The Deeper He Hurts (19 page)

Dust billowed around the car, his tires crunching over the path that rocked the SUV in the familiar bump and roll. Sawyer finally took a full breath, tension flowing from his shoulders and pooling at the base of his spine. The jagged rock edges and sunburnt vista welcomed him like a good friend.

He'd made it home.

The sun hung low in the sky on its path to the western horizon, elongating the shadows and setting the cliffs ablaze. Damn he'd missed this. The open space and blinding blue skies. The endless views that proclaimed exactly how small he was in the world and how stunning nature could be.

He ran a hand through his hair and reached for his coffee that'd turned cold over two hours ago. He'd made the drive from Portland in a straight shot, with just one three-hour nap in a truck stop outside of Twin Falls, Idaho. His yawn stretched the limits of his jaw as he set his empty travel mug back in the cup holder.

The private road wove through his property. The twenty acres bordered government-owned recreational land, which meant his isolated spot would remain that way. His parents had been smart and strategic when they'd purchased this land, and their desire for an off-the-grid style of life had fed his love of nature and the outdoors.

It'd also led to their death.

He made the right turn onto the barely visible road on impulse more than plan. Blackbrush and creosote encroached on, and in some spots took over, the narrow lane and scraped the underside of his SUV as he drove over it. Any scratch marks on the paint could be buffed out if he cared enough to worry about them.

His brain had clicked off before he'd left the city of Portland and he'd stayed on autopilot the entire ride back home. Thinking hurt like hell, or maybe it was feeling that tore at his heart and hammered away at his skull. He hadn't done much of either in years, and he remembered why now.

The path cleared a bend and he slowed. He sucked in a breath and forced himself to keep his foot on the gas pedal. The last fifty feet passed in a blur of memories and dried-up tears. An ache bloomed in his chest, and he released the trapped air in a gasp.
Why am I here?

He shifted into Park and turned the engine off without thought. The quiet hit almost immediately, and emphasized the pounding of his heart. Sunlight shone over part of the area, the rest hidden within the shadows of the nearby cliffs.

Heat swelled into the cab and he lowered the windows. A slight breeze wafted in, the warm air heavy with sage. He inhaled automatically, sucking the welcomed scent down until he couldn't hold any more. He'd missed it. All of it.

But a part of him had been glad to let it go, to forget the sorrow and discover a slice of peace—when he'd only wanted escape.

Asher floated into his thoughts, and he didn't shut them down this time. He was long gone and there was little chance he'd ever see him again. Or that Asher would want to see him.

Fuck
. He rubbed a hand over his face, his whiskers scraping his palm before he bolted from the car. The full force of the high-desert heat baked into his bones in another welcome. His sigh bled away more of the frustration and left him drained.

Every part of him hurt, from his head to his toes. He couldn't even piss without wincing—or remembering.

More memories—more things to forget. Would they ever stop piling up?

He stepped around a clump of sagebrush, plucked a bloom from an end. He rubbed it between his fingers as he approached the charred remains of his family home. The crumbling, blackened brick of the fireplace was the only landmark that remained. Nature and time had washed away most of the debris. Scavengers took the rest. Rotted boards lay among rusted metal pipes and the determined desert vegetation that'd grown among the wreckage.

He held his fingers to his nose and let the ground sage replace the long-gone scent of ash and death. The wood structure had burned so quick and hot that very little had been salvageable. All of his mother's handmade quilts and crafts along with the stacks of photo albums, his sisters' favorite dolls, and his dad's collection of books had all been lost. He hadn't cared about any of his own belongings. It was his family's things that'd meant so much.

The hours spent around that damn fireplace under his mom's quilts when his dad had insisted it was enough to heat the house. The games played and books read for entertainment because they didn't have a TV. Those memories were bitter now, coated with the overriding flames and smoke that still haunted him.

Could he have saved them if he'd been home? Would he have woken when the fire started and gotten his family out? Would it have been better if he'd died with them, the whole family taken at once? Those questions and more had chased him until he'd gone mad.

That was when he'd discovered the healing power of physical pain. It'd saved him in ways hours of therapy and well-intentioned friends hadn't been able to.

He rubbed his thigh, thoughts migrating back to the first few years after Mick had taken him in. His dad's best friend and companion in minimalist living, Mick and his dad had crafted more than one contraption together in their quest for renewable energy. It was one of those inventions that'd overloaded the electrical wires and started the house fire. A part of him always wondered if Mick's kindness and patience with him was his way of absolving his own guilt.

The low bubble of the nearby creek brought its own wave of memories. He'd spent hours splashing and digging in the water, his two little sisters not far behind him. His sandals crunched over the rock as he walked around the perimeter of the remains. He forced himself to come here every year on the anniversary of the fire; otherwise he avoided it. He'd purposely built his own house on the far edge of the property where a large butte blocked his sight of this area.

He was two days early this time. Why had he come? Almost fifteen years later and he was still living in the past. His life revolved around not remembering when he'd never let himself forget.

When was long enough good enough? Would his penance ever end?

Only if he let it.

He closed his eyes and let the truth sink into the core of his pain. The old wounds bled freely now, coursing through him on a mellow path that encircled his heart. He'd kept everyone out, hoarded his suffering while blaming himself for living.

But he wasn't really living. Surviving was very different from living. He'd known that for a while. The loneliness had been creeping in to suffocate him in his solitude. There were dozens of people he could've sought out, acquaintances and old friends who would've welcomed him if he'd only made the effort. But taking that first step had been terrifying.

Which is why he'd ended up in Oregon for the summer.

His attempt at baby-stepping his way back into life had failed miserably. Or been wildly successful, if he wanted to look at it that way. What were the chances that he'd connect so deeply with the first guy he let into his life? About the same as finding an ethical sadist who understood his need for pain and cared enough to worry about his safety even when Sawyer didn't care himself.

When had that happened? And when had he started to care again?

He shut down his rambling thoughts and tried to simply be. He'd managed that for a long time. Existed in the moment with no concern for before or after. And when he'd forget how to do that, he sought out the pain. There was a quiet there too. Nothing could break through the pain. Not his aching heart or dark guilt. Not the loneliness or desperation.

Until Asher. He'd crashed through the surface pain and dug until he'd uncovered the source.

“Fuck!” he screamed into the silence, cried his anger, and got nothing in return. The curse echoed off the canyon walls and faded too quickly.

The hurt was growing now that Asher had freed it. It chased him whenever he let his shields down. Hounded him to what? Acknowledge it? Feed it? Let it go? He didn't know, but it wouldn't leave him alone.

Asher. It all came back to him. To his persistence and strength. His understanding and, fuck—his love. Why had he said those words? They'd uncovered a longing in Sawyer he hadn't wanted to acknowledge and was too damn afraid to identify.

Loving anyone only brought pain. The kind he didn't know if he could survive again. He'd barely survived the last time. What would he do if he let himself love Asher and then lost him too?

He stared at the wrecked space that had once been his whole world. Was it still? He'd spent almost as many years without his family as he had with them. He'd stayed on this land because he couldn't get himself to leave, but it was slowly sucking his life away.

He turned to stare at the mountains in the distance. He couldn't go on like this. Couldn't keep living for four people who'd been dead for years. But how did he move on?

Asher had offered him a lifeline and he'd rejected it out of fear. He smoothed a hand over his dick and sucked in the flash of fire that shot through his groin. The blisters had receded to leave a series of dark red letters that formed Asher's name. He savored the sting and pressed down harder when it started to fade.

The intensity was decreasing with each day it healed. Soon his name would be all that remained. That would eventually fade away too. Four to six weeks, then Asher would be completely gone.

The stab to his heart hit like a physical punch. He winced and breathed through the cramp until it lessened. He couldn't go on like this, living in fear without living at all. Running from everyone while hiding in this valley.

He was thirty years old and his life stretched before him in an endless repetition of emptiness. Asher didn't deserve the messed-up shit that was him. He also hadn't deserved the cruel brush-off he'd given him back in Portland. Yet the thought of all Asher could've lost by coming out to his parents brought his fear raging back.

Family was too precious and too easily lost without deliberately shoving them away. He knew that all too well. And Asher had been willing to risk his family for him. Why? Sawyer couldn't love him, not with the baggage he continued to carry and the guilt he refused to let go of. But how did he get rid of it?

“I love you, Mom and Dad.” His voice shook into the silence, throat aching with tears he wouldn't let fall. “Lilly Pie and Molly Goat—” His voice cracked, and he coughed. “I miss you guys so much. I'm sorry…”

He couldn't finish that sentence. There was so much he was sorry for, and there was no way to make it up to them. They were dead.

And he wasn't.

He walked back to his car, thoughts tumbling in an uneven cadence until they landed in a pile before him. He wanted a life. He wanted that sense of peace he'd found with Asher. He wanted to feel something besides the hurt that'd encased him for so long.

Living in the pain was slowly killing him, and he finally wanted to live. But could he, and how?

Ash blinked a few times and sat back, stretching his neck. The data on the computer screen blurred into indiscernible garble. He removed his glasses and rubbed his sore eyes. His brain hurt, the lines of code circling and tightening until he could barely think. His yawn was sudden and stretched so long that his jaw popped.

The shadows had grown while he'd been entranced in his new program, but it wasn't fully dark yet. He slid his glasses back on, glanced at the time on the computer screen, and groaned. Seven was too early to go to bed—not that he'd sleep anyway. That'd been pretty damn elusive in the month since Sawyer had left.

His heart pinched, and he winced at the stab.
Fuck
.

He jerked to a stand, crammed his fingers through his hair. He'd expected the hurt to lessen by now, but it hadn't. Not even a little. If anything, it'd deepened, the loss emphasized by the endless days of routine with no end in sight. Of course, the total silence from Sawyer hadn't helped. Not a single text, email, or call. But then, he hadn't reached out either.

Fucking pride. Was it worth it? Was his own stubborn silence gaining him anything?

His stomach growled, a cramp rolling around the emptiness. When had he eaten last? Lunch…right. The ham sandwich had obviously worn off a while ago. He was almost done with this new game app, though. The mosquito-zapping one had netted him a good profit over the summer, and thanks to all the hours he'd put in he now had two different games ready for the holiday season.

“Hey.” Rig shoved his partially closed door open. “I'm taking off.” He pointed over his shoulder. “The garage is shut and locked. We're the last ones here.”

“Okay.” Ash rolled his head to stretch his neck muscles. “Thanks.” He'd get in a few more hours of work, and maybe he'd be able to sleep tonight.

“Are you leaving?” Rig crossed his arms and braced his shoulder on the doorjamb, his tone lowered just enough to put Ash on edge.

“No.” He frowned. “I have more to do.” He waved at the papers scattered over his usually neat desk. They'd be organized and back in order before he left for the night.

“What do you have to do?” Rig challenged. “You've sent me the trip schedules for October and November and you already have the preliminary plans for the winter excursions done. The financial reports can't be updated until month's end, and we're not hiring right now.” He ticked through and dismissed Ash's responsibilities with a succinct command that came out as condescending to him.

“Fuck you.” He shook his head and tried to swallow his irritation. “I'd like to see you do my job for a day.”

Rig's brows shot up. “Okay.” He drew the word out, expression shifting to caution. “I wasn't criticizing the work you do. I was just pointing out that maybe you can—should—head home after…what?” He checked his watch. “Fourteen hours today?”

Ash wanted to argue the point but couldn't. He'd been at his desk since five that morning. “I'm working on some game apps,” he said, rubbing his nape. He usually worked on non-Kick stuff in his home office. “I didn't think it mattered to you if I worked on them here.”

“It doesn't.”

“Good.” He sat down in his chair and started straightening papers, all of them full of random notes. “I'll get the website updated tomorrow with the international trips.” It'd taken them all summer to nail down the details and obtain the permits to do two new whitewater excursions in South America.

“So no word from Sawyer yet.” Rig's clipped question, poised in his sergeant tone, didn't require an answer, so Ash didn't bother to look up. “Ash.” He drew his name out on a tired sigh. “Will you talk to me?”

“I'm talking to you now.”

Rig let out a low curse heavy with tired frustration. It plucked at Ash's guilt, but he didn't give in. “You're a stubborn bastard.”

“And your point is?”

“Have you contacted him at all?”

Ash's abrupt laugh was harsh and cutting. “Why? We played together this summer, that's it.” If only he'd been smart and had kept it that simple. He swallowed, determined to keep his voice even. “Summer's done and he's back home. End of story.”

“Then why haven't you been to Dane's?”

Because the thought of playing with anyone besides Sawyer left him empty. “I've been busy.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, the truth hammering in his chest and mocking his words.

“With what?”

“Work.”

“Liar.” Rig shook his head. “You've been hiding in work.”

He snorted his disagreement. He had, but hell if he was going to admit it. “What are you? My watchdog now?”

“I'm your friend.” Rig's calm statement pointed out the obvious and confirmed his own dickish behavior. He cringed, the guilt stacking up. He had no right to take his pain out on Rig.

He rubbed his eyes and sat back in his chair. “You're the one who told me to enjoy my time with Sawyer and be realistic about the end,” Ash said, resignation dropping into his voice. “So why are you riding me about him?”

“Because I'm concerned about you.”

“Well, you don't need to be. I'm fine.”

“Are you?”

No. Yes. Fuck if I know.
He squeezed his eyes closed and willed his voice to work around the lump in his throat. Nothing came out, though. Not false assurance or a cutting retort. He couldn't even manage a sarcastic brush-off. He had nothing, and Rig's quiet concern reminded him that he wasn't alone. But Sawyer still was.

“Ash?” Rig waited a beat, but Ash still couldn't answer him. “You're coming out with me tonight.”

“No,” he insisted, his voice cracking. He cleared his throat and sat up. “I'm fine. Really.” He adjusted his glasses and blew out a long breath. “But thank you.”

Rig's frown said he didn't believe him. He flicked the light switch by the door, plunging the office into semidarkness. “You're leaving here, though. Now.”

That commanding-officer tone usually put Ash's hackles up, but he was too tired to even flip Rig off. Being obstinate over this would only make him look like a child.

“Fine,” he agreed. He saved the open files on his laptop and packed up his work in his briefcase. He'd do his personal work in his home office from now on. At least the memory of Sawyer wasn't imprinted in that room.

“I'm going to check in on Finn tomorrow.” Rig said as Ash shoved his chair in. “Do you want to join me?”

The sudden change in the conversation was a relief and not. “So he can grumble and tell us to fuck off?”

“And we can tell him the same.” Rig headed toward the building entrance. “The crabby bastard won't scare me off.”

“But are we helping him?” Finn's mood had become increasingly hostile the longer his recovery took.

Rig engaged the security system and held the front door open for Ash. “I don't know.” The resignation in his tone hinted at how tired he was too. “But I'll be there anyway.” He tugged on the door to ensure it was latched and locked.

Ash soaked in the scent of dead leaves and approaching winter that tinted the cool evening air. They had about one more month of mostly pleasant weather before the rainy season hit. Would it be the same in Utah?

“What time are you heading over?” Ash asked. Finn had been in the rehabilitation center at Good Sam for almost five months and would probably get out in the next few weeks, not that he'd be returning to work anytime soon—if ever.

“Around eleven.” Rig paused by the side of his truck. “I was going to take him lunch from that place he likes in Sellwood.”

Ash knew the one. Hell, Finn had dragged all of them there at some point. He'd insisted they had the best subs in the area. “Sure. Get me before you leave.”

He drove home with the window down, the trek across town to the West Hills easier now that the rush hour traffic had dwindled. His mind wandered in idle circles over the events that'd led him to this point in his life. From the choices he'd made to the ones that'd been made for him. Did the distinction matter?

His laugh rolled over the radio when he turned in to his driveway. His mother's car was parked in front of his garage, her shape silhouetted in the driver's seat. Here was a clear example of a choice being made for him.

He pulled up alongside her car and slowed to wave as the garage door opened. Her smile gave away nothing about her intent or thoughts, yet his stomach still contracted around the ball of unease settling within it. Or was that more guilt? He'd avoided his family entirely since the day Sawyer had driven away. Just as he'd feared, his determination to reveal himself had died once he no longer had a reason to do so.

He blew out a breath and took his time getting out. Maybe it would be more accurate to say his courage had failed him after Sawyer bolted. Facing his family's expectations and countering all of them would suck when he had no one standing with him.

“Hey, Mom,” he said as he came around the back of his truck. She was waiting for him by the garage entrance to his home. “What are you doing here?” He forced a smile around his growing worry.

She lifted her chin, eyes narrowing. “If you stopped by sometime, I wouldn't have to hunt you down.” She went inside without waiting for his excuses, her strides crisp.

Yup, it was definitely guilt rolling around in his stomach. “I'm sorry, Mom. I've been busy.” He shut the door and followed her down the hallway to his kitchen. His mother spent the majority of her life in a kitchen, and it was always the first place she went whenever she visited. It was her comfort zone, and he never tried to stop her puttering. “Have you been waiting long?”

He set his briefcase on the unused breakfast table as she went through the process of pulling items from his pantry and itemizing the contents of his refrigerator. She'd be grabbing the apron from the drawer soon. He always thought of that item as part of her armor. It protected her clothing and her heart from damage. Maybe he should consider wearing one.

He chuckled silently at his private joke and unbuttoned his shirt cuffs, rolling up his sleeves before taking a seat on an island barstool. His pretended casualness didn't penetrate beneath the surface, though. His mind was racing with questions and possible responses to anything she might ask.

She dug a pan out from under the counter and set it on the stove top. “I had my knitting in the car. I was prepared to wait a while.” She shot him a look before selecting a knife from the drawer.

He hung his head, the little boy in him properly scolded without having been directly chastised. Her digs would continue until her resentment faded. He could usually roll with it, but he was too tired tonight.

He rubbed the bridge of his nose, tempted to set his glasses aside. Things would be blurry, but it'd save him from seeing the disappointment in her eyes. Sometimes it felt like that was all he ever saw in them.

“Asher.”

He resettled his glasses and forced a smile when he looked up. “Yes?”

She'd set the knife down and moved around the island, a concerned frown wiping away her earlier irritation. “What is it?” Her touch on his forearm was gentle, the care and love flowing through. “Talk to me.”

His dry laugh slashed over the knot in his throat. He slammed a hand over his mouth to cut it off, head shaking. He'd planned on talking to her with Sawyer at his back. Or was it that he planned to use Sawyer to get himself to talk? Sawyer had been right—that had been a total dick move. A last-ditch effort to show how serious he was, when he should've just talked to him.

Should've listened instead of pushed.

“I'm fine,” he finally croaked out. He cleared his voice and got up to get a glass of water. “Just working a lot.” He kept his back to her as he selected a glass from the cupboard and filled it from the spout on the refrigerator door.

“You should work less if it does this to you.”

He turned around and hauled her into a spontaneous one-armed hug. “I will if you do.” The top of her head barely reached his shoulder, but her hug was still as comforting as it'd been when their positions had been reversed. He couldn't risk losing this—and for what? His pride and sense of self? Sawyer had been right about that too. This was too precious to risk.

But then, Sawyer had been just as precious to him, and more than worth the risk.

He still is.

Fuck
.

His mother patted his chest and stepped back to study him. He flattened his expression and tried to swallow down the panic cinching away his breath.
He still is.
The thought drummed louder and louder until his mind accepted what his heart had been trying to tell him for weeks.

Sawyer meant too much to him to let him walk away without a fight. Yet he'd done just that, and his damn pride had kept him from doing anything since.

He loved Sawyer, and he'd let him retreat to Utah to hide in his pain alone.

Was he cutting himself? Laying more burns into his already scarred thighs? The thought of Sawyer—or anyone else—marking his skin had bile rising up Ash's throat. Which made no sense, when he
wanted
to give Sawyer the pain he needed. Ash wanted to see him take and absorb the pain and then turn it into something beautiful.

He wanted to love him through it and be there when he came out on the other side.

“Sit with me, Asher.” His mother motioned to the stools before sliding onto the seat he'd vacated.

He jerked up, blinking as he shuffled his thoughts back to the present. She wore her serious face, the one that warned of a pending grilling. He'd perfected his dodging skills in his teens and his avoidance ones in his twenties in order to keep his secrets safe.

Which was all bullshit, since the only thing he was protecting was their love for him.