A red tainted Silence (62 page)

366

Carolyn Gray

Oh, my, how I remember that, looking up and seeing him, so blond and beautiful in that dreadful AC/DC shirt and me wondering what the fuck did he have on an AC/DC shirt for?

That was my first thought. About the shirt. I remember thinking damn, how disappointing, we have different musical tastes after all.

Then my head cleared and our eyes locked, and I realized he’d followed me from the music store, and my dick got so freaking hard right at that second there was no use hiding it.

And he was hard, too. Hard for me. That gorgeous blond god, hard for me.

And I used that, boy did I, made love to him with my words, my eyes, my voice, and oh, God! I remembered how he looked when he spilled his Coke, smiled sheepishly at me.

And how the audience loved it, friends and strangers alike. That was the first time I made love to Brandon Ashwood, and I didn’t even touch him.

Of course, then devastation followed, emotional and physical, and I can’t think about that, what else happened that night, except for remembering the first time he kissed me --

sweet, awkward, beautiful Brandon, who I knew immediately had never kissed a guy before, just like he’d said. But it was so good. So very, very good.

And oh, when we reached in our reading the part about the head-banging incident?

The first time we had gropey-sex together? Jon’s chuckling was evil, pure evil ... And I began to wonder what other sexual encounters Brandon had written about.

Surely not the first time, that disastrous first time. Or the time in the back seat of his car when the elderly couple next door caught us. Or outside on a blanket beneath the trees, our naked bodies twisted together while just on the other side of the fence a bunch of kids came out for a freaking birthday party, and there was no way we could stop what we were doing. I’d just slid inside Brandon, and he was trying not to scream out my name like he always did ...

Or the time we lay on the couch in the living room, believing Amanda and Jon were gone shopping for a few hours at least, they’d promised. How good was that? We’d stripped our clothes off, giddy with having the entire house to ourselves. This was just after we’d written “Dream of You” and realized that, hey, we really did have something special, more than great sex between us. I’d lain on the couch, Brandon on top of me. A wide couch --

that’s why we’d bought it, though we never told Amanda and Jon (or the salesperson) that. I loved that couch.

That was, I think, the first time Brandon rode me. I don’t think Brandon ever realized that Amanda and Jon came into the house as we were headed down the home stretch, but I remember their faces as they stood in the middle of the kitchen, looking through the cut-through at us, Brandon totally lost in his passion, me holding on for dear life and pumping his dick hard. I saw them, they knew I saw them, and I just smiled and let my boyfriend ride on while they watched. They couldn’t not -- to move again would have alerted Brandon, and he’d have been devastated with embarrassment.

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I don’t even remember when they did slink away, because I lost myself in our passion, too. It was sweet and beautiful and wonderful, and nothing was ever said about that. No, no, I didn’t think that would be in there, because I never told Brandon.

I closed my eyes, feeling incredible weariness overtake me. It was almost eight in the morning, we’d been reading for hours, and I needed to stop reading and take a shower and get to the hospital. The day stretched before me, and it would be a long one. Meetings with doctors, the psychiatrist. The detective wanted me to come by the station and look at the video of Brandon being raped. And oh, yeah, Sony had called the day before -- “The first release is doing damn good, Nicholas. We need to think about the next one. And when will you be up to photographs, maybe doing some interviews?” Marisa was coming back, thank goodness; I needed her so badly now. All I wanted to do really was crawl into bed with Brandon and sleep and sleep and sleep, but that wasn’t an option, of course.

I heard the sound of footsteps, felt a hand on my shoulder. I recognized her scent. Like chocolate, my Amanda. “Hey, guys, guess who just called?” I opened my eyes, and Jon looked up from his computer. “Who?” he asked.

“Lee! He’s about ten minutes away.”

My heart skipped a beat. I saved the file and closed my laptop. “You’re kidding! I didn’t know he was coming.”

Jon grinned. “I kinda persuaded him to get his ass here ASAP.” He sobered. “But that was before I knew about Brandon, Nick. He doesn’t know.”

“I’ve got to take a shower. I’m skanky,” I said.

“Make it fast. He’s almost here,” Amanda said.

I made it fast. I couldn’t believe it; Lee was coming. After Jon and Marisa, and of course Brandon being first, Lee was my closest friend. Knew me the best. He alone of the band had known from the moment we broke it off with Adam that Brandon and I were lovers. Hadn’t fazed him in the least. When we’d finally been ready to start getting everything together again, had a record contract with plans to tour, Lee had been the first musician we’d called.

He’d stayed with us ever since.

With me.

And later, when Brandon left me, he’d been there for me, let me cry on his shoulder, patting me awkwardly and watching over me as the depression set in, when I reached complete zero. He and Marisa, and later Jon, had been instrumental in keeping me going.

Right before I was kidnapped, he’d taken on a touring gig with another band and I’d wished him well -- he’d be back for my next tour because Lee’s my bassist -- but I hadn’t seen him since then. He’d stayed in touch with Marisa, and I’d talked to him on the phone once Brandon found me, but I hadn’t seen him. And boy, did I need him now.

I smiled to myself. Strength.

368

Carolyn Gray

But that, of course, sobered me. Yet again, here was another person in both our lives who had chosen me over Brandon. Seemed like everyone had, at one point or another. I’d even chosen myself over him. How he’d forgiven us all, I couldn’t fathom. Brandon Ashwood was definitely a better man than all of us put together could ever hope to be.

* * * * *

“Yeah, I sure did.” He hugged me tight, and I hugged him tight, and we were laughing and kissing. And yes, he’s as straight as Sam and Tommy, but we’d always played kissy-face, because he’s just goofy like that. Lee is not shy and is damn sure of his sexuality, is no homophobe, never has been.

He finally let me go, shaking his head. “First you, now Brandon. What the hell’s going on?”

I walked over to my laptop and started to put it into the case. “I don’t know, Lee. Did Jon tell you everything we do know?”

“Yes, he did.” He paused for a moment, and I looked up. His eyes were dark with distress.

“What is it, Lee?”

He shifted on his feet, looking unsure of himself, a rare thing for Lee. He shook his head and ran his hand over his beard -- he looked rather hot with a beard, I thought.

“I’m worried how Brandon’s going to react to seeing me again. I wasn’t the best of friends to him --”

Jon clapped Lee on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. Everything’s cool. He’ll just be damn glad to see you, I promise.”

“That’s right. We’re headed to the hospital now. Come with us?” Lee looked down at his rumpled self and shrugged. “Sure.”

“Good.” I grabbed his hand and shoved my laptop case into it. “I need someone to carry this for me anyway.”

He groaned as he pulled the strap over his shoulder. “A drudge. That’s all I’ve ever been to you, isn’t I?”

“No,” I said, smiling at him, then hugging him. “Just like Jon, you’re my strength. Our strength. Now, come on. I want to go see Brandon.”

* * * * *

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We left for the hospital -- Lee eyeing Jeff with mild interest, as I’d always sworn I would never, ever, ever have a bodyguard -- but when we got there, I was whisked away from the guys to meet the psychiatrist.

I walked into her office, feeling kinda strange. Unlike Brandon, I hadn’t avoided psychiatrists. After all, I’d known Karen’s psychiatrist granddad for years, and he’d had fun peering into my brain (and I into his, he acknowledged once with a laugh). No one simply realized I was a candidate for needing one. I didn’t let them realize. No one really knew what I’d gone through during my captivity, a fact I quickly learned had been noticed by Dr.

Yancy.

She was good. Very, very good. She also looked like my grandmother. Seriously. So, knowing how my grandmother felt about homosexuals -- I mean, look at her generation and all the hang-ups she’d had to deal with (although before she passed she did say it was fine with her if I liked boys, although of course I only liked one boy, but that hadn’t seemed important then, with her dying and all) -- the first thing that popped out of my mouth when I greeted the doc was, “Brandon and I are gay. We’re lovers, and we’re not going to change.

If you have a problem with that, I’d prefer talking to someone else.”

“I have no problem with your sexual orientation at all, Mr. Kilmain. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Noreen Goodall has told me a great deal about you both.” Dr. Yancy held out her hand and I took it, shaking it, watching her eyes, the lack of surprise, reaction, revulsion.

“Okay, then,” I said, sitting down on the edge of the seat. “What do I do now?” She smiled.

Five minutes after I sat in the chair opposite her, I was bawling my eyes out, telling her everything. Everything. How terrified I was when I was first attacked, my disbelief and shock and the terror of thinking, dammit, I was only thirty-one and now I was going to die.

Of the abuse. Oh, God, what they’d done to me. Of the starvation, being so cold, being stripped and tormented and shoved into a dog crate and left there for days, living in my own filth and stench.

Days of that. Weeks of that.

My captor’s laughter, the television that was always on the same channel but I couldn’t quite see it, the scraps I was given to eat. The lack of water, pulling myself out of the crate, the leg cramps I endured in so doing so I could be hosed down like a dog. Being tied to the wall, naked, watching him eat and drink and toss his steak bones to the real dog, a Rottie that eyed me hungrily, like I was a piece of meat being aged just for him.

Not being allowed to speak. Even hum. No singing. Six weeks of that, and more, no music in my mind, in my throat, in my heart, for fear I’d make a mistake and be beat again.

Being posed in frightening and embarrassing positions and photographed, knowing, only because my captor let slip and told me, that the pictures were being sent to Brandon.

Brandon.

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Carolyn Gray

“How did you feel when you learned Brandon was out there, getting these photographs?” the doctor asked.

“Hopeful,” I whispered. “I felt hope.” Because I knew that Brandon was out there, looking for me, being strong for me. Believing in me because I was still alive. At that point I started to do things in the photographs, tried to give clues as to where I was, praying my captor wouldn’t notice.

It worked, eventually, but I was so scared, so fucking scared he would see the letters painstakingly written one by one in the dust on the ground or in the dirt on my skin, the way the leaves were arranged to spell out the word that saved me. Scared that Brandon wouldn’t understand my message. But he had, because he loved me and knew me. He’d been there again to save me from that place deep down inside me where only he and I knew I dwelled.

That’s when I lost it and really started to cry.

Dr. Yancy was very good. We got through that -- I think we crammed months of therapy into one hour, I was so ready for release -- and then at last conversation steered to Brandon and his condition, but by the time that happened I felt drained and, unbelievably, relieved.

“I saw him already this morning. Talked to him for a short while.” That made me bolt up in my chair. “You did?”

She nodded. “I’ve recommended he not be sedated anymore. He doesn’t remember what happened to him.” At my widened eyes, she said, “Think of it as sort of a protective amnesia. His mind has blanked out yesterday’s events to protect him.” I sat back in the chair with a whoosh. “All of them?” Oh, no, not our beautiful sex in the bathroom, my promise to him. But that seemed trivial now. Sex was nothing to having him whole and safe and in my arms again.

“He might remember in time; he might not. My concern now is finding out what exactly was going on in his mind when he saw that video. Have you seen it?”

“No, not yet. I’m to go this afternoon and ... and watch it.”

“It will be frightening to you, I know.”

“You’ve seen it?”

“Yes, I have.”

I waited for her to say more, but she didn’t elaborate. I guessed I would have to see for myself. I stood. “I’ll go see him now.”

“His tubes are out, and he’ll be able to talk to you. Try to keep things normal as possible; don’t mention what happened to him. He just believes at this point that he had a collapse as you both had feared, and had to be brought to the ER.”

“Jon and I are reading his journal, trying to figure out what went on from that.” A Red-Tainted Silence

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Her eyes widened at that. “He kept a journal? That is fantastic. Be looking for anything odd he might mention, and, perhaps most importantly, things he doesn’t mention.

Noticeable gaps. Repetitions. Things that seem odd, or out of place. Why don’t we meet again in the morning, say around ten? We’ll talk more about your experiences, and about Brandon.” She shoved a piece of paper across the desk to me. “He’s been moved to this room.

I think you’ll be happy to see how much better he looks already.” I left her then, feeling a damn sight better than I had when I first walked in. I was exhausted, my side hurt, and I wished someone with a wheelchair would plunk me down in it or Jeff would carry me, but I also felt curiously stronger. It had felt good, letting all that crap out. I’d barely touched on what I’d been through, but I’d never told anyone just how horrible those weeks were. And there were some things I wouldn’t, either, no matter how good Dr. Yancy was.