Tough Love (43 page)

Careful not to make a sound, he reached into his vest pocket and pulled out his notebook and pencil.

Balancing the paper against his leg, he wrote,
I will not expose you.
He started to pass it over before pulling it back to add,
Not to Sir J nor to any other. You have no need to fear.

He handed the notepad over and watched carefully for Vallant’s reaction.

Vallant’s first move was to lift the paper very close to his face, though after studying it, he glanced up at Wes, his look still wary. Which meant he hadn’t feared exposure.

Which meant he feared the
other.

Grimacing, Wes motioned for the paper.

I am not a madman. Only a stammerer. It is my tongue, not my mind, which is my affliction.
His lips tightened as he added,
Certainly I am preferable to he whose wind gags us and uneven snores prevent us from escaping.

He handed the pad over brusquely and waited.

Once more the pad went all the way up to Vallant’s nose. This time, however, when he read Wes’s note, he blushed.

“I don’t—” he began in a whisper, but as soon as he spoke Sir Joshua snorted and stirred. Wes laid a finger to his lips and passed over the pencil. Vallant took it and wrote hurriedly.

I don’t think you’re mad. Thank you for helping me. Certainly you had no cause to.

It was kind of Vallant to say this, of course, but it helped Wes not at all. He wrote again.

Then why do you fear me?

He was ready for Vallant to object, to insist he didn’t, but to his surprise, Vallant seemed abashed. He hesitated over the pad.

You are Daventry’s son.

Wes glanced at him, but Vallant wasn’t meeting his gaze. Wes wondered why the devil that was. Because of his father, apparently, but that explained nothing that would help him now. Fear of the office, perhaps?

He tried for levity.

An accident of birth. I’m afraid I’m nothing like my father, and he would be the first to tell you so. Emphatically.
After some thought he added,
I shan’t tell him anything either, if that gives you any comfort.

The pencil stub ended up in the corner of Vallant’s mouth, where he nibbled absently at it before writing his reply.

You are oddly tolerant of my nature.

Ah.

A return confession felt redundant after his reaction in the anteroom, but it seemed Vallant would demand it of him. Wes wrestled with phrasing, wanting to be clear to Vallant while being coded enough for another to fail to accurately decipher it should they find their notes. In the end he decided there was nothing for it, and he would need to burn these pages the moment he returned to his apartments.

I share it
.

To his surprise, Vallant only gave a grim smile. His reply was swift.

I meant that I am a whore. Somehow I doubt you claim that nature as well?

Was it terrible that Wes felt aroused by the conversation? Likely. He tried to absorb himself in composing a reply, which took some doing, both the absorption and the reply itself. What did one say to that?
No, don’t mind at all, old chap? What are your rates, perhaps I can give you some business?

Aloud, he would have no hope of continuing the conversation. Indeed, he would never have made it this far. But here, trapped as they were… Perhaps it was all the pent-up frustration of the evening, perhaps it was the opium, or perhaps it was simply Vallant himself, but Wes suspected very much he was flirting.

If all are as delightful as you, I should hope to encounter many more of your peers. If I am mistaken, however, I shall happily embrace you as an exception.

Vallant’s surprise at this reply was quickly masked, but Wes took pleasure in the suspicion that it flattered rather than alarmed him. When the notepad returned to him, Vallant presented it with a slight smile playing at his lips.

I apologize for my familiarity earlier. I honestly did mistake you for my friend.

Wes’s reply was as swift as he could write it.

Pray, think nothing of it. I live in hope you make the mistake often in the future. And I envy your friend.

This time Vallant’s mirth was more difficult for him to repress, though by his reply he clearly meant to keep trying.
Whores are meant to be bought with money, my lord, not flattery.

Another quick reply, one Wes gave almost without thinking.

Perhaps it is not the whore I am trying to buy.

This, though, upset Vallant, who went still and wary at once. His reply was also swift, his hand shaking slightly.

You have only seen the whore, I promise you. And him, sir, you must purchase with shillings.

Wes cast up his eyebrow. He had no idea why Vallant thought he would swallow such a lie.

Perhaps it wasn’t Wes he was lying to.

He should let it go, he knew. What he meant to pursue with such a man he had no notion. Sir Joshua was well asleep now, and they could easily make their escape. Yet he could not stop himself from writing again.

I have seen only a whore in the same way you have seen only a stammerer.

Vallant stared at the paper a long time. This time he didn’t chew the pencil, but he did nibble his lip. He glanced up at Wes, searching for something in his face. Then he returned to the paper.

What is it you want, my lord?

It was a fair question. Wes wished he knew its answer. From Vallant, he had no idea. Certainly he wouldn’t confess the answers that rose in his mind: it had been some time since his last congress, which had been rough and hurried. Also he was lonely, and Vallant was achingly pretty. But because he was enjoying pretending he was witty and clever, and seeing such reflected in another’s eyes, he pretended to misunderstand.

An orchid no man has yet discovered and the power of speech enough to describe it to my peers.

Vallant only gave him a withering—but reluctantly amused—glance and handed the notepad back. “From me, my lord,” he whispered.

Oh, devil take it. Wes wrote again.

Well, if I am wishing for the moon, I should long for a kiss, but rest assured I don’t expect one.

His nerves fluttered this time as he handed it back. He’d hoped Vallant would laugh, but he didn’t. Neither did he recoil, however.

As your reward?

Wes shook his head, not meeting Vallant’s gaze. He felt foolish now for his confession. Yes, what was he playing at with Vallant? Did he imagine he would charm the man? Did he think this would bring the man to his bed? Vallant had made it plain that money would. Still, even as he chided himself, part of him yearned for one more exchange, one more flirtation. Because no, he didn’t even want a kiss, much as he wouldn’t refuse one. He only wanted to extend this strange, beautiful moment—handwritten exchanges with a male whore beneath a bedsheet while his assailant snored beside them—as long as he possibly could.

Which, he decided, was a destination he had reached.

Motioning with his head, he slipped quietly out from beneath the sheet. Vallant glanced worriedly toward Sir Joshua, but the baronet slept on. Wes extended his hand and helped Vallant rise, and together they moved in silence across the room to the door. It creaked when opened, and Sir Joshua stirred enough to murmur incoherently and release more wind, but that was all. They passed safely into the adjoining room, and Wes closed the door without a sound.

Pocketing the notepad and pencil, Wes turned to Vallant with a smile he hoped appeared wry and not full of the ridiculous sad longing he felt. But his half smile slid away as he took in the strange look on Vallant’s face. He waited, but Vallant only continued looking at him carefully. At last, Wes could take it no longer.

“W-w-what—?” he began, though he stopped as Vallant lifted a hand and pressed two warm fingers against his lips.

“Hush,” he whispered. His eyes fell to his fingers at Wes’s lips, and when they rose again, they were enticingly soft and open. Now it was he who offered a half smile, though his was laced with quiet uncertainty. “No more stammerer nor whore—not just yet.”

Wes shook his head. “I c-c-can’t s-s-s-stop it.”

“I can,” Vallant replied, the words tickling Wes’s ear and leaving gooseflesh on his skin. Vallant leaned forward and pressed his lips to the place where his fingers had been.

Four men fighting against their pasts…and for each other.

Bound to Break

© 2013 S.E. Jakes

Men of Honor, Book 6

Several years after washing up on a beach in South Africa with absolutely no memory—not even his name—Lucky would rather
not
remember his past. Based on the number of scars on his body, it couldn’t have been anything good.

Then a man claiming to be his former Navy SEAL teammate walks into the bar and insists that Lucky’s real name is Josiah Joshua Kent. Turns out he’s been listed as KIA, and since he’s not dead, he’s now AWOL—and under suspicion.

Discovering Josh is alive throws Rex, and his relationship with Sawyer, into a tailspin. Rex can finally lay to rest the nightmares of the night he couldn’t save his teammate. And Sawyer is faced with his
worst
nightmare—a relationship threatened by a very real ghost from the past.

As Josh begins to piece his memories back together, another man with a shadowy connection to his past—and maybe his heart—holds the key that could free him. Or send him to a traitor’s fate.

Warning: Contains rough language, rougher sex and warriors who fall hard for one another.

Enjoy the following excerpt for
Bound to Break:

“Hey, can I grab a Jack and Coke?”

Lucky looked up into the face of the man who’d placed the order and nodded. “Coming right up.”

The guy did a double take. He was good-looking, but Lucky had immediately pegged him for straight. He waited a beat, but the guy suddenly reached across the bar for him, saying, “Josh? Holy fuck—is that really you?”

Lucky put his hands up and backed away.

The name Josh didn’t set off any alarm bells, but Lucky would be lying if he hadn’t thought about a moment like this constantly. Some days he looked over his shoulder more than others.

Tonight, his defenses had been down. His gut told him to move this away from the bar, take it outside so Emme wouldn’t see it happening. He pushed out, calling, “Taking ten,” and didn’t wait to hear her agree.

The big blond guy followed him. When Lucky turned to face him under the lights in the adjacent alleyway, he noted the guy looked like he’d seen a ghost. “How the hell did you escape?”

“I’m not Josh,” he said.

“You’re Josh Kent. Come on, I’d know you anywhere,” the guy started again, softer this time, like one might talk to a wounded animal. He kept his hands to himself, tucked them into his jeans pockets to make himself appear less threatening.

But Lucky was threatened. Half of him fought a tremble but the other half was ready to throw down. Instinct made him react, forced him to keep a wide berth between the two of them. “You’ve got the wrong guy.”

But he persisted. “Josh, it’s Nate. We served together.”

Fuck. Served together. He’d long suspected he’d been in the military, but he played dumb instead, hoping it was all a case of mistaken identity. “Served drinks?”

“In the Navy.”

“My name’s Lucky, not Josh. Sorry.” He went to turn away but Nate grabbed his upper arm forcefully and spun him around.

“Four years, Josh. We all thought you died. We watched you…fuck…we watched you die and now you’re hanging out bartending?” Nate let go of him, put his hands up as if apologizing. “If you don’t remember…”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Lucky pushed at him, his palms against the big guy’s shoulders, and Nate stumbled back.

“Strong as ever, you dumb fuck. Why the hell are you hiding here?”

“You need to leave,” Lucky said, but Nate was charging for him, angry now. He braced but Nate stopped when another man stepped in between them.

That guy was also big and broad, and for a horrible second, Lucky thought he was on Nate’s side. But he put himself in front of Lucky and told Nate, “You need to back off.”

“You don’t understand—I know him,” Nate said.

“He doesn’t know you. He’s said so. Chalk it up to a case of mistaken identity.”

“It’s not,” Nate insisted. “I’ll leave now—but I’ll be back with proof. You’re Josh Kent.” He pointed at Lucky and then stormed off.

Lucky walked over to the nearest car and sat on the hood. Sweat trickled down his back and he took a deep breath. He’d built a web of lies about who he was. All this time, he hadn’t told anyone he couldn’t remember shit about his past. And really, how would they know?

He didn’t tell them because they’d make him deal with it, and he was pretty damned sure he didn’t want to go there again. Ever.

“He scared the hell out of you,” his savior said, his voice rough. So was his hand that reached out to touch him, but the good rough that made Lucky feel something. The calming hand rested on the back of his neck, centered him, allowed him to simply bow his head and take a deep breath.