Safe in His Arms (12 page)

laughed nervously. ―I think I‘m just freaked out a little. You know, about this money

thing. I guess I just figured it would go on forever. I don‘t really know what to do if the

cash flow stops. I never even finished college.‖

Hank sat, waving toward Russell‘s vacated chair. ―Please, just sit back down. We‘ll

finish our coffee and dessert and go home, okay? I promise no more stupid remarks.‖

Russell sat slowly, shaking his head. It was true, Hank‘s bouts of behaving like an

entitled asshole had lessened dramatically. Russell called him on it every time, usually

following it up with a nice hard spanking and then some seriously hot sex. But tonight

Russell didn‘t feel like being Hank‘s understanding daddy bear. He was tired of the one

step forward, two steps backward behavior pattern.

―Okay, Hank. But if you‘re going to be with me, you need to make some changes.

Not for me, but for yourself. This is a great opportunity. A time to take stock of your life

and what you want out of it. A time to, well, grow up.‖

Hank nodded, though Russell didn‘t know if he was really listening, or just glad

Russell had sat back down at the table. They finished their coffee and dessert in silence.

On the ride back to Hank‘s place they kissed in the backseat, their privacy assured

by the darkly tinted window that separated the back seat from Hank‘s latest driver,

Fred. When they were nearly to Hank‘s street, Hank said, ―So, you‘ll stay the night,

right?‖

―Not tonight, Hank.‖

Hank‘s expression was that of a wounded dog, heart breaking and tail drooping

when the stick he‘d brought for tossing was ignored. Russell smiled in spite of himself

and patted Hank‘s leg reassuringly. ―It‘s okay. I just have a lot going on right now. I‘ll

see you tomorrow night, okay?‖

―Yeah. Sure. Whatever.‖

~*~

Hank smashed his fist against his desk in frustration. He‘d gone online to check his

main account, which showed a balance of $57,690.63, and he couldn‘t get at a living

cent! Why the hell was he being punished for the sins of his father? It wasn‘t fair! He

had bills to pay. His cards were practically maxed out. What the fuck else was he

supposed to do? A house like this cost plenty—with the gardener, the pool guy, the

mortgage, the utilities.

How long was he expected to endure this intolerable situation? That jerk Harrison

was no help. He said his hands were tied and no, the company was not allowed to make

Hank a loan. He said the IRS could take months to get through the investigation, and,

since Hank‘s accounts were held jointly with his father, he had no recourse. Hank knew

for sure his father had money stashed all over creation, but he was damned if he‘d call

and beg for some. No, he‘d find a way around this until it blew over.

If it blew over.

That thought didn‘t bear thinking and so Hank tossed it away. And yet it came back

to niggle at his mind. Yeah, Russell had claimed he didn‘t care about the money, but

when push came to shove, didn‘t everyone? Hank knew in his heart of hearts the only

reason Reese had stuck around so long was for the trips to Europe and the lavish

lifestyle Hank treated him to. Money drove everyone, even if they pretended it didn‘t,

and Russell was no exception. Once he figured out Hank was on the way down, he

would become more and more distant, less and less available.

Hank put his head in his hands, trying to think. He couldn‘t let Russell know how

bad it was. He‘d let the cleaning lady go, and explain the situation to Fred. He‘d pay

him in trade, by letting him take the Mercedes for a few months to use for his own. Fred

adored that car, polishing it daily, and tinkering with it like he owned it.

Hank knew how to drive, even though he didn‘t like to. He‘d drive the Porsche,

though it occurred to him that Russell, tall as he was, probably couldn‘t fit inside! Well,

that was okay too. They could ride in Russell‘s old pickup truck. Hank would prove to

Russell that he didn‘t care about stuff like that, even though he did.

Tonight was important. Russell had finally invited him over. At first Hank had

liked their arrangement of Russell always coming to his place just fine. In fact it suited

him. He liked to have his men on his own turf. He felt more in control that way, and

they couldn‘t help but be impressed with how he lived.

As the days had moved into weeks, however, Hank started to wonder if maybe

Russell didn‘t think he was good enough to bring home. Unlike the men Hank was

used to hanging out with, Russell really didn‘t care about Hank‘s money or the

trappings that went along with it. Hank didn‘t know what else to offer, and that

realization was disconcerting, to say the least.

Now at last Russell had invited him over. Hank felt as if he‘d finally passed some

unspoken test. He made a promise to himself not to blow it. No matter what kind of

dump Russell lived in, Hank wouldn‘t make any snide comments. He‘d be on his best

behavior for Russell.

Something eased inside Hank as he leaned back, losing himself in daydreams. He‘d

never been with anyone like Russell Evans. Russell wasn‘t only a fantastic lover, but he

had a way of calming Hank that no one had ever managed before. When they were

together, Hank didn‘t feel so on edge like he usually did. He didn‘t have to drink

alcohol to put himself to sleep—he would drift happily away, safe in Russell‘s strong

arms.

He loved the sexy discipline—the spankings, the bondage, the rituals like asking

permission to come and calling Russell ―Sir‖ during sex play. Their lovemaking was

explosive, fired with the passion of their unique relationship. Instead of feeling

controlled, he felt cared for. Though at first he‘d resisted the idea, he loved when

Russell took charge, demanding more of him than anyone had ever dared before, and

not just sexually. Russell actually seemed to care how Hank lived his life, and even

more amazing, he watched out for him.

Would he lose all that if he lost his money? Despite his protests to the contrary,

would Russell turn out to be just like all the rest? The ease he‘d felt a moment before

evaporated, replaced by the usual edgy pain that had defined his life for so long.

He went over to the liquor cabinet and pulled out a bottle of Stolichnay Elit.

Pouring himself a triple, he downed it in one gulp.

Hank looked anxiously up and down the street as he pulled the Porsche up to the

curb behind Russell‘s truck. There didn‘t seem to be anyone around, which he

supposed was a good thing, though he wouldn‘t have been surprised if a gang of thugs

was waiting just inside one of these crumbly old brick buildings with the tools

necessary to steal his car in thirty seconds flat.

He looked up at the sprawling two story brick building and wondered that Russell

could actually live here. It was worse than he‘d expected. The area wasn‘t even

residential, but more of a warehouse district, many of the buildings with boarded up

windows and no sign of life.

Russell had explained that the brewery operations were on the first floor, and he

lived above, rent free. What a dump—they couldn‘t have paid Hank to live here. Poor

Russell. Somehow he had to convince him to move to Cherry Creek. Why live in

squalor when he could enjoy the good life?

Hank walked around the side of the building as Russell had instructed, looking for

the metal door that would gain him entrance. He found it and pushed the buzzer beside

it. A few seconds later there was an answering buzz, and the door lock clacked its

release. Hank pulled it open and climbed the stairs, his footsteps echoing against the

concrete walls.

At the top was another metal door and he knocked on it. Russell pulled it open, his

smile wide. Hank stepped into his arms, feeling, as he always did when Russell held

him tight, safe and happy. He would forget his financial troubles, all the people who

had fucked him over in his life, even his bitterness over the loss of Reese. For that brief

moment he let it all go.

Russell dropped his arms and stepped back. ―Come in. Your timing is perfect. The

sauce has been simmering all day and the water‘s just about to boil. We‘re having

spaghetti and garlic bread and I have an excellent Merlot from the vintners I used to

work for in California. I think you‘ll really enjoy it.‖

Hank took in the space, which wasn‘t at all what he‘d expected. He realized he‘d

had some idea from some old movie he‘d seen as a kid, of a cramped attic sort of space,

with barely room for a narrow bed and a rickety dresser. There would be one window,

too high up to see out of, the pane cracked and covered with grime.

He‘d also expected the place to reek from the brewing operations on the first floor,

but, though he could detect a slight scent beneath the spaghetti sauce, he had to admit it

was actually a rather pleasant yeasty, fruity smell, not the sour beer smell he‘d

expected.

And the loft, with its high ceilings and many windows, was nothing like what he‘d

imagined. The place was one huge room, partitioned with rice paper screens to create

the feel of separate living areas. There were large windows at even intervals along all

four walls, which were made from large gray cinderblocks cemented together. The

space seemed clean and airy, but there was no getting around it—Russell lived on the

second floor of an old warehouse. How could he stand it?

There was a kitchen area, complete with all the necessary appliances. There was a

living area that contained two large chairs and a sofa set on a large, brightly colored

area rug with a coffee table between them and a bookshelf up against the wall. In the

area set aside for the bedroom there stood a large iron bedstead, the one Russell had

told Hank would be perfect for tying him down. Hank‘s cock twitched at the thought

and he glanced at Russell, who was watching him, a sexy grin on his face.

―I knew you‘d hone right in on the bed,‖ he teased. ―And yes, I‘ll definitely get out

the rope tonight. But sustenance first. I bet you can‘t remember the last time you had a

home cooked meal.‖

It was true. Hank could not. He scanned his memory and realized no one had ever

cooked for him, not the way Russell meant. He‘d been cooked for by hired help, sure,

but never someone who made a meal for him just because they wanted to. The

spaghetti sauce smelled wonderful, mingling with the aroma of bread baking and fresh

garlic.

He smiled at Russell, the warmth moving through him. He wanted to say

something nice about the place but what ended up coming out of his mouth was, ―I

expected a real dump. This isn‘t
that
bad.‖

Russell‘s face darkened and he turned away, heading toward the kitchen area.

Hank followed, silently cursing himself. What was that stupid adage about if you had

nothing nice to say, say nothing at all? Could he ever just keep his mouth shut?

The food was good and Hank said so. He managed to avoid saying normally he

wouldn‘t be caught dead eating spaghetti and meatballs, and what was for dessert,

vanilla pudding?

He had to admit the wine was quite good. He realized there too, he‘d been

expecting the quality to be inferior, since the label was basically an unknown upstart.

He managed to praise the Merlot without, he hoped, sounding like a snob.

After the meal, Russell washed the dishes, tossing a towel to Hank to dry. Again it

was on the tip of his tongue to say, ―Let the maid do it in the morning,‖ but he caught

himself in time, and dutifully dried and stacked their dishes and glasses in the rack

beside the sink.

Russell took Hank for a brief tour of the brewery after dinner. Again, Hank‘s

imagination had been off the mark by a wide margin. Instead of some kind of Ma and

Pa hillbilly distillery, the room was well ventilated, with clean, modern looking

equipment and gleaming surfaces. The yeasty smell was definitely stronger down here,

but it wasn‘t overpowering.

When Russell gave him a sample of their latest batch of dark, rich beer he called

Colorado Mule, Hank expected something bitter and sour. He would pretend to like it,

for Russell‘s sake.

His cautious sip resulted in an explosion of rich flavors on his tongue—molasses,

ginger, a hint of orange—as complex as any fine wine. Russell was watching him, his

expression eager, almost boyish.

―So, what do you think?‖

―This is fucking great!‖ Hank took another healthy swig of the delicious brew to

emphasize his point. ―I have a confession to make. When I first met you, I had

consigned you to the rank of beer drinkers, as opposed to a wine connoisseur like