Worth Keeping (2 page)

“Owen Butler,” was the quiet reply.

“I wish I could say it was good to meet you, Owen, but under the circumstances, I’m not sure that’s true.” Nick disappeared into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. He stripped quickly, pulling on dry jeans and a warm sweatshirt from his clean laundry hamper. He rummaged under the bathroom sink for the first-aid kit. Finding it, he went back to the bedroom to see Owen dressed in his clothes, lying on the bed, the blanket wrapped about his still-trembling shoulders.

The man looked exhausted, his eyes dark circles in his pale face. For the first time, Nick noticed the smattering of freckles across his nose and cheekbones. He took a deep breath, sitting down beside Owen, who stiffened slightly. Out of habit, Nick made sure his left ear was closest to Owen. Nick was deaf in his right ear. Often he’d sat beside someone who tried to talk to him only for them to realise that he hadn’t heard a word they’d said.

“Let me have a look at you,” Nick said quietly. Owen shifted, shrugging the blanket off the one shoulder. There was a bloody gouge along his left arm below the tee shirt sleeve.

“I need to clean this wound,” Nick said gently. “It’s a pretty nasty gash, quite deep. I hope it doesn’t need stitches.” Nick opened the kit, removing a packet of antiseptic wipes. Gently, he cleaned Owen’s wound. Owen watched him silently, his eyes blank. Nick wondered if the man was going into shock. He took another wipe and repeated the disinfecting.

“So, Owen,” he finished wiping the wound then rummaged in the kit for a swathe of gauze to place on it. “How did you end up on that beach? Did you fall off a boat or something? You can’t have been in the water all that long. Out here you wouldn’t survive more than a couple of hours max in these temperatures, and they’re actually unseasonably higher for this time of year.”

Nick’s gut and Green Eyes’ earlier words told him that the man landing in the sea hadn’t been an accident. Owen didn’t answer, simply watched with unfocused eyes as Nick took out the long roll of gauze.

“I need the scissors.” Nick moved to the dresser against the opposite wall to get them. He opened his “man drawer” and as he picked up the scissors, there was a screech behind him. He turned to see his pet capuchin, Socks, bounding up and down on the bed, his favourite item, a penknife, clutched in his hand. The monkey screamed loudly as Owen scrambled back in alarm, panic etched across his face. Brandishing his toy as he was, the monkey looked as if he intended attacking Owen.

“Socks!” Nick commanded. “Shoulder, now.” The little monkey gave one final screech then flung himself onto Nick’s shoulder, winding his little fingers in Nick’s hair. The capuchin’s small face was contorted in a snarl that made him look quite ferocious.

“Jesus Christ, that thing is bloody crazy. And you let him have a fucking penknife? Are you mad?” Owen’s voice was slightly shrill, his chest heaving, and he looked even paler than when Nick had picked him up off the beach.

“His name is Socks and he can’t get the penknife open. He just loves the colour. I’m sorry he scared you. He’s quite protective of me.”

“I’ll fucking say. It’s not every day you get a psycho monkey coming at you with a knife.” Owen’s shoulders shook as he bowed his head and for a moment, Nick thought he was crying. He moved over to apologise again—the man had been through enough—but when Owen looked up, his face was wreathed in laughter. Nick’s heart melted. Owen had a genuine laugh, one that seemed to come from his belly. His square features softened and his emerald eyes glittered with tears of mirth. His mouth was wide and generous and Nick wondered fleetingly what it would feel like under his own lips.

“God, this is just too bloody surreal. I can’t believe I’m lying here being attacked by a monkey after being washed up on the bloody beach.” Owen giggled and snorted and Nick’s mouth curved into a smile.

“Again, I’m sorry. Socks, sit here quietly.” He plucked the monkey off his shoulder, placing him on the bed with a stern stare. The monkey regarded Owen balefully as he scarpered onto the ornate wooden headboard and perched on one of the dowelled posts. “Don’t bloody terrify the guests. Doctor Nick has work to do.”

Owen’s eyes narrowed. “
Doctor
Nick? You’re a bit young to be a doctor, aren’t you?” He eyed Socks warily as the capuchin played with his knife.

Nick laughed. “No, I’m not a doctor. It was just an expression. And I’m twenty-six. Not that young.”

“I have a couple of years on you then.” Owen leaned back tiredly.

“Let me finish sorting that arm of yours out.” Nick sat back down beside the man, well aware that his groin was reacting to the man’s scent and nearness. Owen Butler was certainly an intriguing presence. Nick’s long hair swung forward across his face and he brushed it back, tucking it behind his ear, sensing Owen watch the movement, his look intense. Nick also hadn’t missed the occasional furtive glances Owen had made at his groin and body. Nick’s gaydar was definitely working.

What were the odds of a gay man being washed up on the beach like a floundered dolphin?

The thought of a gay dolphin made Nick chuckle. He had a vision of one of them waving its flipper in a camp gesture at another dolphin and dirty thoughts of blowholes flittered through his mind.

Owen gazed at him, his head cocked to one side. “You find something funny with my injury?” He sounded a little put out.

Nick shook his head. “No, not at all. Just a stray thought.” He banished the thought of gay marine mammals from his mind and finished cutting then securing the gauze with micropore tape. He reached for a length of bandage and cut it shorter with the scissors. “I’m going to wrap this around now, so it keeps the whole thing in place. That should do it.”

Goose bumps formed on Owen’s skin as Nick wrapped the bandage around Owen’s arm. Nick wasn’t sure if it was his touch or simply the coldness of his hands. “So, you didn’t tell me why you ended up washed ashore.”

“Nope. I didn’t.” Owen watched as Nick put the butterfly clamps on the bandage and sat back to observe his handiwork. Socks scooted closer to Nick and made a clicking noise as he watched his owner.

“Surely someone will be missing you by now. Is there anyone you need me to call? The landline is out with the storm but I might have signal on my mobile.” Nick watched Owen’s face and saw the flash of pain cross it like a cloud over the sun.

“No. No one.” Owen’s voice was flat. Nick didn’t push. He knew better than anyone what it felt like to not want to talk. Tomorrow after the storm Owen would be gone and no longer be his problem. Nick couldn’t help feeling a little twinge of disappointment at that. He nodded and stood up, wincing as his back protested.

“Are you hungry? I can make soup or something. You should get something warm down you.”

Owen’s eyes lit up. “I’m bloody starving. Soup sounds great.” Socks sidled up to Owen, his little paw stroking the bandage as if trying to soothe Owen.

Nick watched in surprise. “He likes you. After the initial event of trying to kill you with a blunt penknife, he seems to have taken to you. Just as well. He’s pretty clever. He might find a way to open it and cut you open if he didn’t.”

The look of consternation on Owen’s face made Nick grin. Socks stared at Owen, not blinking. Nick had been on the end of that monkey stare and knew Socks didn’t back down easily. He usually ended up the winner. Nick choked back a laugh and picked up his wet clothing where it lay in an untidy heap in the corner. He went into the bathroom and picked up Owen’s sodden garments. Then he left man and monkey in the midst of their staring competition and went to heat up soup and cut thick slices of bread.

The wet clothes were put into the dryer and after a moment’s deliberation, Nick hung Owen’s suit jacket on a hanger and popped it into the airing cupboard. It was the warmest, driest place he knew of. Hopefully the jacket would be fit for wear in the morning when Owen left.

Nick had just finished ladling the soup into two bowls when Owen came into the kitchen, yawning, the blanket still wrapped around him. He stood awkwardly, as if he was not sure what to do.

Nick gestured at the table. “Sit down. Get comfy.” He placed a steaming bowl of tomato soup and a plate of richly buttered bread in front of Owen.

Owen’s eyes roved over the food greedily. “That looks amazing. I haven’t eaten since breakfast.” He pulled the bowl toward him, slurping soup into his mouth. In between he broke off pieces of bread, dunking them joyously into the soup. Nick watched him curiously. He knew he was breaking his own rule here about not being nosy but he had to ask. “Owen, for a man who wanted me to let him die earlier, you certainly seem to have recovered.”

Owen stilled, his spoon still raised halfway to his mouth. His eyes narrowed as he put the spoon back in the bowl, pushed back his chair and regarded Nick evenly. “So what? It didn’t work out. I’ll have to make another plan, won’t I? But at least I’ll be well fed.” He picked up his spoon and ladled more soup into his mouth, this time with a little less gusto. “Besides, you’re a fine one to talk.”

“What do you mean?” Nick growled, his defences shooting up like the hood of a cobra.

Owen tipped his head to one side. “Your wrists are like a road map to hell. You’ve tried it yourself before.”

Nick glanced down at the wrists jutting out of the too-short sleeves of his sweatshirt. Constant washing seemed to have shrunk it. Thick lines of scar tissue criss-crossed vertically and horizontally up to his inner elbows. A sudden chill surged through Nick’s body. “Observant little bastard, aren’t you?” he remarked conversationally, the darkness in his soul taking over. Nick moved to the airing cupboard, taking out a duvet and tossing it onto the kitchen table. “You get the couch. It’s not much but it’s better than the bottom of the fucking sea. It’s getting late. I’m going to bed. Switch off the light when you’re finished.”

He turned to walk out of the kitchen.

Owen spoke quietly. “You haven’t eaten.”

Nick turned back. “I’ve lost my appetite. Good night. There’s a small guest toilet in the hallway if you need it.”

Owen half stood as he waved a hand in Nick’s direction. His face was pale. “Nick, I’m sorry if I crossed a line. Christ, I’m such a prick—”

Nick cut him off. “Good night, Owen.”

He marched off to his room, the deadened feeling in the pit of his stomach struggling for supremacy with the tightness in his chest. He undressed mechanically and slid into bed. His bedroom was both his solace and his prison. Its red and orange licks of colour in the bedding and decor brightened his life and the strong wooden furniture scattered around the room was masculine and reassuring. But when he slept, it held him in its thrall, like chains wrapped around a sinking body in a cold lake. Nightmares and memories invaded this space when he could no longer resist them.

In the dim light of his bedside lamp, he raised his wrists, looking at them. He lived with his scars every day, these and the others on his body. The cigarette burns, the slim cuts of knife wounds and razor blades in places too numerous to mention, the scars on his thighs and hips where he’d cut himself and the jagged one under his arm and down his rib cage courtesy of a night of drunken violence by another so many years ago. But to hear them mentioned in such a cavalier manner by a stranger cut him to the core.

From habit, he lay back in his bed on his right side so that he could hear with his left. He disliked the sense of complete silence that came with lying on his good ear. Nick listened to the ravaging of the storm still raging outside as the sound of the rain lulled him into sleep.

Chapter 2

“Bend down, little boy, and let me see what you’ve got.” Husky male voices and hands rough on his hips rolled down his underwear and, forced him to his knees. Voracious fingers poked and prodded, spread the cheeks of his arse, then all of a sudden there was the agony of someone sliding into him roughly.

“Jesus, Nick, for God’s sake, man, wake up. You’re having a nightmare.” The panicked voice of Owen Butler stirred Nick into wakefulness. He sat up in panic, his chest heaving, his throat raw and sore. He reached out an arm, grabbing Owen’s shoulder tightly. Owen winced and brushed hair from Nick’s sweat-drenched face. Nick stared at him blindly. Socks jumped up and down in agitation on the bed, his paws waving frantically as he chittered in panic.

“Nick, you were screaming. You had a nightmare. It’s all right.” Owen’s soothing voice cut through Nick’s fear and he started to breathe deeper, more evenly.

Owen encouraged him. “That’s right, take deep breaths. You’re awake. You’re fine.”

Nick’s tears rolled down his cheeks as he sobbed quietly. Owen leaned forward, wiping them off with tender fingers. “God, you’re a bloody mess, aren’t you? And I thought
I
was a basket case. Come here.”

Nick was pulled into a pair of warm arms and a hard chest that promised comfort and safety. It had been a long time since he’d been touched this way. When he was in the town with his regular fuck buddy, Daniel, it was pure sex. At Nick’s insistence, there was no kissing, no real tenderness, just lust and animalism that ended in both of them getting their relief and then Nick going home. He’d never stayed over, as that would have been too intimate. But this stranger holding him close, softly stroking his hair and his back, lulling him back to sleep. This
was
intimate and it felt good, just for a while. He closed his eyes, enjoying Owen’s closeness and scent.

Nick awakened the next morning to something both very familiar yet unexpected in his bed. A warm male body lay curled up behind him, arms stretched loosely over Nick’s stomach. A surge of panic swept through him as he realised Owen’s morning woody pressed against his rear end. Owen snuffled and grunted, moving his body, his hard-on poking Nick more directly.

Galvanised into panicked action, Nick turned to face the other man. Owen peered at him blearily.

“Morning.” Owen’s voice was husky.

Nick nodded. “Good morning.”

The two men stared at each other. Owen’s eyes were drowsy but there was a definite glint of intent in them. Nick swallowed at that look of need, dropping his eyes to Owen’s bare chest. Dark hair sprinkled across Owen’s breastbone, down his stomach. The rest was hidden from sight under the duvet. Owen performed much the same inspection on Nick, his eyes narrowing as they travelled down Nick’s chest. He licked his lips, a pink tongue sweeping across his full lower lip, and Nick’s hard-on decided to make him even more uncomfortable.