Authors: KC Wells
Except he hadn’t, of course. He’d retreated into the dining room and got on with his task of going through the boxes. He tried to ignore Adam who followed him, asking constant questions while Paul had searched for the elusive box that contained his writing materials: laptop, notebooks, and most importantly, the digital recorders onto which he’d saved his next book.
Boxes…
His cheeks burned at the memory of opening that first box and laying eyes on its contents. A whip. An honest-to-goodness whip, its handle thick and bound, the tail coiled up like some black, shiny snake that tapered to a thin point. Heat and ice edged their way over Paul’s skin, playing with him, making him shiver. At this point he’d seen what lay beneath the whip and his shivers had multiplied.
Oh my God.
He wanted to lift out every item and feel it in his hands, and yet he was scared shitless. That dark place inside him, the one he kept trying to ignore, the one that had cracked open when he’d first set foot in the bloody club…
It called to him. And by some means Paul couldn’t fathom, Adam knew.
He’d carried the boxes through to the library, wanting to know more, see more, have answers to the numerous questions in his head. Because the one thought sending him into a tailspin was that his boss
knew
about these things.
What were the odds on this?
There was no time to give voice to his internal confusion, not when Adam had ejected him from the library. So there he was, on the wrong side of that closed door, while his boss appeared to have taken a step backwards.
This was
not
good.
No point standing here analyzing the situation.
He’d move the writing materials box into the office and then see to making lunch.
Adam’s scream gave him a start and he almost dropped the box he was carrying. He put it down on a chair and ran to the library door, stopping short of opening it, his hand stretched out toward the handle.
There’s nothing I can do.
That knowledge only served to make his heart ache.
Paul carried the box into the office and set it down on the desk. All he could think about was Adam in the next room, hurting. What Paul wanted with all his heart was to ease that hurt, but there was little he could do when Adam kept shutting him out. Unless….
All thoughts of those boxes were pushed aside: his mind had ventured down another route entirely. Paul opened the back door that led off from the kitchen and went outside onto the veranda. The garden sloped down toward the beach, stopping short where it met the path beside the Lighthouse. He clambered down the little path set into the hillside to where a bench had been placed, looking out over the entire bay. Paul sat and regarded the view, breathing in the salty sea air. The harsh cries of the seagulls overhead, the happy cries of children playing on the beach, the waves breaking over the rocks: Paul took it all in, breathed it in, let it flow over and through him until he was calmer.
He pulled out his phone and scrolled through until he found Eric’s number.
“Hey! How you doing?” In the background Paul caught several voices.
“Fine,” he lied. “Where are you?”
“Oh, I’m in Yarmouth,” Eric told him. “Me, Shane, Mark and Jase are on the boat. We’ve just re-varnished the wooden seating on deck and she looks beautiful.”
It always amused Paul to hear his friend refer to the family yacht as ‘she’. “Actually, the boat’s the reason I’m calling. Remember I said I had an idea?”
“Sure. Hey, Jase! Careful! You nearly knocked that tin of yacht varnish over!” Eric muttered under his breath. “Can’t get the staff these days.” What followed had Paul grinning. It sounded like a full-blown scuffle was taking place, reminding him of watching little boys fighting in the playground at school, except this was more entertaining.
Eric was breathing heavily. “Sorry about that. I had to show my lackeys who was boss.” Paul recognized Shane’s snort even over the phone.
“You done?” Paul asked him, chuckling.
“Yep. You were saying?”
Quickly, Paul outlined his idea.
“Yeah, I can do that. You got any idea when you want to do this? The only reason I ask is, this week is looking likely. Dad wants her after the weekend.”
“Is Wednesday too soon?” To Paul’s way of thinking, the sooner the better.
“That’s doable. You want me to ask the guys if they’d like to come along? Or would that be overload?”
Paul had already thought of that. “I was going to ask some of them to join me for lunch in the Cove first. Taylor was also on the list.” He hoped to God this would work. “They could join us after if they wanted.”
“Okay, let’s make it Wednesday. If your plans change, let me know, all right?”
“Fine. Where d’you want to pick us up?”
“It’ll have to be Ventnor. It’s too tricky negotiating Steephill these days, even for the RIB.”
Paul could do that. They could travel to Ventnor in his car, and park near the jetty. “You’re a good mate.” Something prodded him, a memory, and he couldn’t resist. “So, what happened after I left the party? Did Mr. Lovely Eyes with the tats make his move?” He let out a chuckle.
Silence.
“Eric?”
A sigh filled his ear. “We’re not gonna discuss this again, okay? Ever. You got that, Paul?”
Fuck
. The words were uttered in a tone so unlike Eric’s usual laidback style that Paul was completely taken aback. “I… I got it.”
“Good. All right, let’s talk about when I’m getting to Ventnor.”
They spoke for a minute longer, sorting out times, after which Paul thanked Eric and disconnected. That last part of the conversation had sent an uneasy ripple through him. Paul hoped to God Eric was okay. He couldn’t help wondering what on earth had taken place to warrant such a strong reaction.
Paul puffed out a breath and pushed his concerns aside. Right then he had bigger things to worry about. Arranging this whole rigmarole was the easy part.
Getting Adam to agree to it was gonna be tough.
* * * * * *
“What is this?” Adam poked at his dinner with his fork, scowling.
“Chicken sauté. It’s chicken breast cooked in stock with onions, garlic and rosemary.”
Adam caught Paul’s sigh. “If you’ve got something to say, come out and say it.”
A clatter of cutlery hitting a plate. “It doesn’t matter. If you don’t want it, say so, and I’ll make you something different.” Paul sounded weary.
He ignored Paul’s offer. “What do you mean, it doesn’t matter?”
“I mean that it doesn’t matter what I say, you’re still going to find some reason to bite my head off. After all, why stop now? You’ve been doing it all day.” Paul’s chair scraped across the kitchen floor. “I’ll heat up some of the soup I made. At least I know you like that, unless you’ve changed your mind since Friday.”
“Don’t bother, I’ve lost my appetite.” Adam pushed back his chair, grabbed his cane and escaped from the kitchen. He entered the library, slamming the door behind him, making the windows rattle. Adam sank onto the couch and stretched out, his head on a cushion.
Why did I have to fuck him? Why couldn’t I have left well enough alone?
In spite of how bloody good the sex had been, Adam couldn’t ignore the insistent voice in his head that kept telling him you didn’t go around fucking your employees. Industrial tribunals tended to take a dim view of employers who crossed that particular line. What made it worse? Adam wanted to cross that line again. Never mind his previous thoughts about forgoing sex: abstinence was the last thing on his mind when he awoke with a raging hard-on.
Damn him for making me want him again.
Yeah, it was all Paul’s fault.
And then there was Paul’s reaction to Adam’s BDSM gear. If he hadn’t have aroused Adam’s interest, Adam wouldn’t have demanded the boxes be brought down from the attic. They wouldn’t have stirred up his memories, making him long for a life he could never have again. Reminding him exactly how much he’d lost.
Damn that fucking boy.
All his muscles were tense. His jaw ached from grinding his teeth. Every time he’d been around Paul that day, he’d struggled to keep his tone controlled, his breathing steady, but he knew he’d failed miserably.
Of course, it didn’t help that Adam knew he was taking all his rage out on the wrong person. If he were honest, none of this was Paul’s fault. And yeah, Adam had been an asshole, pure and simple.
Never mind trying to get him to leave the way I did. If I carry on like this, he’ll leave of his own volition.
That made him stop and think. In spite of all his ranting and raving about not wanting a companion, wanting to be left alone, his attempts to drive Paul away….
How would I feel if he really
did
go?
Adam wasn’t sure he had an answer for that one.
“Call it off, Paul.”
Paul huffed. “Don’t think I haven’t thought about it. More than once.” He stared up at the night sky where blue was giving way to a darker shade of velvet, and sighed. He knew Taylor had a point. If only it were that simple. “I… I can’t.”
“For God’s sake, why not? From the sound of it, Adam’s been nothing but a complete bastard to you for a couple of days now.” His voice softened. “It was a good idea, I grant you, but why do something nice for him when he’s treated you like crap?”
Paul couldn’t argue with Taylor’s logic. Adam had walked out of the kitchen and shut himself in the library, leaving Paul close to breaking point. He’d wanted to hit something, punch something,
anything
to take out the frustration that bubbled up inside him. His throat closed up tight and his chest constricted as he replayed Adam’s caustic words over and over in his head.
“Is it the sex? Because damn, it’s only happened once. It can’t have been that good.”
Funnily enough, the sex hadn’t crossed his mind. Paul couldn’t figure it out. The way he’d felt earlier, he should have marched up the stairs, packed his bags and told Adam where to stick his job.
And yet he was still there, attempting to do something pleasant for Adam.
I must be crazy.
It was the only explanation that made sense.
What surfaced in his mind was a tortured cry, a man in torment.
He glanced at the closed library windows. Adam had gone to bed, but Paul wasn’t about to raise his voice, in case the bedroom windows were open. “I wish you could have heard him, Taylor,” he said quietly into the phone. “That scream. The pain in it. The utter desperation. That’s what makes him act this way, I’m sure of it.” When push came to shove, Paul still believed he could make a difference, that somehow he could get through to Adam.
Taylor huffed. “I think you’re making excuses for him myself.”
“But you
will
be there tomorrow, right? You and David?”
A pause. “Yeah.” Paul didn’t miss the note of reluctance, however. “But if he starts on you again, don’t expect me to keep my mouth shut, okay?” His voice was gruff, but Paul wasn’t fooled for a second. Taylor spoke with love. “And seeing as tomorrow’s going to be a long day for Adam, you get some sleep, okay? It’s already past ten o’clock.”
“Okay. See you at the Beach Shack at midday. And Taylor? Best behavior, please?”
Taylor gasped. “Me? As if I’d contemplate behaving in any other fashion.” Paul caught his snicker at the end.
He chuckled. “Thanks for that. I needed a laugh after the day I’ve had. ’night, Taylor.” He disconnected, pocketed his phone and climbed the steep path to the kitchen door. After assuring the house was locked up, he poured out a glass of water and climbed the stairs as silently as he could. His head ached and a weariness had settled over him, making him long for his bed. His teeth brushed, Paul crept across the landing past Adam’s closed door into his own room. He undressed in the dark and slipped between cool sheets, the soft pillows and firm mattress welcoming him, supporting him.
Sleep remained out of his grasp a while longer, tormenting him with recollections of the previous few days. The more he thought about it, the more he convinced himself what he’d planned was the right thing to do, because he wasn’t doing it for himself. He was doing it for Adam. By the time his brain had eased into neutral, Paul was exhausted. His last conscious decision was that Adam was going to listen to him, whether he wanted to or not. And if he didn’t want to cooperate, Paul had one last card to play.
Paul was taking no prisoners.
* * * * * *
“Good morning.”
Adam surfaced through hazy, sleep-warm layers to smell coffee. “Wha… what time is it?” Paul hadn’t brought him a morning mug of coffee for a few days, not since…
What day is it?
All Adam’s days seemed to blur into one mass of rage, resentment and regret. Some functioning part of him said it was Wednesday.
“It’s nine. I didn’t want to let you sleep too late this morning. We have plans.”
There was something new about Paul. The touch of steel in his voice, perhaps? Whatever it was, it made Adam’s hackles rise. “Oh,
we
do?”
“Yes. It’s time you got out of this house and got some fresh air into your lungs. You haven’t been out since you went to Ryde for a haircut, and I’ll bet that was the first time in ages that you’d set foot out of the front door. So we’re going out for the day.”
Someone
was being awfully brave this early in the day. “What makes you think I’ll cooperate with your plans?” Adam barked out a laugh.
The silence that followed his words had the hairs on his arms standing on end.
Paul drew in a long breath. “You know what? You’ve treated me like shit the last few days, and I’ve just about had it. I organized this on Monday. I thought it would make you feel good, because you’ve obviously been going through a really bad patch.” He snorted. “But after yesterday? Believe me, last night I came this close to calling the whole thing off. I’m still in two minds now. So it comes down to this: either you do this, or I walk. And before you open your mouth to put your foot in it, consider this. If I walk, no book.” Another deep breath. “I’ll let you think on it. You can let me know what you decide when you come downstairs for breakfast.” Paul left before Adam could say a word.