Warning: At various times along the way, this story contains bad language, violence, and m/m sex, not all of it consensual. If any of these things disturb you, don't continue.
Neither Mort nor Bain belong to me. I wish.
Eternal thanks to Miss Becky, for beta-reading certain parts of this in the face of a hurricane!
Secretsby Melody Wilde
Part 9
Mort woke slowly, in sections. A leg shifting. A hand twitching up to scratch at an itch on his hip. A jaw-popping yawn.
I can't remember the last time I woke up feeling so good. So relaxed. I feel… Happy. I feel happy!
He stretched, yawning again, and suddenly became aware of the fabric beneath his face and his body, the quilt over his bare chest. I'm not in bed. Where am I? He cautiously opened one eye halfway. Sunlight. It's morning. And I'm on the couch. The couch?
And then he remembered. Last night. What Bain did to me. What I let Bain do to me. Oh shit... It made him blush with embarrassment and squirm with the memory of pleasure. Pleasure? Hell yes, fucking incredible pleasure. God, it felt so good! I don't know how somebody who hurt me so badly can turn around and make me feel so damn good, but...
"I can tell that you are awake and thinking again."
Mort turned his head, an involuntary smile lifting the corners of his lips. "Bain?"
"Who else?" There was a soft laugh and footsteps, moving across from the kitchen. "Good morning."
Mort rolled over with another stretch—just like the contented cat I am right now—as Bain set two steaming cups of coffee on the low table. He pushed himself up on one elbow and reached for the nearest cup, suddenly, stupidly, shy. "Morning."
"You were thinking again, weren't you? You do too much of that, Mort Rainey." Bain pushed Mort's feet out of the way and perched on the end of the couch, leaning forward to take the other cup.
Mort risked a sideways glance as he sipped the steaming liquid. Bain was fresh, smiling broadly, his damp hair falling in curls around his face. Beautiful. He's a beautiful man. Wait a minute. What the fuck is going on here in my brain? I'm just on the dark side of forty, and I've never in my entire life thought another man was beautiful. But then there are a lot of things happening right now that I never...
"And you are still thinking." Bain clicked his tongue against his teeth. "What is it that occupies your mind so much this morning?"
Mort shrugged.
"Are you perhaps thinking that you would like a repeat of last night's activity?"
"I..." Mort cleared his throat, disconcerted by the laughter in Bain's voice and his own body's instant response to the words. Repeat performance? I sure as hell would like one. But I'm not sure why, other than the obvious. Is it just because I've been so alone—so fucking alone and so fucking unloved—for so long? Am I that pathetic? That hungry for love? That I'd hang on to the first person who shows me the least bit of kindness and affection, even if it's somebody who raped me?
I guess I am that pathetic, because oh god, I want him to touch me again, like he did last night, like...
"If you do, I would be more than happy to oblige." Bain set down the coffee and lay his hand on Mort's shoulder. "I wish that you would start feeling, not thinking, for me now, just for a little while. I know you have this need to think—to explore—to try to understand what is going on around you and inside you. That is what makes you a good writer. But I believe it is also making your life...less happy."
He leaned closer. "Me, I do not think so much in the way you do, but I have the same need to understand people. This is as necessary in my line of work as it is in yours. This morning, the thing I understand most is that you are hurting, in so many ways. I would like to heal those hurts. If this helps..."
Mort risked another sideways glance. Bain's face was close, his eyes soft, his expression gentle. Helps? Oh yeah it helps everything, but how can I ask...
"Do not think, my friend. For the moment, can you try only to feel?"
"Yes," he whispered.
"And do you want me to touch you again?"
"Yes."
"Ah. Good. This is so good."
He didn't remember putting his coffee cup down. Didn't remember moving. But somehow he and Bain were sprawled on the couch in a tangle of limbs and quilt, his arms around the other man's waist, his mouth opening eagerly for Bain's tongue. A moan rose in the back of his throat, and Bain took it, swallowing it, replying with a knee sliding up between Mort's legs.
Oh shit oh fuck oh god. Bain's fingers were raking through his hair, holding him in that endless, mindless kiss, as their bodies began to rock together, straining against each other. I want him to...I want to...
Mort let a hand slide down Bain's back, across his hip, fumbling with the denim that covered him. Bain chuckled and pulled away.
"No…" It was the wail of a child denied a toy.
I can't believe that sound came out of my mouth. But...oh god I don't want him to stop. Not yet. Not ever.
"Patience, my friend." Bain moved quickly, gracefully, stripping away his own clothing, sliding Mort's sweatpants down and off, then settling back against him. "There. That is better, yes?"
Pressed together, skin to skin, erections caught between their bodies. Yes. Better. Better…doesn't even begin to describe… I can't believe how this feels. I can't believe... I want…want…want…
Mort whimpered and reached, but Bain caught his wrist.
"Slowly. Slowly." Bain raised the hand to his lips and licked the tip of each finger. "This is too good to hurry."
And he didn't hurry. It went on forever, mouths fusing, bodies twisting against each other, hands sliding, exploring, until at last Bain's fingers caught him. He moved his own hand to grasp Bain and was rewarded with a low groan of pleasure from the other man. They quickly found their rhythm, moving together, touching and being touched, stroking, urging, finding almost simultaneous release.
Mort pressed his face into Bain's neck, feeling the pounding of the other man's heart against his own, trying to slow his breathing. Incredible. Oh god, that was incredible. Better than last night. Better than… He felt himself relaxing, drifting toward sleep again. I feel good. I feel...safe...
"I am sorry, Mort." Bain was shaking him gently. "We do not have time for the napping thing now."
"What?" He forced his eyes open, tilted his head back.
"We have things to do today and this..." Bain ran a finger down Mort's chest. "Pleasant as it has been, has put us behind schedule."
What could we possibly have to do that's more important than staying right here, with him holding me and touching me and me wondering how long it'll be before I can ask if we can do this again and…
"First, we must clean up. Dress. And then..." Bain freed himself from Mort's embrace and stood. "I am going to prove to you that I am a real person."
"I…" His voice didn't want to work somehow. "I know you're real."
Bain lifted an eyebrow. "Bueno. But still, I would like for there to be no doubts. And after I have proved my realness to you, we will discuss this John Shooter that I did not see."
Shooter. Oh fuck. He really knows how to break a good mood.
"Up." Bain gestured. "Shower. You first."
Shower? "Are we going somewhere?"
Bain's teeth flashed in a grin. "Yes. We are going to New London for lunch."
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You know this is your chance to get away from him, before he changes his mind and goes back to hurting you.
"Turn left here."
He doesn't know the town. All you have to do is jump out of the car when you get to the light by the police station. You could be inside before he could pull a gun. Assuming he brought the gun along. Just because you had a good time last night…and this morning…a hell of a good time…that doesn't really change anything, does it? Does it? Just because…
"And here?"
"Sorry." He blinked. "Right. It's about five more miles down this road."
The car swung onto the main road and gathered speed. Mort went back to staring blindly out the side window.
He didn't threaten me before we left. Didn't give me a list of rules. Didn't follow me to the shower. Not that he needed to—he's already seen everything I've got. Close up. He shifted slightly, letting the ache in his side remind him of one of the things Bain had done to him. Still hurts there. I'm lucky he didn't break some ribs. Or worse. He still could. He's being nice…really, really nice, in every way…right now, but what about tonight? Tomorrow? What about…
"Mort?"
"Um."
"I know what you are thinking now."
"I'm not—"
"Mort." Bain shook his head. "I know you are thinking about running from me when we reach town. And I cannot blame you for wanting to run. I hurt you, and all my regret—all the regret in the world—cannot change that. If you wish to run…I would be sad, but I would understand."
"I don't understand. If you think I'm going to…to try to escape, why are you bringing me here?"
"To show you that I am real. You say that Shooter is not real because others did not see him. If other people in this town see me, then I am real. Simple, no?" He slowed to allow a Honda to pull in front of them.
"People saw you when we were here before. I told you before we left that I know you're real. That business last night was nothing but me being bugfuck crazy. No, that's not… Why are you giving me the chance to get away from you?"
Bain laughed softly. "It is good to see that you are talking to me of these things instead of just thinking. Perhaps it is…to see if you will leave me. If you will trust me."
"Can you give me a reason to trust you? Besides the…" He felt his face grow hot.
"No. But I can give you a reason to stay. I want to help you in this matter of John Shooter before I leave you. And if you run from me, I will not be able to." He lay a hand on Mort's leg. "You need to think now."
Leave me? He's going to leave me? And how do I feel about that? Glad to be rid of him? Sorry that the great sex is going? How about just fucking confused? Okay, Mort, you're not stupid. You know what's going on here. You've read the books and seen the movies. It's the victim identifying with his kidnapper because he's all alone and he'll go for the first hint of somebody being nice to him. And you're falling for it, hook, line, and hot sex. So now you have a choice. What are you going to do?
I wish to hell I knew the answer.
"Mort?"
He realized the car had stopped, even though the light was green. The police station loomed to his right, two burly men in uniform leaning against a cruiser not three feet away.
"Will you be leaving me here?"
I don't believe it. He really is giving me a chance to get away.
A horn honked from behind them, and one of the officers straightened, glaring in Bain's direction.
And son of a bitch, I'm not going to take it.
"I really am fucking crazy."
"Is that a no?"
"Yeah. That's a no." Mort jerked his head forward. "Drive before they come over."
The car moved on, away from the station and the too-interested policeman. Okay, okay. Made your bed, now lie in it. Or…do whatever in it. Now just shut the fuck up, brain. No more thinking. Enjoy the day. God knows I haven't enjoyed much, except writing, the past few years.
Until Bain showed up at my front door. There have been some really good times with him. Bad ones too, but…
He glanced sideways, the edges of his mouth creeping up, as Bain cruised through the center of the city and parked in the strip mall, near the supermarket. Bain set the emergency brake and stopped the engine, then turned toward him.
"Thank you for staying with me. I was afraid. I am glad you chose as you did."
"Me too."
"I do not want to hurt you again, Mort Rainey. Never."
Mort nodded. "I believe you."
Bain's sudden smile was dazzling. "I would like to kiss you now, but I think that would be inappropriate here. So let us walk instead."
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The sun was going down by the time they returned to the cabin. Mort led the way in, arms overloaded with bags, reaching back with an elbow to flip the light switch on. The day had been…
He headed for the kitchen and settled the groceries on the table, then retraced his steps to drop the other bags on the couch. Fun. It was fun. I can't remember the last time I had such a good time just doing nothing. Well, not exactly "nothing" but...nothing. Yes I do. Over the weekend—that was fun. With him.
"Mort? Should I put these things in your refrigerator?"
"Yeah. I'll take this upstairs." He grabbed the three largest bags, which bore the name of an exclusive men's store in New London, and started up the steps.
They'd done nothing, but it had meant…everything. They'd spent the morning wandering down the streets, looking into windows, going into the stores that caught their fancy in one way or another, Bain going out of his way to speak to people until Mort had finally said, "Okay, cut it out. I give. You're real." They'd had lunch at a deli Mort hadn't even thought of in over five years. They'd spent hours in a used book store, discussing the merits of various authors, and emerged with so many books they'd had to make a quick detour back to Bain's car to drop them off before they could go on.
When they'd passed the clothing store, Bain had ushered him inside, insisting that it was time to replace his wardrobe. "You are a good man, my friend," he'd muttered as he'd shoved jeans and shirts and sweaters into Mort's arms, "but you have no dress sense." When Mort had protested that his clothes were fine, Bain had escorted him to a dressing room and pointed meaningfully. And he hadn't said another word. He'd tried everything on, modeling them for Bain and the delighted clerk, and accepted Bain's judgement on what "worked" and what didn't. To his surprise, Bain had paid for the clothing, ignoring Mort's protests. "This is my treat," he'd said. "My pleasure." There had been a smile in his eyes that had warmed Mort to the core.
Their final stop had been the supermarket, where they had loaded a buggy with enough food to last at least a week. Bain had paused in the wine section, lifting a bottle and glancing at Mort with a raised eyebrow. "Will it bother you if we have wine?" Mort had shaken his head without a thought.
"Are you going to hang those up or just leave them in the bags?"
Oops. "Sorry." Mort upended the bags and let the clothing fall onto the bed. "It'll just take a minute. I'll—"
"Ah, Mort, you are so special to me."
Bain slid an arm around his waist from behind, pulling him back into a loose embrace. Holding him. It wasn't a threatening type of holding or a sexual type of holding. It was...friendship...affection...maybe even...
"Today was good." Bain's voice rustled softly against his ear.
"Yes."
Bain's arms tightened briefly, then released. "Let me help you with these, and then we will go eat."
They worked in silent tandem, hanging and folding into drawers, until the bed was clear, then headed back to the kitchen for their take-out. Each claiming an end of the couch, they channel-surfed and finally agreed on the Game Show Network, then settled back, laughing and calling out answers as they ate.
"This is what I wanted from you when I came here."
Mort glanced sideways, pushing the remains of his meal aside at the expression on Bain's face. He fumbled for the remote, clicking it and almost flinching at the sudden silence that filled the room.
"I don't understand."
"The time we have spent together today. Tonight. Laughing. Enjoying. Being friends. This is what I wanted to have with you. Oh, I wanted the other, too, but this is what I hoped we could have."
I still don't understand what he's talking about. A relationship? Is that possible? Maybe. Maybe not. I can't forget how he hurt me. But then…he's like this and I can't believe he'd ever do it again. I like him. And the sex was… I think I'd be willing to give it a try, for a while anyway. Should I tell him that?
He opened his mouth, but nothing seemed to want to come out, so he closed it again. Bain smiled.
"I know you are confused about me. About these things that are happening between us."
No shit. You're right about that one.
"I do not think I can stay here with you much longer, and that grieves me. But before I go, I am going to take care of this John Shooter matter, so that you can go on with you life."
Now those are things I understand. He's leaving. And he thinks he's going to take care of Shooter, only he can't, because Shooter's not real. Oh shit oh shit.
"Don't." The word was a croak.
Bain's eyebrow went up. "Don't?"
"Today...it's been..." What? Is there a word to describe what today's meant for me—been for me—how good it was to feel normal? "Don't ruin it by talking about him." Don't make me remember that I'm crazy. That I've killed people.
Bain nodded slowly. "All right. Not tonight." He leaned back against the cushions, propped his feet up on the table, and smiled. "Shall we go back to Jeopardy, then?"