Plus it doesn’t help that most of my nightmares that aren’t about the desert feature Eddie, in some way.
Over our years in the desert, I discovered Ilikedhurting him too much, and he hated how much he liked me to hurt him…and how much heneededme to do it and keep doing it, even after we were free ofher.
Especiallythen.
Except it would have hurt both of us too damned much to completely sever all ties to each other. There was too much love there, even if we couldn’t admit it.
“This won’t come back on me, right?” he asks. “I’m semi-retired and live a quiet life. I’ve stayed under the radar all these years. I don’t need to wind up on it. That’s mainly why I stayed over here in the first place after I got out. The…job opportunities. Lot of clients in Eastern Europe. I never did local work, but I don’t want to risk going back to the States, if I can help it.”
The kind of contract work Eddie did after leaving the military perhaps fuels his own bad dreams. Or, maybe not. The bell curve of Eddie’s morals arced in different directions than mine, and always has. He once joked that if we were playingDungeons and Dragons, he’d be achaotic neutralalignment with a decided bent towardneutral evil, and I’d be classified aslawful evil.
I can’t exactly say he’s wrong. Eddie has always followed the money, ever since what we went through and I told him what I’d found out. He’d honestly had no clue, and she’d never given him a penny, either.
Then there’s the fact that Iama bastard, thanks to what we went through with her.
“I was never here,” I say. “Unless I need to behere. If so, we stayed in, did a lot of talking, and did some drinking. You sounded distraught on the phone when we talked yesterday, and I was worried about you. I currently have the resources to help out an old friend.” I shrug. “PTSD is a real bitch.”
“Again, you ain’t wrong.” He settles back on the couch, his gaze no longer meeting mine. Neither of us break the silence for several minutes after he pours us refills and we sit there, sipping and remembering.
“What’s your timeline today, sir?” he asks a little too quietly, and this time with no snarky emphasis on the last word.
My heart squeezes, old memories slamming against my mental bulwarks, ancient and barely tamed demons howling to be unleashed, the bastard extraordinaire sooooo fucking tempted.
Sotempted.
The smell of gun oil and sweat and dusty damned desert comes to mind. The sound of his knees rubbing in the dirt as I quickly fuck his throat, tears streaming from his eyes before I paint his face with my cum and then smear it all over with my hand. His strained gasp as I let him jerk off while I do it and make him lick up any he got on me in the process after he sucks my hand clean.
I actually have to take a breath, because those memories have my cock aching so damn hard it’s literally painful now. I hadn’t forgotten what this feels like, but I have to remind myself that most of the fucking nightmares I’ve had in my life were created by what that bitch did to me and Eddie both.
Owen’s made me a better man, because loving him forced me to learn how to be…gentle. Tender.
How to use my evil side for good instead of…well, the obvious.
“I’m sorry,” I gently say. “I can’t. I have to go back to my hotel. I told the boys I’d video chat with them before they go to bed.” It’s a lie I know he’ll believe and understand. It’s also far less cruel than the truth, which is that I made promises to others that I’ll absolutely keep, and yet not the one I made to him.
I left him behind.
He slowly nods. “Yeah. It’s okay. I get it. Just…putting it out there.” I watch the rise and fall of his chest. His gaze is still fixed on the inside of his glass, and the better bastard that I am wishes I could at least let myself offer to hug him.
I can’t, because I won’t be able stop there if I do, and I damn well know it.
So does he.
I never could stop myself with him once we got started.
Ever.
He didn’t want me to, either.
Which led to a lot of close-calls, but made being stuck in the desert a little more tolerable, at times.
“IVF?” he finally asks.
I’m watching him as I nod. “Owen. He’s my best friend.” From our conversations over the years, Eddie knows a little about Owen, barely more than the public does.
Eddie will believe this, though, and it won’t hurt him and therefore add more guilt to my already overflowing plate in the process. Because, contrary to what you might think, I can and do feel guilt about some things.
Feeling it, and not letting it stop me, are two different beasts entirely.
