Part Fourteen: Yours Faithfully
“Bloody stupid thing to write! Makes me sound like an idiot!” Joe crumpled up a sheet of notepaper and tossed it on the floor alongside his bed. He’d long since given up aiming for the rubbish bin; the damn thing was already overflowing with failed attempts. Crushed rejects littered the bed too—standing out, stark and white against the black cotton sheets.
Joe slumped back against the pillows he’d propped up against his headboard. Closing his eyes, he rubbed at the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. He’d come up with some pretty inventive ways to torture willing masochists over the years. Almost all of his methods had involved either some kind of leather or a substantial amount of clattering metal chains.
Now, Joe knew that he’d missed a trick. There was apparently no limit to the amount of pain, frustration, or temporary psychosis that could be achieved by giving a man a pen and a piece of blank paper. Even the most experienced pain-slut could be brought to his knees by this.
Joe took a deep breath and let it out very slowly before he realised that he was now copying Scott’s method for trying to stave off a panic attack. He immediately straightened up and squared his shoulders.
That was no way for a dom to behave. A sub was allowed to have doubts and let on when he was nervous. A dom had to keep it together. Who could expect anyone to hand over control of his life to a man who couldn’t even write a damn letter?
Joe knew what he wanted to say. He knew all the things he had to explain to Scott, and what Scott needed to understand. So why was it so sodding difficult to put those things into words on a page?
More importantly, how the hell was he ever going to talk Scott down off the ledge and convince him to give their…their relationship another shot if he couldn’t even put this first part of his plan into action?
Joe shook his head and picked up his notepad one more time.
* * * * *
“H-hello.” To Scott’s surprise, his voice didn’t come out in an embarrassingly squeaky soprano. He almost sounded sane.
Joe turned away from whatever it was he’d been doing behind the bar. The club was closed. Not a single customer stood in front of the long, dark counter. There was no music, no commotion. The silence was eerie. A shiver ran down Scott’s spine.
Their eyes met. Joe appeared so serious it would have been scary if he hadn’t still looked as hot as hell. Scott swallowed rapidly. Somehow, Joe managed to make a simple black T-shirt and jeans seem like a statement of his ability to do a whole host of very interesting things with leather.
Scott cleared his throat. “Your t-text said you w-w-wanted to see me.” And he hadn’t been capable of disobeying a summons from Joe. Forget all his careful plans to avoid Joe until his heart had recovered and his cock had learnt how to respond to less intimidating guys. The moment he’d realised who the text was from, Scott had been Joe’s to command.
“Sit down.” Joe pointed to the far side of the room.
Almost all of the chairs and barstools were up on top of the tables, presumably so the floor could be cleaned more easily. Only one chair remained down; it had obviously been placed there for Scott’s use.
Pain stabbed through Scott’s mind. Joe couldn’t have chosen a seat further away from the bar if he’d tried. To becalled close only to be banished to what felt like miles away the very next second—it was hardly the joyous reunion Scott had subconsciously prayed for.
Regardless of the confusion racing through his mind, Scott walked across the room and lowered himself onto the seat. It stood alongside an empty table. Scott rested his hands on it and tried not to fidget. Without saying a word, Joe rounded the bar and headed toward him. Scott’s heart rate doubled.
He rose to his feet. “Shall I g-g-get another chair d-down for you?”
“No.”
Scott’s backside hit the chair again.
Joe came closer still, until he stood directly opposite Scott, on the other side of the small table.
Scott had to tilt back his head to stare up at Joe’s face. He looked good, perfect, just as he always did. So calm, so confident, so exactly what Scott wanted and needed in his life…
Reaching into his back pocket, Joe took out an envelope and placed it on the table.
“I—”
“No.” Joe held up a hand. “Don’t talk. Just read it.” He turned on his heel and marched back to his place behind the bar. Even after he’d rounded the long wooden barrier, he kept his back to Scott.
For half a minute, all Scott could do was look from the nape of Joe’s neck, to the envelope on the table, and back again. Finally, his gaze settled on the letter and stayed there.
Scott.
The word was scrawled across the front of the envelope, just like most of the other notes Joe had given to him while they’d been playing that silly little game, passing messages back and forth like teenagers in class.
“Don’t just sit there, Scott. I told you to read it.”
