Safe in His Arms (6 page)

body. He gripped Russell‘s shoulders, holding on to keep from falling. When the

spasms finally subsided, he sagged against Russell, his ankles still tangled in his jeans.

He felt Russell turn him and pull him down until he was on the larger man‘s lap,

his back against Russell‘s chest. He was awash in sensation, endorphins rippling

through his blood, while at the same time his body was limp, as if his bones and

muscles had melted in the heat of his climax.

Unable to do anything else, he lay heavily in Russell‘s arms. As thought began to

return, confusion came along with it. What the hell had happened? Instead of feeling

his usual power rush after using a whore, he felt totally drained. Without realizing it,

Hank Seeley, who‘d never cried past the age of eight, not even when Reese had walked

out for good, felt tears welling into his eyes. Angrily he blinked them back and tried to

sit up.

Russell put his arms around him and held him tight. ―Let go of me,‖ Hank

protested, the tears again threatening. ―You did your job, now let me up.‖ His voice

came out strangled and thick. What the hell was happening to him?

―Shh,‖ Russell whispered. ―Just rest, Hank. Take it easy. I‘m in no hurry.‖ He

leaned down, nuzzling Hank‘s neck, his arms still around him. His touch was both

strong and tender, his voice kind.

That gentle touch, something all too rare in his life, suddenly brought Hank back to

one of the few good memories he had of his father, though the memory was bittersweet.

It had been at the funeral of Hank‘s maternal grandfather, the one person Hank ever

truly loved. Hank was eight, and already had learned big boys didn‘t cry or show any

emotion whatsoever, as they would only be dismissed or berated.

He sat hunched over in misery on the hard wooden pew at the church, the finality

of Pop‘s death suddenly hitting him like a punch in the stomach. It was then he truly

understood he would never again go fishing with Pop, or listen to his crazy stories

about when he was a kid and had to walk five miles uphill both ways to school. Pop

would never again ruffle his hair, or rub his scruffy chin lightly against Hank‘s nose in

lieu of a kiss goodnight.

Hank furiously willed himself not to cry, trying to distract himself by thinking

about the new bike he had waiting at home, when his father‘s hand came to rest gently

on Hank‘s shoulder. His father rarely touched him, except in anger when he‘d had too

much to drink, and Hank was being a pest. But now his touch was tender, a gentle

squeeze, and the dreaded tears fell, creating little dark spots on Hank‘s new gray suit

pants.

He covered them with his hands, afraid his father would see and yell at him to buck

up and be a man, but his father only pulled him closer, putting his arm firmly around

Hank‘s shoulders. He said nothing more, but kept Hank close to him for the duration of

the service. Hank remembered sitting very still, afraid if he moved at all, even to scratch

his nose, his father would come to his senses and let him go.

Now Russell continued to hold him, and Hank leaned into the strong arms, trying

to swallow the hard lump in his throat. He would not cry, not here in the arms of the

paid entertainment.

―You okay, Hank?‖ Russell‘s low voice was soothing and gentle, the last thing

Hank needed right now. He tried to pull away but Russell held him tight. ―It‘s been a

while, huh? Since someone held you.‖

―Let me go.‖ Hank‘s voice cracked and he gulped. He jerked hard against Russell‘s

embrace and this time Russell let go. Not expecting the sudden release, Hank fell to the

floor, slamming his shoulder hard into the ground. Angrily he pushed down

frustration, humiliation and pain as he struggled to right himself and pull up his jeans.

Russell slid down beside him on the carpet and lightly touched Hank‘s cheek with

one hand and put his other arm around Hank‘s shoulder. ―Relax Hank. Whatever

happens here with us, stays here. I promise. You‘re safe with me.‖

Hank was completely disarmed by the simple kindness in Russell‘s expression. The

dam broke and despite his best efforts to hold back, Hank began to cry, the tears rolling

hot down his face, his voice rasping in his throat.

―Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,‖ he swore between wrenching sobs. ―I don‘t do this. I

don‘t cry. This isn‘t happening. It can‘t be happening.‖ He hid his face in his hands,

desperately wishing Russell would just disappear, but the big man stayed beside him,

gently stroking him as he cried and cursed.

―I miss him,‖ Hank said before he could censor the words.

Russell didn‘t reply for a while and Hank hoped maybe he hadn‘t heard. The last

thing Hank wanted to do was talk about Reese. No such luck. Russell said, ―You want

to talk about it?‖

Hank closed his eyes, which burned from the unfamiliar tears. ―No. No I don‘t.‖

Russell said nothing more, thank god, but just continued to gently stroke Hank‘s

back. Finally regaining control, Hank blew out a breath and ran his hands over his face.

He sniffed. ―I think I must be getting sick or something. I haven‘t cried since I was a

kid.‖

―That‘s probably part of your problem, Hank. All that tough guy shit you present to

the world has got you fooled into thinking you don‘t feel things. But you do. Everyone

does. Denying it will end up killing you, way before your time.‖

They sat quietly for a time. Hank finally mustered the energy to pull away. He

reached for his underwear and jeans, drawing them back up his legs. Once dressed, he

began to feel more in control of himself. Standing, he pulled at his shirttail and used it

to wipe his eyes.

He looked down at Russell, who remained sitting on the carpet, his arms now

crossed around his knees, which were pulled up to his chest. ―What‘re you, some kind

of hooker-shrink or something?‖

―Nope.‖ The tall man unfolded his long limbs and stood. ―I‘m just a regular guy

who‘s been around a while. You may think you‘re unique, my friend, in your loneliness

and your pain, but it‘s everywhere. Most people go every day to jobs they hate,

working with people they don‘t respect or even like, only to come home to a life they

hadn‘t bargained for.‖

―I have everything I need.‖ Hank waved his hand around the guest room, which

was, like the rest of his large house, filled with fine furnishings and original art. ―When

I want company, I have no trouble finding it. I like being alone,‖ he asserted, Reese‘s

face suddenly looming in his mind, a silent testimony to the lie.

―That might be the path you chose, Hank, but it doesn‘t have to be the path you

stay on. Maybe you‘re ready now to loosen that stranglehold you seem to have on life.

Everyone needs to connect. It‘s part of being human. It‘s important to open yourself a

little—to let someone in once in a while. We all need that—a chance to touch, to be

vulnerable with someone we trust.‖

―That‘s where you‘re wrong, Mr. Sex Worker,‖ Hank said, forcing a laugh. ―Trust

nobody. You do and they‘ll fuck you over every time.‖

―That,‖ Russell said, ―is the dumbest thing I ever heard.‖

Russell leaned back into the hot, bubbling water with a contented sigh. He was the

guest of Stuart Robson and Vince Mundy in their suite at an elegant hotel. The couple

had flown out from California for a local wine festival and he was glad they‘d thought

to call him.

―It‘s good to see you guys,‖ he said, meaning it. He hadn‘t realized how much he

had missed Stuart and Vince in the few years since he‘d returned from Napa Valley to

Denver.

―It‘s good to see you,
all
of you.‖ Vince leered comically at Russell‘s naked body,

mostly hidden in the hot tub‘s frothing water.

―Down boy,‖ Stuart laughed, patting his partner of twenty-four years on the

shoulder with amused affection. Stuart and Vince, both in their sixties, were more like

father figures than potential lovers to Russell, but that had never stopped the

perennially optimistic Vince from trying. It had become a good-natured running joke

between them.

Russell actually found the older couple quite attractive, but had learned early on in

life that work and play don‘t mix too well, especially with the guys handing out the

paychecks.

He had gained good experience from the pair while apprenticing at their California

vineyard and winery, capitalizing on his own love of fine wine, and the opportunity to

learn the business from the ground up.

Stuart reached for the bottle of the latest offering from their label, Victory

Vineyards, and poured Russell a glass. ―I think it‘s our best ever. No mere beer can

possibly hold a candle to this merlot. I don‘t care how many fancy ingredients you brew

into it.‖

―Stu, don‘t be such a snob,‖ Vince said, shaking his head.

Russell inhaled the wine‘s rich, delicate aroma and sipped. Both men were

watching him intently. He knew what they expected, and gave it to them. ―Do I detect

blackberry and plum?‖ He sipped again, swirling the liquid over his tongue. ―A touch

of espresso and bittersweet chocolate?‖

―Perfect!‖ Stuart exploded. ―Russell, we need you back. Nobody can write the

labels like you did.‖

Russell smiled, pleased. He‘d loved working at the vineyard, especially his time

spent in the barrel room, which was cool and damp inside, compared to the dusty heat

of a midsummer day. Oak barrels lined the walls, each labeled according to the type of

wine stored there awaiting bottling. As he had carefully decanted the wines, he

dreamed of someday owning his own label.

Victory Vineyards was finally starting to get some serious recognition after quite a

few years of blood, sweat, tears and some serious capital investment. Russell, with only

a few thousand dollars and the shirt on his back to his name, knew he‘d never be able to

come up with the cash to start his own vineyard.

In doing some research, Russell had come to realize he‘d have a much better chance

making it on his own in the burgeoning world of microbrewery. He wasn‘t one of those

wine snobs who thought wine was by definition inherently superior to beer. The

startup costs, while still significant, were much less than a winery, and beer could be

brewed year-round, pretty much anywhere one cared to set up shop.

When the opportunity to apprentice with his old friend Nolan Davis had fallen into

his lap, the decision to move back home to Denver had been pretty much made for him,

especially when Nolan threw in the free use of the loft above the brewery.

The building, a two story brick warehouse built in the thirties, was perfect for the

kegs, kettles, fermenters and hot and cold storage tanks Nolan had already invested in.

Nolan couldn‘t afford to pay Russell much, but he‘d offered him something far better—

the possibility of a full-out partnership, once Russell had learned the ropes.

It had been freeing to start over in a new career and a new life. He‘d left everything

behind except what clothes he could fit into a suitcase. It would be a clean break in

every sense of the word. And so it had been.

His new place carried no memory of Jesse. The bed had never felt the weight of

Jesse‘s dark, lean body, stretched taut in rope or tangled in Russell arm‘s as they made

love. The rooms had never heard his laughter as they cooked together, or his rage when

Russell had said he was leaving for good, no longer willing to tolerate Jesse‘s lies and

manipulation.

Back in Denver, Russell had thrown himself into his work, filling every spare

moment, not only to achieve his dreams, but to avoid facing what he‘d lost. At first he‘d

taken whatever odd jobs he could get, until he landed the construction gig and the job

with the escort service. The aim, along with making money, was to fall into bed too

exhausted to think, too spent to regret.

And so, in time, he came to heal. He would probably always miss Jesse on some

level, but life went on, and life, if sometimes lonely, was good. And he‘d learned a lot in

the process of letting go. He wouldn‘t settle next time. He would insist on a real partner,

someone who could give as well as take.

After Vince and Stuart grilled him for a while on how the brewery business was

going, Stuart said, ―So in other words, you‘re not making a dime yet. How‘re you

supporting yourself?‖

―Well,‖ Russ began, wondering if he should tell the whole truth. ―I work part time

for a local construction company on a per diem basis.‖ Deciding there was no reason to

lie to his old friends, he added in a casual tone, ―And I‘m a sex worker in my spare

time. I cater to a wealthy set of lonely rich guys, through an exclusive escort service.‖

He watched with some amusement as the older men lifted their eyebrows in unison