Wanting (13 page)

Adam opened his eyes but didn’t look at Dane. Instead, he went over to the sink and turned on the tap so he could wash the dishes. He needed the distraction. Vulnerability was starting to creep around the edges of his new-found courage, the new him, and he was frightened it would overtake, situate itself right where it had been before and announce it was staying for the duration. Part of him acknowledged that they’d been happy as a couple before he’d sorted out the mess in his mind. Was the change in him worth it if it meant they’d argue and possibly split up? Could they get past this shit, overcome it? He knew he could if Dane would just stop with the macho bullshit, but would Dane settle for being less bossy?

I can’t be vulnerable again. Even if it means us two going wrong. I can’t cope with being afraid anymore. I just can’t.

Did that mean he didn’t love Dane enough? If he couldn’t stand to be scared all his life, and it meant losing his lover… Perhaps he didn’t love Dane as much as he’d thought he did. Or maybe he’d just learnt to love himself a whole lot more and had seen that Dane didn’t understand that.

“It wasn’t the whipping that bothered me,” Adam said. “We’ve done that before plenty of times, no big deal, nothing to write home about.”

“Then what?”

Adam was thankful Dane didn’t come up behind him, hug him like he usually did. He didn’t think he could bear his touch at that moment. “It was the reference to that dead bastard that did it. You wanted to hit me like they hit him, and that’s sick. Fucking sick.”

“Oh, fuck.”

“Yeah, oh fuck, and it’s too late to take it back. You said it, you wanted it, making me think you’re some kind of freak like them!”

“Oh, God, love—”

“
Don’t
‘love’ me, all right? Just don’t!” Adam jabbed the washing-up brush into the tureen and scrubbed as though his life depended on it.

“I didn’t mean… Fuck, I didn’t think. I didn’t mean it like that. It was just something you say, something that popped out.”

“Well, it had better not pop out a-fucking-gain, because I won’t be around to hear it.”

There he’d said it, made it clear he was standing up for himself, that he didn’t—bloody
didn’t—
have to keep going the way they had been since they’d moved here. Since before that, if he was really honest. Adam not being able to do what Dane wanted in the bedroom had always been a bone of contention between them, and he was sick of trying to make everything all right. It was like him sorting out his head had made him see things properly. He’d been so caught up in his problems before that he’d failed to notice their relationship might not be healthy. At one time this realisation would have freaked him out—the thought of not being with Dane had never entered his head, but now? With what he’d seen, what he’d been through? He could go it alone if he had to.

Then he felt guilty. Had he used Dane? Had he just been a crutch all this time, a prop Adam had needed in order to get over his last relationship break-up then lean on while he came to terms with the alley shit?

Oh, Jesus. This just isn’t right. I don’t know what to do.

“Fuck, Adam, I’m sorry, man. Really sorry. I didn’t…I just didn’t think. Didn’t see this side of it.” Dane sounded contrite. “I thought the way we were was how you wanted it, how you liked it.”

“I did, apart from the D/s bullshit. We don’t need that, it isn’t a deal-breaker—not for me anyway—and if it is for you, then honestly, we shouldn’t be together.” He hefted the tureen upside down onto the drainer and attacked the noodle saucepan.

“I agree.”

What?

Adam waited a few heartbeats to see what Dane had meant. It could be one of two things—Dane agreed they ought to split, or he agreed the Dom/sub thing didn’t matter. Adam hoped for the latter, but if that wasn’t the case, then he’d have to learn to deal with it. Accept that Dane wasn’t who he’d thought he was all this time. Adam knew he’d been a pain in the arse for months, knew Dane had been a saint in looking after him, making sure he felt okay, was safe, was fed and had a roof over his head, but it didn’t mean Dane had the right to dictate everything about them. Adam had a voice too. The fact that he’d found it in Lower Repton was because he’d had time to think, time to feel safe. The burden of his past had melted a bit, and he’d been able to wade through the slush, examine it, then wade through more when the rest of that big chunk of worry had also thawed.

“Forget it,” Dane said.

Forget what? Us?

A kitchen chair scraped back, but Adam didn’t have the balls to turn around and look at Dane. Not yet.

“I don’t need you to be submissive in bed, Adam,” he said quietly. “Honestly, I thought, because you let me take control in everything else, that you wanted it this way. I didn’t think you minded.”

Still angry, although not as much, Adam said, “What, me being unable to comply in the bedroom wasn’t a good enough indication that it wasn’t what I wanted? I couldn’t have spelt it out any better.” The noodle pan was super-clean, so he placed it with the tureen and began on the plates.

“I see that now. I was being selfish. I thought… Fuck, I enjoyed looking after you. Made me feel needed. Important.”

Shit.

“You
are
important, Dane, always have been, but you don’t have to turn into a moody wanker every time things don’t go your way.” He stopped cleaning the plate and looked at Dane. “Things are different with me now, all right? I’m not afraid anymore. I got my shit sorted. It’s been a long time coming, but I’m there, back to who I was before we met. Someone with a bit of backbone, someone I thought you wanted me to be, because you encouraged it enough, made it clear just before we moved here that me being afraid was getting on your nerves, that it was ‘just a one-off attack’ and ‘you’ve got to go out by yourself in the dark sometime’ and whatever else it was you came out with. And right before we moved, when I told you I had to get out of the city, you said you’d sort it, you’d look after things, after me, and you did. You brought us here, and I got better, and now that I have you don’t seem to like it.”

“I do, I love it, it’s just…” Dane turned away to stare out of the glass in the back door.

“Just what?” Adam sploshed about a bit in the sink, still looking at Dane, heat pouring into his cheeks and itching like a bastard.

“I’ve been afraid.” Dane swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing erratically. He blinked several times and joined his hands in his lap.

“Of what?”

“Seeing you change, seeing you become more confident. It scared me.”

“Why the fuck would it do that?” Adam stifled a sigh. Fought back the lump of emotion bragging that it would clog his throat if he didn’t watch himself.

“Because of something like this happening. You’d get so all right that you wouldn’t need me anymore.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ… Why didn’t you
say?
”

“Because I’ve always been the strong one. That’s all you’ve known. If I was anything else you might not like me anymore.” Dane turned from the window to look at Adam. “Can I…fuck, can I have a cuddle? I need…”

Dane got up and hurtled towards Adam, banging into him, twisting him around and laying his head on his chest, clamping his arms around his back. Adam’s eyes filled with tears, and that damn bragging ball celebrated its victory, expanding so he couldn’t speak even if he wanted to.

But that was okay. Everything was going to be okay.

The call came at two in the morning, jolting Langham away from his office and springing Oliver upright in the chair where he’d been dozing, or ‘resting his eyes’ as he’d told Langham.

“Right,” Langham said into the receiver, “I’ll let them know.” He put the phone down then looked at Oliver across the desk. “Got to give Adam and Dane a call later. Martin Eggleton’s been picked up. They’re bringing him in now. We’ve got time to question him then set a line-up for first thing. Let’s say nine, gives us a chance to let Adam and Dane know they need to take a couple of hours off work. The lads might recognise him.”

“
If
he’s one of the men.” Oliver yawned, groggy from his catnap. He dragged a hand down the side of his face, the feeling that he’d been run over almost taking him for a funny turn. He winced as his stomach churned, the nasty coffee swirling with no hint of coming to rest soon. “I need something to eat.” He rose then walked to the office door. “You want anything?”

Langham grinned. “A plate of pie and mash wouldn’t go amiss, but seeing as the vending machine only spits out crisps and chocolate, that’ll have to do. Thanks.” He bent his head and resumed typing.

Oliver left him, walking out into the hallway where the vending machine sat, a rectangular hulk, wide and black, its front glass bowed as though the manufacturers had aimed to make it more attractive. It hadn’t worked. Flyers were attached to the sides with sticky tape, telling whoever read them that by calling Crimestoppers you could remain anonymous—they just wanted any information you might have. Another poster announced some officers needing support for a charity event—paragliding, then upon landing they’d be running ten miles—and he used the pencil dangling beside it on a thin, dirty length of string to scribble his name and that he’d pay them ten pounds max if they got to the finish line.

Oliver fed coins into the slot and selected them both a packet of Walkers—cheese and onion for Langham, salt and vinegar for him—and a couple of Snickers. It wasn’t ideal but like Langham had said, it would have to do. They’d work through the night, Langham interviewing Eggleton, Oliver standing behind the two-way glass trying to get a feel for the bloke and waiting for Thomas or Jason to speak. They’d been ominously silent. That happened sometimes, but with Sugar Strands he’d got used to being contacted quite regularly, and, luckily for them, just when they needed help. This time…well, it looked like they’d be doing a lot of the detective work the old-fashioned way.

He waited for the food to drop into the tray then scooped it out. He nipped into the office to put it on Langham’s desk then left the room again, making his way towards the small kitchen on the other side of the large, main office area. Cops sat at desks, some bleary-eyed, some bright, as if they’d had a good night’s sleep, and Oliver got the very real sense that there was a mission to be accomplished—solving the case before another man got killed. They’d been told about his prediction, that Thomas’ death was the first of many if they didn’t catch those responsible soon, and with Jason’s murder he’d been proven right.

He went into the kitchen, opening the fridge expecting not to find the two Cokes he’d stashed there months ago, behind a loaf of bread that, at the time, had been on the turn. The bread was gone but the Cokes weren’t, and with surprise he took them out and wondered whether someone had borrowed and replaced them continually until today. Still, nice of them to have been there at all, but then this was a cop shop. Not that police officers didn’t do the normal things your average person did—‘I’ll have that Coke, seeing as it’s been there ages, no one will notice’—but his faith in this lot went up a few notches.

Back in Langham’s office, bored and useless to anyone, Oliver munched his crisps and Snickers in short time. Everyone else was busy—heads bent, minds on crime or even on sex, or what they would have had for dinner earlier had they been able to go home and eat it, or whether their kids had behaved for the wife, husband or sitter—and Oliver felt that deep, gut-wrenching sense of being
un
again. Unnecessary. Unwanted. Un-bloody-noticed.

He shouldn’t be feeling that way, not when the most important thing was preventing death, but how could he help prevent it if he couldn’t do something constructive? He decided to open the spare laptop and do a search on Eggleton, see if he could dig up any dirt that might be useful when Langham interviewed him. Someone had already done this but Oliver wanted to make sure nothing had been missed.

The man was clean, not even a parking fine. He appeared the model citizen, and Oliver went deep inside himself to test out that new sense of his. He closed his eyes, rested his forehead on his crossed arms on the desk. Relaxing his body, he went into a state where he was aware of everything around him yet was inside his mind, floating, then soaring, flying to the farthest reaches in search of something, anything to give them hope.

An image formed, blurry, so indistinct he couldn’t make it out. Frazzled edges appeared then, sharpening quickly, rendering the visual into several bald men, naked, their dicks swaying. A communal hum started, so abruptly it made Oliver jump, and he wondered whether this was just a scene from his imagination. After all, he knew this, knew what would happen next too, but what if it wasn’t what had gone before? What if he was seeing something in the future? He couldn’t risk not finding out.

He went with it, waiting for the men standing in front of him to become sharp. Then he moved, mingling with them, leaning towards each one and feeling—their breathing, erratic and heavy, their thoughts, ‘
got to kill, got to kill, got to kill’
, their body language, fluid, easy…sure. They were of a different breed, people he couldn’t understand because, fuck, they inhabited a place in their minds where only the bad lived. Their bloodlust was up, and he knew without understanding how or why, that their escalation from straight strangulation to strangulation and torture had given them power. A heady, rich sensation, abrupt and blunt—no soft edges here, just pure, unadulterated feeling—took over him. These men thought what they were doing was right, just and wholly what they had been born to do.

How did you compete with that? How did you explain to them, if they were captured, that what they had done was wrong when they believed it was so incredibly
right?

Oliver floated some more, pressing up against a man who he thought might be the leader and letting his essence enter his body. Like rancid, organ-shrivelling poison, evil swarmed through him, infiltrating every part of him, his mind swirling with much more information than he’d thought he’d get.

That evil, that venom, showed him a vision of the next person they planned to kill and where it would be. His blood froze to ice, sweat popped out of every pore and nausea swept up his windpipe until he heaved, raising his forehead from his arms then smacking it back down.