neck and side and gently shoved him away. “No. I’m over it. Probably. I’ll go put it in the spare room. Promise I won’t hurt it.”
“Good. You do that. I’ll get the dog set up, and we can tackle this.” He waved a hand at the living room.
“You don’t have to,” Kilmer told him, aware that cleaning up after such a violent hissy fit wasn’t really in any job description he could legitimately create.
“It’s fine. You hired me for two days. I might as well make myself useful.”
Kilmer took a breath, reached for a calm he was having a hard time obtaining, and nodded his head. “Fine. Okay.” God. He sounded like an ass. “I—he—there was this line of dust. Where all our CDs were. He took them all. All the music we bought and listened to. Even the stuff we made together, back… in the beginning. He just… took everything. And the dust was all that was left. The dust, the crooked window seat—” He shook his head and hauled in a breath, pressing his palm to his chest.
Fucking hurts.
He couldn’t get enough air. The booze had held off the delightful reminder that he wasn’t fit for any proper Dom. He couldn’t breathe without the comfort of a Dom there, telling him it was going to be okay.
“Listen to me,” he muttered to himself. “Fucking sound like a little girl.” He scrubbed his breastbone hard, pushing at his chest, willing his lungs to work and knowing that without the safety net of ropes and a calm voice easing him down from this perpetual panic, he was never going to breathe right again.
Because of a line of dust on an entertainment unit shelf. He was pathetic.
“We’ll get it cleaned up,” Tanner said, and he sounded so certain. So sure. He sounded safe and calm, a breath of patience and understanding.
Kilmer almost turned to him, almost drank it in.
But he couldn’t. He didn’t dare. He didn’t even know the guy, and there was no way he was showing that amount of vulnerability to a practical stranger.
He’d revealed more than enough already, so he just nodded without turning. “Thank you.”
A hand on his shoulder, strong and warm, turned him slightly, and he found himself looking into Tanner’s deep gaze. Something tight inside Kilmer released a tiny bit. His lungs eased open. Air flowed and he dropped his hand and stuffed it into his pocket.
His fingers brushed the key and bell. His breath hitched.
Tanner’s fingers tightened minutely, and Kilmer pulled his hand free, dragged in a deep breath before nodding. He was good. He could do this.
“Okay?” Tanner asked, catching his eye, staring into him, seeing all the things Kilmer hated about himself without a Dom.
“Fine.” Kilmer took a step back. “Perfect.”
This man was too good for the likes of how Kilmer had been behaving for the past eighteen or so hours since they’d met. He had to pull himself together and give a little back before Tanner got fed up and ditched him, like he probably should have done already anyway. If he was going to stick around for the rest of the weekend, Kilmer could at least make an effort.
8
BY THE end of the day, they had cleared the biggest chunks of the decimated living room into the back of Tanner’s pickup. They had pulled up the carpet to reveal a decent hardwood floor beneath. Kilmer seemed surprised and troubled on seeing it, like he had forgotten its existence.
“It’s not in terrible shape,” Tanner offered.
Kilmer nodded. “Big part of what I initially liked about the house, but Jacko wanted carpet.” He shrugged and dug hands into his pockets. His fingers moved beneath the denim, like he was playing with something, and his shoulders drew in. He dropped his gaze, furrowing his brow as his breath quickened. “It wasn’t that big a deal,” he muttered, and Tanner had to focus to hear him.
“We’ll have to cover it,” Tanner said, and his gut clenched when Kilmer tensed further. “It’ll be okay. I have some heavy paper that will protect it.”
“Protect it?” Kilmer glanced at him, and Tanner frowned.
“Of course. It’s beautiful. No idea why it was ever covered up.”
“I… want to restore it,” Kilmer said. He looked faraway, and his chest heaved a tiny bit, like he couldn’t catch his breath.
“Hey.” Tanner rested a hand on his shoulder. Partly he wanted to calm him and hoped a steady touch might help, and partly he wanted Kilmer to look at him, to speak up, and not to feel like he had to pull back, hide what he was thinking, or keep from saying what he wanted. “It’s in good shape. If you want to fix it up, we can do that. It’s hard graft but not complicated. I can show you.”
“Jacko didn’t want to bother fixin’ it. We just covered it up. Easier.”
Tanner tightened his lips, held back the curse that jumped to the fore. That wouldn’t help anyone. Kilmer didn’t strike him as a weak man. So what had Jacko done to make him think he was? And how was Tanner going to counteract that?
Not my place. He isn’t mine to worry about.
But a day working at Kilmer’s side had Tanner convinced that this was not the real Kilmer. Somewhere buried under the neglect was a strong, independent guy Tanner wanted to know. If it took house renovations to peel back the layers hiding Kilmer’s true self, then he’d put his back into it and do it right.
“Walls next,” he said, tugging Kilmer around, pulling his attention from the floor to the damaged drywall. “Let’s get a handle on this and see what we’ve got.”
They patched and mudded over the smaller holes so the plaster could dry overnight, then turned their attention to the unfortunate kitchen pass-through. It didn’t take long to clear away the splintered plywood and smashed tiles that had made up the countertop. The wall beneath was going to have to come out and be rebuilt. Tanner could see it had been amateur night when it was built, which probably explained why Kilmer’s crowbar rampage had been so successful in taking it most of the way down.
Kilmer could decide later if he wanted a new counter there or if he wanted the opening into the living room made into an arch. Tanner was exhausted by the time they’d finished the bulk of the cleanup, but the room no longer looked sad. Beaten up a bit, yes. In need of a good amount of TLC to make it whole again. But the air of loneliness had drifted away with the dust in the motes of sunshine as they worked.
While Kilmer carted out the last two buckets of detritus, Tanner gently stretched out his back, twisting first one way, then the other, to alleviate the kinks. Sleeping in Kilmer’s La-Z-Boy hadn’t been terrible, but it hadn’t been great either. He’d already called the bar and begged off his gig tonight. He would have had to play on his own again and wasn’t feeling up to it. It had nothing to do with not wanting to leave Kilmer alone.
“Because you can totally take another night in that damn chair,” he growled at himself. Why was he even still here? This whole thing was so much trouble. An idiot could see Kilmer had issues, and Tanner didn’t need issues. Other people’s crap had already cost him his band, just when it had looked like they were doing pretty well. Now, he needed to find a new bassist, not tangle himself in the aftermath of the old group’s self-destruction.
“And what would you do anyway? Offer to stay the night? Keep him company? Fuck.” He ran his fingers into his hair but didn’t get far. He’d pulled it back into a messy bun a long time ago to keep it out of his way as he worked. “He’s not your friend, Tan. Not your responsibility.” So why did he feel like he should be protecting Kilmer from himself?
Hell, Kilmer wasn’t even his type. Tanner liked pretty. His body thrummed and his heart beat a little faster for fragile-looking wiry guys with a core of strength, who could take a bit of rough, who liked bondage, and who liked getting fucked.
And so, okay. The tone of the letter he had read—and which had been none of his business, but curiosity had proved too strong—at least made Kilmer’s submissive tendencies pretty clear. But he wasn’t Tanner’s type.
Isn’t he? Because he’s fucking hot, even if he is messed up.
Tanner drew a breath in through his nose, trying to banish the image in his head of Kilmer bent over the now-destroyed kitchen pass-through. Fuck. He could not think like that. Kilmer had to figure his own shit out.
“He works hard. Think about that.” And not the shimmer of pretty under the drunk-bastard stubble and disheveled hair. Definitely not the ripple of muscle under sheen of hangover sweat, or how that muscle would look bound by thick rope and covered in the slick veneer of sweat they worked up with each other. “Get it fucking together, Jones. You’re being an asshole.”
It was hard not to think about how they might be together, though, knowing what he knew from the letter and the day of labor. Lord knew they made a good team. Kilmer was a rock, and when he didn’t know something, he took direction without complaint. He was also quick to give instructions and information about the house and his plans. He was beyond competent, even when confronted with tasks he wasn’t familiar with. Obviously he was used to hard toil and using his hands.
“What’d you say?” Kilmer strode through the front door and headed for the remains of the destroyed wall where they had begun carefully prying away the heavy original baseboard. Kilmer wanted to save it in case they needed it later, so they had to remove it before they could properly take down the rest of the wall.
“Nothing,” Tanner replied, turning his back in case what he’d been thinking showed on his face.
Kilmer said something, but Tanner missed the words and he had to turn back. “Sorry?” He waved a hand at his head. “Distracted.” Understatement.
“Said we’re almost done here.” Kilmer’s expression grew troubled, and he bent back to the work, ducking his head so Tanner couldn’t see his face well. He didn’t look happy, but Tanner wasn’t sure why.
“Great,” Tanner replied eventually. “I’ll just find the reciprocating saw.” He hustled from the front room to the porch, where they had tucked the buckets of tools, out of the way of the demolition, but close enough to hand they could easily get at them.
“The what saw?” Kilmer asked as Tanner stepped back inside.
Tanner held up the long, heavy tool. “You never used one?”
“Oh! No, sure. Sawzall.” He grinned and the pretty broke through the scruff and dust and nearly stopped Tanner’s heart. “Hadn’t thought of using that for this. Makes sense, though.”
“What were you going to use?”
Kilmer shrugged and a flush raced up to his hairline. “Figured we’d, you know, pull the nails and—” He shrugged again and tossed a bent nail into a trash bucket. “Pry….”
