Men of London 04 - Feat of Clay (13 page)

The smell
woke Tate up. It pervaded his nostrils with its stink and left a
sour metallic taste in his mouth. He opened his eyes in disgust and
panic, hands fumbling in front of his face as if trying to push
someone away. He took a deep breath, imagining the lingering
essence of blood on his tongue. In the darkness of the room Clay
slept on, and Tate was glad he hadn’t shouted out this time and
woken up his lover. He shivered in the aftermath of his nightmare
and sighed tiredly.

I am so damn tired of this
shit.

Tate had once again been dreaming about
Lily—and Armerian. In the dream, he’d seen the young girl lying
there still and cold, the blood pooling about her body. Tate lay
next to her, drenched in blood, cold, shivering and hurting. In the
shadows, a man lurked, invisible but Tate knew it was his dead
tormentor. Deep in the pools of his mind, the deep, dark lakes of
his psyche, Sonny Armerian always lurked, like a silent, grinning
predator ready to eat his flesh.

At times like this Tate wished he smoked so
he could light up a cigarette and sit by the window, staring out in
the darkness beyond it, blowing plumes of smoke and focusing on it
as it swirled in the still air. It always looked so cool in the
movies.

He shivered, remembering the weariness in
Lily’s young voice and the look of defeat on her face. The fact
he’d not pushed her into accepting his help would always rankle
with him. But he’d acknowledged, despite what everyone might have
thought about him trying to blame himself, he was
not
to blame. He’d been spending more time at
Castaways, trying to make sure he made a difference to kids who
needed him. Trying to show them that people could be trusted and
not everyone was an abuser. Jax was especially a delight for Tate.
The young man was funny, occasionally moody, intelligent and one of
the warmest and empathic people that Tate knew. He was like a
little brother and that was something Tate could get on board
with.

He sat up, leaning over to pick up his mobile
on the nightstand. He flicked through the picture gallery and came
to the picture he’d always carry around.

The photo of the note Lily had left him.

The police had taken the original but Tate
had taken a picture of it with his mobile before it had
disappeared. He wanted something to remember her by other than the
dreams he had.

“Can’t you sleep?” Clay’s husky tones caused
Tate to turn and look at him. His partner’s eyes were sleepy, and
his face furrowed with sleep lines.

Tate smiled softly at him. “I had a bit of a
bad dream. I’m fine. Go back to sleep.”

Clay yawned and stretched, the covers
slipping down until Tate could see the firm planes of his stomach
and the treasure trail of dark hair that led down to his sleep
shorts. It was a sight he’d never grow tired of.

“I’m awake now, and it’s”—Clay squinted at
the wrist watch he never removed—“five a.m. anyway. So, the middle
of the morning, really.”

Tate snorted. “For a soldier like you, maybe,
Mister SAS. For those others of us a little more refined, it’s fuck
o’clock.”

Clay’s face lit up. “Really? Is that an
actual time then? Because I like the sound of that time of day.” He
chuckled as Tate huffed in exasperation. “You walked right into
that one, babe.” His face grew serious. “So what woke you?”

Tate sighed and leaned against the headboard,
hands clasped behind his head. He hated that Clay had to ask that
question. “Just memories.”

Clay shifted in the bed, getting comfortable.
“I wish I could take it all away for you. It pisses me off I can’t
reach inside that head of yours and pluck it all out.”

Tate sighed heavily. “Me too.” He managed a
wry grin. “We’d be millionaires if we could.” His hand moved up
idly to touch the scar on his chest. “This was bad enough but then
the thing with Lily…it’s just not fair, you know? She was so damn
young.”

Clay nodded. “When kids die, there’s
something about it...” his voice trailed off and Tate knew he was
remembering something from his past. Clay’s jaw clenched; the tic
in his cheek became more prominent when he was emotional.

“Tell me about it, please,” Tate murmured,
moving to his side and propping himself up on his elbow. He fixed
his eyes on Clay’s face. “How do you get over it?”

Clay’s eyes shadowed. “You don’t. It’s always
there with you. But the memory gets less painful as time goes on.
That’s what I’ve found and what I keep trying to tell
you
.” He smiled to take the sting out of his words. He
looked as if he was considering his words carefully. “I was with a
group in Israel about eight years ago. We went over to do recon on
some Palestinian activity, some rebels who were operating in a camp
out in the desert. It was all ultra-secret, of course, one of those
field ops where plausible deniability was the buzz word.” He
snorted in derision. “Bastards who sit behind a desk, and who’ve
never seen blood close up in all their damn lives, telling us that
if we fuck up no one’s coming to fetch us. We were on our own.”

Tate nodded in fascination. He’d heard many
tales of Clay’s past, but only the ones that could be told. Clay
had a lot of stories that Tate suspected remained hidden away in
the recesses of his sharp, agile mind, never to be shared—never to
be forgotten.

“There were a number of young boys among the
rebel camp. Three of them, aged between about ten and twelve. They
carried guns, looked too young to be there in such a damn
inhospitable terrain. It was blistering hot; the sand flies bit any
open flesh they could find and even found their way up your butt
crack.” He smiled slightly as Tate made a noise of disgust. “I
found smearing Vaseline around my hole and between my cheeks at
least protected me from the bites and made sure they didn’t crawl
up my arse.”

Tate’s backside clenched in sympathy. “That
sounds like a fate worse than death,” he murmured, running his
hands over Clay’s furred chest.

Clay nodded. “Not pleasant.” He turned and
plumped up his pillows, punching them to make them fluffier then
sat back with a satisfied sigh. “We staked out the place for a
while, checking what was going on, taking photos and relaying
information back to base. It was rumoured that there was an Israeli
reporter who’d been captured and was being held. Our brief was if
he was there, to extract him and get out. It turned out to be a
crock of shit. There was no damn reporter. We were told to get out
of there, as they were planning an air attack and hadn’t wanted the
reporter getting blown to smithereens if they could help it. He
apparently had some big wig political father back in Jerusalem.” He
huffed. “It would have been bad form having his son smeared all
over the damn desert.”

His eyes grew distant. “As we were sneaking
out, one of the kids found us. My point guy hadn’t seen him leave
the encampment and we came face to face with him with his dick out,
taking a piss.” Clay’s body stilled. “We had decision to make. We
couldn’t afford him crying out to warn the others, which is what he
would have done. It would have jeopardised the air strike.”

Clay’s face darkened and Tate swallowed. He
hoped this wasn’t headed where he thought. “What did you do?” he
asked quietly.

Clay exhaled loudly. “None of the group
wanted to kill a kid. In an ideal situation, with a man or woman,
we would have done it there and then. I’m both ashamed and relieved
to say we all hesitated. Not good when you’ve been trained for that
eventuality.” There was a poignant silence. “Then one of the older
rebels came across us and screamed at the kid to shoot us. The look
in that kid’s eyes…” Clay’s voice trailed off. “He couldn’t do it.
So the guy raised his weapon at the kid and shot him point blank in
the head. It was like a fucking melon exploding. The bastard was
entertained by it all, and it probably saved our lives.”

Tate groaned in horror.

“We had to get out of there pronto before the
rest of them came running. I was nearest. While the sick SOB was
gloating, I jumped in, snapped the bastard’s neck, watched him fall
to the ground and yelled to my men to get the hell out of there.
Our transport wasn’t far so we made it.” His voice was matter of
fact but Tate heard the pain in it.

“Jesus,” Tate had a sick feeling in his
stomach at what Clay must have felt. He sat up straight. “You’ve
never told me that story before.”

Clay shrugged. “Not one of the highlights of
my career, seeing a kid killed like that,” he said quietly. “Plus
we ignored our training. We could have all gotten killed and
stuffed the mission up by getting caught because we couldn’t shoot
a kid pointing a weapon at us.”

Tate swallowed. “That’s admirable to me, not
something to be ashamed of. You make me feel so damn stupid, like a
coward,” he whispered.

His lover frowned as he sat up, covers
pooling at his waist. “Why would you say that? You’re no damn
coward.” His fierce tone warmed Tate’s heart but still he felt a
sense of failure.

“Because you have things in your past that
could drive you crazy,” Tate explained. “You’ve killed people, been
shot at, been in war zones and seen horrible things but you don’t
have nightmares like I do. You’ve seen things I probably couldn’t
even imagine, but you’re so damn strong, you can put them to rest.
Me?” He sneered. “I fall apart at firecrackers, have bad dreams
about kids who’ve killed themselves, agonise over what happened to
me with Armerian when you’ve probably seen much worse. How do you
stay so strong?” He heard the agitation in his voice. “Am I just a
fucking wuss that I’m like I am? All damaged?” He threw himself
back against the bed, breathing heavily and throwing his arm over
his eyes. The sense of emasculation, the feeling he was a weakling
tasted like acid in his mouth. He huffed loudly, opening his eyes
as a strong, warm weight landed on top of him and his arms were
yanked off his shamed face and held above his head.

Clay was aflame with passion, his eyes bright
green glints in a tanned face. He looked like a man about to take
on the world. “Don’t
ever
talk about
yourself that way again,” he snarled, as his body held Tate’s
still. Tate gulped at the vehemence in his lover’s voice. “You are
one of the strongest men I know. What was done to you by that
fucking bastard was something you wouldn’t have done to an animal.
I saw you afterwards, love.” His voice cracked with pain. “I saw
you shot three times and left to die like a dog on the sidewalk. I
saw what he’d done to you. The horrors he’d inflicted.”

Tate wanted to close his eyes and not
remember but his eyes were hypnotised by Clay’s. They stared into
him and Tate swore he could see into Clay’s soul. He’d never
stopped to consider what Clay might have gone through when Tate had
been hurt.

“The knife cuts, all the broken bones, the
burns. The damage to your balls and cock where he’d kicked you. The
brand he carved into your backside as if you were some sort of
animal that he fucking owned. The coke up your nose.” Clay’s voice
quietened. “The bites and teeth marks everywhere and the bruising
and finger marks around your backside.”

Now Tate struggled, the memories of what he’d
called ‘that which will never be spoken of’ rising to the fore like
some giant, monstrous leviathan. His shame and his guilt at what
he’d done for ‘the mission.’

“No, fuck you,” he snarled. “We don’t talk
about that, you bastard.” He flailed his arms and Clay pinned him
tightly.

“That’s the problem,” he murmured softly.
“You hide it away from me, and deep down, you need to let it out. I
think we’ve both waited long enough.” His hands gripped Tate’s
wrists like a vise. His body shifted on top of Tate’s, its warmth
and strength both comforting and scary.

“Let me go, Clay.” Tate’s vision blurred as
tears threatened to fall. “I won’t talk about that to you.” Dr
Jakes knew about Tate’s deception with Sonny Armerian and his rape
at his hands but he’d never told her everything about the sexual
savagery that Sonny had inflicted upon him during his torture
ordeal. He knew she suspected there was more than he’d told
her.

“It’s time.” Clay’s gentle voice was closer
now, his lips brushing Tate’s cheek.

Tate shook his head stubbornly. “No,” he spat
at him, still trying futilely to get free. But fighting against
someone like Clay, single minded, tough, protective and physically
strong, wasn’t an option. The man was a fierce warrior, a man used
to getting his own way.

“If you love me, Tate, and want us to get
through this, you need to tell me.” Clay’s commanding voice
overrode Tate’s, which was telling him to hide, keep a secret. He
cried out in anger and distress, the tears seeping from his eyes
now, bringing back the memories of what Armerian had done to him in
those four days. He hadn’t only taken his freedom away but his
self-respect too. How could any man raped by another not feel that
way?

Clay gripped his face and stared into Tate’s
face with haunted eyes. “What he did to you was not your fault. You
were tied up, chained, with no say in what happened. And when you
admit that, maybe, just maybe, the nightmares might go away.”

Tate was tired. He stopped struggling and
simply listened to Clay’s voice, hearing the love and grief in it
for him.

Maybe it
is
time to tell him everything. I’m so tired of
keeping it a dirty secret. No one else knows what my relationship
with Sonny actually was and the guilt is tearing me apart. Clay
deserves to know too.

“I was with you when they brought you into
the hospital, virtually dead.” The dead tone of Clay’s voice
reached out to Tate. “You flat-lined once, and when they brought
you back, I cried like a fucking baby.” His voice choked. “We were
just friends then but I knew, just knew, that if you got through it
I was going to make you mine. No more of this best friend shit. I
was going to have you, body and soul. I love you so damn much. I’ve
loved you forever.”