Diablo Blanco Club 2, Under Control (10 page)

Vance‟s body as well as his voice tensed up. “Can we not talk about this now?”

“When are you going to talk about it, V? You‟ve already avoided the conversation once this evening.”

He nodded. “Yeah, and I‟d like to avoid it again.” Vance‟s callused palm cupped Ben‟s cheek. “Let‟s just get some sleep now. In the morning you have your shift at the hospital, and I have to go collect some of my things from my apartment off base. I swear we will talk about everything tomorrow night after dinner. Deal?”

The slide of Vance‟s thumb along Ben‟s cheekbone was soothing, but the tension in his lover‟s body was distracting. Ben nodded, again pressing a kiss against Vance‟s lips. A kiss Vance reciprocated. He had to put an effort into not increasing the sexual nature of the caress.

“Deal. But no surprising me in the kitchen like you did tonight.” Ben made sure Vance held his gaze for a long moment in order to understand the seriousness of his intent. “We talk.”

“Swear,” Vance agreed, nodding. “Tomorrow we talk.”

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67

Chapter Six

After their almost-argument the previous night, the younger man had remained quiet about his reasons for leaving the cryptic, disturbing letter. Through the shower they‟d shared when he came home from work and the meal Vance had prepared, Vance made sure the topics never strayed from casual conversation. The weather, a recent basketball game, and a brief exchange of information about their old Recon team members were discussed, but never why Vance had left the note the day before.

Needing to connect with him, Ben waited until the meal was over before taking the initiative and kissing Vance. Even as his lips sipped at Vance‟s, Ben knew there was something distracting the other man. Vance had been forthcoming about his trip north to the marine base to tender his resignation from the corps, but he still had not explained what had his blue-green eyes so haunted.

“Why don‟t I clean up in here?” Ben offered, gesturing to the dishes on the kitchen table and the skillet holding the remains of their taco dinner. He hadn‟t pushed for the discussion Vance had promised him. After watching Vance when Ben had gotten off shift, he‟d known something was eating at Vance, and pushing him to spill about his letter wasn‟t going to make things any easier. “Take a beer out on the porch. Relax.”

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Vance nodded and pressed another soft kiss to Ben‟s lips. Pulling him closer, Ben felt Vance‟s grip tighten around his waist, flexing against his lower back as he seemed to absorb the heat of his semiaroused body before stepping back. Pausing to open the refrigerator, Vance selected a beer from inside, twisted the cap off, and nudged the door shut with his hip. Ben didn‟t try to stifle his laughter as Vance flipped the cap into the trash with a snap of his fingers as he passed the bin.

The sound of water in the sink and the rattle of dishes filtered through the open kitchen window. The screen door kept the bugs from getting in the house, while the special candles Ben had lit earlier reduced the number on the porch to a handful.

Exhaustion pulled at his muscles and weighted his eyes, but Vance fought sleep. Earlier that morning, yesterday‟s nightmare had replayed in his mind and driven him from Ben‟s arms. Worried about what would happen once he told Ben everything, Vance had left his lover‟s bed before the sun rose and went into the neighborhood for a hard workout. Though painful and a bit awkward, his healing hip and leg ached only slightly after his five-mile run.

While Ben had been working his shift at the hospital, Vance had driven the thoughts away through steady work around the house. He‟d found room in Ben‟s home for the few things he‟d collected from his apartment. But all the while, Aimee waited.

She hovered, never pushing for his attention, always on the periphery of his mind, just waiting for him to finish the promise he‟d given her.

Setting his beer on the painted planks, Vance eased the .38 from its holster at his ankle and released the cylinder. Six brass casings winked in the glow of the porch light and candles. Snapping it closed, his thumb caressed the safety lever.

Snick
. Off.
Snick
. On.

Over and over, he repeated the deliberate move, all the while hearing the tearful words Aimee had whispered to him as he fought the anger at their tormentors, the humiliation of his helplessness, and the betraying hunger snaking through his body as Diablo Blanco Club: Under Control

69

he rocked in and out of her tight sheath. It shouldn‟t have happened to her that way. He should have had more control, but he hadn‟t.

And the look in her eyes…

The gurgle of water down a drain, and the creak of the floor registered, but Vance didn‟t turn his attention from the weapon in his hand. At one point in time, he‟d thought the gun would be his salvation. Now he recognized it as a symbol of his weakness.

The lights from the city glowed through the treetops, spreading shadows over the lawn and stretching toward the covered porch. Vance knew Ben stood in the doorway, probably wondering at the thoughts going through his mind as he leaned forward in his chair. More than likely, his lover was curious at the solemn expression on his face, but Vance sensed the moment Ben spotted the gun in his hand.

Moving carefully, Ben drew a chair next to him and glanced down at the .38. “Tell me you did
not
have that at the Club,” he teased, only the thinnest thread of amusement in his voice.

Vance only nodded, directing his gaze to the expanse of lawn blending into the hillside behind the house. He couldn‟t meet Ben‟s eyes. Not yet.

“You know Halsey woulda kicked your ass for bringing that into his club.”

Vance only gave a brief nod, acknowledging the breach of Club rules.

Ben waited.

“She won‟t let me use it,” Vance said finally.

Ben stayed quiet.

“I can‟t make myself use it,” he admitted.

Again, Ben simply waited.

Vance wasn‟t surprised. His lover was a keen observer of human nature. That was what had made him one of the best lookouts on the team, besides being the medic.

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Vance didn‟t bother turning his head. Once he revealed the bastard he‟d become, there would be little to keep Ben beside him.

“The first day I woke up in the hospital, I wanted to die,” Vance began.

“Your leg?”

“No. It hurt like a son of a bitch, but I could handle that. It was facing what I‟d done, what I‟d become, that made me sick.” Vance shook his head and smoothed his fingers along the barrel of the gun. “Every night I thought „why the hell should I keep breathing?‟ and every morning I came up with the same three reasons not to just go ahead and pull the trigger.”

“Three?”

“Yeah. First, I could never hurt you by killing myself.”

“And the other two?”

“Aimee deserved better. She deserved to have me keep my promise to her. And marines never quit.”

“And you‟re—”

“A fuckin‟ marine.”

Vance actually smiled as they said the words together. “It took me a while to remember it, but every morning I‟d wake up and those three reasons were there.”

In addition to those three reasons, Vance had to admit that every time the cold steel muzzle had touched his temple, memories surfaced, as if trying to overrule his reasons not to pull the trigger. In those brief moments he would feel the clutch of Aimee‟s fingers against his shoulders, the burn of the whip against his back, heard the coarse laughter of their captors, the curses of the photojournalist, and her sobs.

Always her sobs echoing in his ears. Then she‟d make him give his promise, and the tension in his fingers would ease.

“Remember Aimeelya Kirk?” he asked.

“From Beirut?”

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Vance nodded.

“Didn‟t I stitch—”

“Up her leg when she got tangled in some razor wire chasing after a damned cat.”

“That was what, six years ago?”

“Eight. My first assignment outside the US. The year I transferred into your unit.”

Lost in thought, Vance shook his head. “She was so damned tiny.”

“And that wild red hair.” Ben laughed.

“I should have recognized her the second she came scrambling over the rubble babbling about an ambush.”

Pressing the heels of his palms to his eyes, Vance tried to force away the thoughts, the images, that bombarded him. “God, Ben, the things they did—what I did! It won‟t go away, and she keeps saying it was okay.”

Ben eased the gun out of his grip.

Vance let him. It was useless anyway. He dropped his hands. His snort was sardonic and lacked amusement as he watched Ben open the cylinder and empty the shells into his hand. Ben set the gun on the porch and shoved the bullets into the pocket of his slacks. Trust Ben to ensure there could be no accidents later.

“Tell me what this all has to do with Aimeelya.”

“For a nineteen-year-old raised by missionaries, Aimee was pretty damn streetwise.”

“Was?”

“Yeah, was. She‟s dead.” Needing to face this first hurdle in losing the man he loved, Vance raised his gaze to Ben‟s and added, “I killed her.”

There was no hesitation in Ben‟s response. “Bullshit.”

The knot twisting Vance‟s insides loosened.
Maybe
. He took a deep breath. Maybe this wouldn‟t be as final as he‟d thought. Maybe it was possible he could have more than just these last two nights with Ben. Then again, he hadn‟t finished confessing yet.

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He would have to reserve judgment until he‟d laid bare all his secrets and Ben responded. Losing him now after having had him in his arms wouldn‟t just hurt—it would devastate him. But he‟d learn to deal with it. No matter what happened, though, taking his own life would never be an option. Not anymore. Hell, he‟d find a way to win Ben back if he had to.

“Spit it out, soldier,” Ben ordered, his tone crisp and no-nonsense, just as it had been when he‟d commanded Vance‟s unit.

“The last mission I was on had my unit searching for a missing photojournalist.

Intel had him pinpointed in an insurgents‟ camp. I took point to meet with an informant. I had radio contact, but the rest of the unit was lying low until we confirmed.”

Ben leaned forward, his elbows braced on his knees, his gaze focused on Vance.

“When Mike Halsey returned to San Diablo a few months back, he told me about Simon and your involvement in getting him back. You said something about Aimee and an ambush?”

Vance nodded, rising from his chair to lean against the post that supported the roof over the porch. His fist tapped the weathered wood in a slow, measured rhythm.

“I‟d just made contact when this kid comes scrambling over a pile of stones and shattered wall. At first I figured it was a distraction. Then I realized she‟s babbling in a jumble of Farsi and English about an ambush.” The tapping stopped as Vance crossed his arms and faced Ben. “Next thing I know, all hell is breakin‟ loose, the informant is grabbing the girl by her hair and pulling a gun, while six other bastards pop up around me.”

“How do you know it was Aimee? What about your men?” Vance could see Ben‟s need to understand, but he wasn‟t sure he could satisfy him.

“I fucked up.” Vance shook his head. “The second I saw her eyes, I knew it was Aimee. When she was screaming for me to run, I hesitated, and that was it. I went down.”

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“Where were your men? Who had your six?”

“Closest man was too far off to make a difference. They had Aimee and me bundled into a truck and two clicks down the road before my men could reach us.”

“Tracking?”

Vance nodded, tapping a ragged scar along the back of his left forearm. “It was working and led the team to us, but not in time.” He smiled as he remembered the irony of the kidnapping. “The bastards who grabbed us took us right to the journalist, stupid fucks.”

“So, you got him out too?”

“Yeah. He wasn‟t in the best of shape by the time my guys showed up, but he was able to hobble out of what was left of the building on his own two feet.”

“Okay.” Ben leaned forward in his chair, hands clasped and dangling between his knees. “So you and Aimee get grabbed. Tangos take you to where they‟re holding the hostage you were sent for”—he canted his head to the side—“and?”

“FUBAR.”

“Fucked up beyond all recognition?” Ben translated and then wondered out loud,

“Did they find the transmitter?”

Vance shook his head, his thumb rubbing the ragged scar on his arm. “Nah. A piece of wood from the building did the majority of the cutting on my arm. Tore it up enough that my grip and dexterity are impaired.”

“Well, I sure as shit know one of them took a whip to you.”

He shrugged. “Not that it did much good,” Vance admitted. His lips compressed as he recalled the amusement his captors had gotten at seeing his erection grow the longer they used the whip on him. “Just made matters worse,” he muttered.

“How?”

“Aimee was there.” Vance hoped that would be explanation enough.

“You told me that already.”

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“No, Ben.” He looked at his friend and repeated, “She was in the room with me.”

Ben didn‟t comment, merely waited for him to elaborate.

Swallowing, Vance forced himself to tell. “They stripped me down and started using the whip on me. And I laughed at them.” Shaking his head, he snarled, “I fucking egged ‟em on.”

“Damn, man, the damage…”

“If they‟d just kept to the whip, I could‟ve handled it.” He waited for Ben to comment, but the older man stayed silent, waiting. “The more they hit, the harder I got, and the more I taunted them. Until…” Vance glared down at his fisted hands, the knuckles white against his skin from the strength of his grip. He hated remembering this part. With the shrink in the hospital, it had been easier to say it, but this was Ben—

the man he loved and respected. The man he knew respected him.

At least until he heard Vance‟s secret.