Men of London 04 - Feat of Clay (4 page)

Clay shrugged. “He needed time on his own.
He’s fucked up. I’ve tried to hold it together but tonight…” his
voice trailed off. “Tonight he really flipped out again. He has
panic attacks after the shooting incident. He gets aggressive. He
thinks he’s weak, but he’s not. He’s the strongest man I know.”

Draven’s eyes widened. “Your friend Tate—is
this Tate Williams that we’re talking about? Taylor’s friend Rick’s
uncle?”

Tate’s shooting had made the papers, so it
was public knowledge.

Clay waggled a finger at him. He was feeling
sicker by the minute and the black coffee wasn’t really helping.
“Now you know my secret. I shouldn’t have told you; it might put
Tate in danger. You can’t tell anyone else. Except maybe Taylor,
’cos I know he won’t talk. But God, Draven, I’m so tired. He didn’t
deserve what happened to him and I can’t make it right for him.”
His heart ached and he wanted nothing more than to go home to
Tate’s house, gather his man in his arms and kiss the shit out of
him.

Draven’s watchful eyes regarded him. “He got
shot, Clay. That’s bound to fuck anyone up.”

Clay snorted sadly. “That’s not all that
happened to him, Dray. Armerian got his hands on him long before
the shooting. Did things to him that you can’t imagine, including
some stuff Tate’s never told me about but I suspect it was worse
than he’s told me.” His suspicion that Tate had suffered more than
physical torture—that he’d suffered some form of sexual abuse at
Sonny Armerian’s hand—lived deep in his gut and made him crazy with
hate for a man who was already dead.

Draven stiffened. “Tate was
tortured
by Sonny Armerian?
That
never made the papers.” Of course it made sense
that Draven would know exactly who he meant when he said the name
‘Armerian.’ The man was an astute investigator and thrived on all
things law enforcement.

Clay waved a hand. His own hand movements
made him dizzy. “No, it was all hushed up. That motherfucker held
him for four days, trying to get him to spill the beans about the
whole drug sting operation. The bastard did unspeakable things to
him, and he shot him.
Three fucking times.
Armerian thought he was dead so he pushed him out of a moving car
in front of the gym where they’d met. Thank God Tate is made of
tough stuff.” He finished his coffee and like magic another one
appeared.

His friend let out a long sigh. “I always
knew there was more to that story than was made public. Tate was
working undercover in the drug squad then?”

Clay nodded. “Yes. He’d been in deep cover
for close to three months. They were trying to find the head honcho
that Armerian reported into, someone really high up in the
organisation…” He closed his eyes, remembering the drawn features
and pale face of his lover. “I don’t even know the full story about
his time undercover; he never talks about it. But Tate was a mess,
living on a knife edge.”

It had been a difficult time for them both,
in their then-relationship as “just friends.” Staying apart and
only making contact with each other when the need arose. They’d had
to be ultra-careful, but both men were trained in techniques to
keep themselves safe and stay off the grid.

“Armerian was killed by a car bomb about two
weeks after Tate was shot,” Draven observed, his eyes searching
Clay’s. “Was that your doing?”

There was no accusation in Draven’s tone,
simply curiosity. Men like him knew the value of revenge.

Clay shook his head tiredly. “I went looking
for him while Tate was in protective custody at the hospital. I was
going to kill that bastard for what he did to him. But the Renaldo
cartel got to him first. He pissed them off and they took him out.”
He sipped his coffee. “I was following Armerian. I watched as he
got into his Maserati and the thing blew sky high. That’s how I
knew he was finally dead. It was such a fucking relief. At least I
knew they wouldn’t come back to finish Tate off. The other cartel
members all defected to Renaldo and thankfully they didn’t care
about a half-dead man.”

“And you never trusted me to tell me all
this? You dealt with this on your own?” Draven’s voice was pained.
“I thought we were friends, Clay. You know I’d keep any secrets you
shared with me. You did the same for me with Jude.” Clay remembered
the heartache when Jude, Draven’s little brother who was injured in
a car accident and left comatose, was at the point of never getting
better. Draven had made an agonising decision to turn off his life
support, something which haunted him to this day.

Clay reached out and gripped Draven’s muscled
arm tightly. “I couldn’t. Tate was so bloody damaged and I couldn’t
risk anything else happening to him. You and I have enemies,
Draven. It’s the nature of the work we do. Tate has always been my
Achilles’ heel. No matter what our relationship, I couldn’t have
anyone finding out how much he means to me and using him against
me. If they’d known exactly what he was to me, it would have made
it worse.”

Draven stared at him and then nodded
slightly. “That makes sense. People could get to you through me
then to Tate. I’d do the same if it was Taylor who’d been hurt like
that.”

Clay’s head was clearing a little now. “I
know I’m a bit paranoid, and Tate’s told me the same thing. It’s
just hard, you know?” He stared down. “I’ve known him since we were
kids. We lived on the same street; our parents were friends.” He
got lost in the half-full coffee cup. God it felt good telling
someone about this.

“He was three years younger than me. We went
through school together, came out together and we were best
friends. But I’d always known he was more than that to me, even
when we were so young.” He drew a deep breath. “I needed to stop
any temptation before I did something illegal to Tate, so I went
straight into the RAF at eighteen. Tate was only fifteen then. He
stayed behind to finish secondary school and then college. I was
travelling around so much, never in one place, and it was tough to
see each other, apart from an occasional meet-up when both of us
were in town together. We kept in touch with Skype, messages,
emails…God, the emails. I think I must have a damn novel on my
computer.”

His voice trailed off. “Tate found his way
into the police force and worked his way up to detective in the
drug squad. I’d joined the SAS and was never around.” He snorted
softly. “Six years ago we each found time to meet up face to face
again at a family function. It was like physically being apart had
never happened. We took up as mates again but I definitely wanted
more. Tate’d had a couple of old relationships and wasn’t ready to
start anything with anyone, least of all me. I just didn’t think he
thought of me that way.”

Draven shifted on the barstool and shot a
glance at the bartender, who was obviously waiting for them to
leave so he could close up. Draven ignored him. “So you became
close again?”

Clay nodded. “Yes. Then all the shit
happened. Somehow Armerian found out about him. We still don’t know
how. The investigation is ongoing, but it’s unlikely we’ll ever see
any further developments.” He stared unseeingly at the bar counter.
“From the time Tate woke up in hospital, I was there for him.
Things changed between us after that. I guess a near-death
experience makes you reconsider your priorities.” He grinned wryly.
“A couple of months after his shooting, we had sex for the first
time. It blew my mind. What was equally mind-blowing was when he
confessed he’d always had a thing for me but had never acted on it.
He didn’t think I felt the same way about him and neither of us
wanted to blow the friendship we’d had since childhood.”

“No. Just blow each other maybe,” Draven
observed drily. “Christ, you two were stubborn arseholes not
admitting your feelings for one another.” He snorted. “I can relate
to that.” He scowled. “I always knew you had someone special,
friend or lover. You were always so damn secretive about the man in
your life.”

Clay nodded and then wished he hadn’t as his
head exploded. “I’ve always loved him; I just didn’t tell him. It
was fucking torture.”

The bartender cleared his throat. “Gents, I
need to close up the bar. Sorry about that but…” he rolled his
eyes. “It’s way past closing time.”

Draven stood up. “Come on. Let’s make sure
you get into a taxi home. The tube won’t be running now.”

Clay drained the dregs from his coffee cup
and got to his feet. He stumbled and Draven’s strong arm gripped
his elbow.

“Easy, champ. Good thing I’m here.” The two
men made their way outside and Clay’s head swam as the cold air hit
him. The empty feeling in his chest amplified at the fact that he
was going home to his empty house. True, he and Tate had their own
places, but more often than not, when he got home, Tate would be
found curled up on Clay’s old, comfortable sofa, in sweats and a
cut-off tee shirt. The bad days were something they faced together;
the good days were heaven. Only now Tate had decided his past was
his cross alone to bear.

“I don’t want to lose him, Dray,” Clay
muttered as Draven opened the taxi door and motioned him in, giving
the driver his address.

“I know,” his friend said softly. “But you’ve
had your drink binge and gotten it out of your system; now work on
getting him back. You’re Clay Mortimer, for God’s sake. You can
figure this out. Just keep being there for him and give him the
space he needs.” His eyes darkened. “One word of advice. Tate is a
grown man, Clay. You have to let go sometime, let him be his own
man, take his own risks. Or you’re going to stifle him. Especially
given what he was. The man’s used to taking care of himself, taking
risks.”

Clay blinked at him. “Since when you did you
get to be so damn wise?” he murmured. “Is that Taylor’s doing? That
man has been good for you, you know that?”

“I’m very lucky to have him,” Draven agreed.
“And you’ll get your man back too. Just go home, sleep it off and
I’ll see you tomorrow. You know where I am if you need me. Make
sure you call me if you do. Don’t be fucking Captain Lonerguy and
try and do it on your own.”

He stepped back onto the pavement and rapped
his knuckles on the roof of the taxi. As it pulled away, Clay
leaned back into the vinyl-smelling seat and closed his eyes.
Draven’s words about letting Tate go echoed in his ears. They
stayed with him long after he finally got home and stumbled into
bed for a restless, uneasy sleep.

Watching a
film containing multiple car chases and picking up all the
continuity errors in the story wasn’t really the way Tate wanted to
spend his evening, but after a day of nonstop web browsing and
compiling reports for work, he needed something mindless to
distract himself.

He lolled on his two-seater couch, clad in
old joggers and a soft sweatshirt, a bowl of Kung Pao chicken on
his chest as he watched one of the
Fast and
Furious
movies. He picked at his food as he watched Vin
Diesel getting it on with some busty blonde. Not that
he
wouldn’t have minded getting it on with Vin, of
course. He’d bet on the fact that if Vin was gay, he’d be one hell
of a power bottom. Everybody else thought he’d be a top but Tate
thought differently. Tate rather fancied that idea of having a
naked, buff Vin Diesel bent down on the bed, muscular, delectable
arse in the air.

Thinking of sexy arses made him think of
Clay. It had been four days since he’d last seen him. Clay had
texted and Tate had replied, and the conversation had been fairly
non- committal. Clay asked how he was and Tate told him he was
fine. Both of them knew he was lying. Tate’s soul burned with the
shame of pushing Clay away. He ached with his need for the man
who’d turned his world upside down and he languished in despair
once again at how he managed to keep fucking up anything good that
they had.

Tate had been to his usual session at his
therapist. She’d subjected him to some gruelling interrogation and
once again given him a lot of perceptive insights. He always felt
better after seeing her. Dr Natalie Jakes was a master manipulator
and an excellent psychologist, plus she didn’t take Tate’s
bullshit. She’d been really miffed to hear he’d kicked Clay out.
Her small, elfin face had creased in a scowl behind her spectacles
and she’d chastised him in that gentle, completely
I’m going to kick your arse
way she had.

“I appreciate you feeling that way, Tate,”
she’d said gently. “But Clay is the one person who can help you in
this struggle you have. Take your time off, but don’t take too
long. Don’t fuck it up for yourself. I know you’re frustrated
because he protects you too much and that
does
need to change for both of you to be comfortable.
He can’t wrap you in cotton wool too much longer. But give him a
little more time.”

Her words had struck fear into Tate’s heart
that Clay may get tired and give up on him, or that they’d be
forever hidden from each other’s outside lives. As he sat now,
picking the chicken out of his dinner and feeling as lonely as a
ball bobbing on an ocean, he decided enough was enough. He’d
wallowed and stared into his soul enough this week and it was time
to stop. He knew in his heart that he couldn’t guarantee it
wouldn’t happen again but he’d have to live with that fear.

Tate picked up his mobile and took a deep
breath as he called Clay’s number. It was answered almost
immediately.

“Hey.” Clay’s gentle voice was like a
soothing balm on a stinging cut. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, fine. Sitting here thinking I want to
plough Vin Diesel’s arse and wondering if he’d let me.”

The husky chuckle from the other side of the
phone perked Tate and his cock right up.

“You always have this thing for him. I’m not
sure of the attraction myself.” There was a garbled muttering in
the background, laughter and the sound of soft music.