The Bruise_Black Sky (21 page)

So, although Ben didn’t point the finger at him, Nikolas accused himself.

When they’d come around the curve of the mountain, now with the drop on their left—the side they were on, of course, this being New Zealand and having the same side for driving as England—another vehicle had been coming up towards them. This car was driving directly into the setting sun and the windscreen was just a glare of light. There wasn’t room for two to pass safely, so Ben had paused.

Nikolas was on the drop-off side and was peering warily over the edge when he heard Ben swear, “What the
fuck
?”

The large off-roader was coming towards them. They couldn’t see the driver, but the jeep loomed large in front of them, bumped them and then…started to push.

It had snow chains and was four-wheel drive. They didn’t stand a chance. With the ease of sliding a curling stone, the jeep slid them off the side of the mountain.

They didn’t even have time to jump. Nikolas couldn’t anyway, as he only had empty air on one side and was jammed in with skis on the other. The car just tipped, and then they were rolling over and over and over, seatbelts holding, but a sickening churning and breaking of windows, glass everywhere, and a terrible remembrance of the drop into space, until they’d slammed to a stop, snow pouring in through the smashed windscreen. It wasn’t a thousand-foot cliff after all. But they’d come to a halt in a huge drift that had built up on the ledge that
led
to the thousand foot of nothing…

Nikolas couldn’t orientate himself. He heard a grunt beneath him. They were on their side, and he was hanging in his belt over Ben. He struggled free, kicking open the distorted door, pulling up and then falling into the snow. Ben hauled himself up and tumbled out the same way, landing on him.

After the fall, the silence in the freezing whiteness was confusing.

Then there was terrible colour. Ben was entirely red, his face and hands covered in blood.

Nikolas remembered howling, but denied to Ben later that he’d done this. He’d had visions of Ben’s face being sliced off by the glass that had shattered in on them. But when he’d tried to reach Ben and wipe the mess off, Ben had pushed him away so he could examine
his
neck. “You’re bleeding!” It was
his
blood. He couldn’t feel it at all but his neck was pumping the viscous red liquid, or so it seemed in the whiteness, and, hanging sideward, it had soaked down over Ben. Ben was entirely unharmed, which was all that was important.

They were rescued fairly quickly, for there were a number of other cars on the track down the mountain, returning from a day’s skiing, just as they had been—better kitted out with winches, snow chains, and tow ropes.

They abandoned the wrecked vehicle and the blood-stained snow and accepted a ride to Wanaka. Nikolas was profoundly grateful that they’d had their accident in New Zealand—a country full of competent people with a pioneer spirit who relished the opportunity to lend a hand to a mate and expected nothing in return for such genuine generosity except someone repaying the favour one day, when they were in need. Their new best friend kept glancing uneasily across at Nikolas, who was very pale and holding his neck. “You just fell asleep at the wheel, mate?”

Nikolas shrugged and wished he hadn’t.

“You sure you don’t want to go to hospital?”

Ben insisted they didn’t.

Their rescuer dropped them off at a night pharmacy.

Ben called for a taxi.

It was only when they got home and Ben had gently peeled off Nikolas’s jacket and shirt that they saw the gash for the first time. Ben winced. “Glass?”

Nikolas grunted. “Ski.”

Ben’s eyes widened. The edge of the ski had cut Nikolas as sharp and deep as a knife—which explained the bleeding, and actually made him feel better in terms of not dying, but worse when he was then free to think about other things. He was exhausted. Someone had tried to kill them. He had an
excuse
for being a little slow on the uptake!

Someone pushed us off the fucking mountain.

Or, more to the point, someone had pushed Ben off. Nikolas had no doubt this was linked to the death threat against Ben. How could it not be? Who was unlucky enough to have two fucking psychos stalking them?

Nikolas instantly saw all his faults—not taking the guarding of Ben seriously once they were away from the film set. Tripping merrily around announcing their whereabouts to everyone. Fucking hell, they’d only been on the slopes for five minutes and anyone in the world interested enough in knowing where Ben Rider was could have found him.

He was getting old.

He’d never have been this careless in the past.

He hadn’t even known what
hashtagged
meant until Emilia had explained it to him a few weeks previous, clearly only repressing an eye roll because she found his aged incompetence endearing. Last time he’d been on skis, a photograph took about a month to return to you after the holiday. Phones were attached to walls with thick cables. He was too old for this.

He felt a touch on his thigh and lifted his eyes to Ben. Ben hadn’t had a chance to wash yet. “Hold this.”

Nikolas put his hand up and took the wadding Ben had been holding against the cut. “Just like old times.”

Ben wrinkled his nose and added ironically, “Good times.”

Ben handed him the bottle of vodka they’d stopped to buy after the first aid supplies.

The bleeding had stopped. He’d had a lot worse in the past. “Stitch me up and stick a plaster on, Ben. I’m fine.”

“We need to phone the police!”

Nikolas sighed. “We can’t. How long do you think it would take for them to discover Yuri Bronislav doesn’t exist?”

“Sodding hell! Not again! I had to go through all this with Christian!”

“You bring up your relationship with Christian now? That is so—”

“Stop it. Take it seriously, Nik. We have to—”

“No.”

“They’ll have the car! The witnesses!”

“I rented the car in a different name. It will take them a while to track that down, maybe never. It was an
accident
. You fell asleep at the wheel. We will leave tonight and fly to the States early.”

“Fucking hell!”

For once, Nikolas didn’t pick Ben up on his choice of language. It
was
fucked up. Of course, they should contact the authorities. Someone had just tried to kill Ben. But Nikolas had no faith in the police. He certainly didn’t have faith in some local bobbies in fucking Wanaka. He didn’t want the resultant publicity either.

“We have to tell Peter at least.”

Nikolas had an evil thought that he’d take a picture of Ben covered as he still was in dried blood and send it to Peter. Probably give him a heart attack, and then they could end this fucking farce and go home. But the irony suddenly hit him, and he began to laugh. Ben frowned, little flakes of rust-red shedding as his face creased. Nikolas fished into Ben’s pocket for his phone and took a photo of him, turning the screen so Ben could see it. Ben slumped. He was the spitting image of Oliver Whitestone as Yoshi. Life imitating art, imitating fucking life. Who knew anymore? It was all so fucked up. They’d been pushed off a mountain! On a mountain in the middle of fucking nowhere, someone had managed to nearly kill Ben Rider-Mikkelsen.

His Ben.

Nikolas was totally empty now. Very little sleep the night before, a day on the slopes showing off and now blood loss. And they needed to move—leave Wanaka, leave New Zealand.

They needed to stop and think about what had happened. How had they been found? By whom? Ben’s stalker was in New Zealand, not the States? He felt things greying out around him but managed to say, “We’ll fly to Auckland tonight.”

§§§

They’d missed the last flight out of Queenstown. They got seats on one the following morning.

For the first time since dropping off the edge of the snow ledge, showing off, Nikolas felt he could be still for just a moment.

But he couldn’t. He’d nearly got Ben killed.

He didn’t say this again to Ben. Ben was having a hard enough time dealing with his own guilt. In a way, if you looked at it entirely wrong, you could say that he now had stitches in his neck because Ben wanted to make this film. Untrue, but Nikolas could see how some people could say that. Ben, for example—he was saying it.

They needed to talk about what had happened! Not this constant apportioning of blame, but Nikolas didn’t want to think about it, for he knew that once he did, the inevitable would happen—he would insist that Ben quit the film. Ben would refuse and where would that leave them?

So although he knew from Ben’s expression that Ben was worrying over the same things he was—who the fuck? How?—Nikolas ventured none of this.

He was grateful when Ben stressed they could afford a few hours rest before leaving for the airport.

Nikolas agreed. He’d have agreed to anything Ben wanted, for when he tried to stand, he couldn’t. Ben had to heave him to his feet.

Nikolas put his head on the pillow and knew nothing more until Ben shook him gently.

Then he had to help him dress. It was humiliating.

Ben called a taxi and they drove back to Queenstown to the airport and they caught their flight to Auckland. It was positively balmy in the north of the North Island, almost tropical.

Although they were relatively safe—Nikolas was sure no one had followed them—they stayed in the airport and took the next flight to the States. New York with two stops to endure. But it was the only one with seats spare.

They were in economy.

It was a first for Ben.

Nikolas thought he’d faced the very worst cattle class could throw at him. He’d never flown economy with stitches in his neck and feeling ill though. It was very bad indeed. He didn’t care if anyone recognised them or what they might think of Ben Rider’s bodyguard asleep on Ben’s shoulder.

The next thing he really knew with any certainty, they were in an air-conditioned hotel in New York, and he was stretched out horizontal on a very comfortable bed with Ben alongside him, stroking one finger up and down his belly. Somehow he had lost landing, finding a taxi, finding a hotel, checking in and, apparently, undressing. He was naked.

Not all of him was tired, he was pleased to see.

Ben saw he was awake and smirked. “Hello, stranger.”

Nikolas grunted. He was going to ask the time, but thought the day was more the issue, but then he couldn’t actually remember what
month
it was either. And where were they? New York.

They hadn’t stopped since the world had fallen away beneath them—since he’d thought Ben had lost his face in the crash.

There was so much they needed to discuss. Someone had got too close to them, too close to killing…

But they could be quiet and still now. Just for a while.

Nikolas snagged Ben down to him, and, in pain as he was, it was the best feeling he knew. Ben’s skin was cool and silky and whole. His mouth was soft and tasted of toothpaste. Ben put one leg between Nikolas’s bringing their cocks together, carefully avoiding putting stress on Nikolas’s injury.

They would have to talk about it soon, but not now. Now there was just this, the familiar and intimate reacquainting of themselves with each other. For once, Nikolas allowed himself to just lie supine upon the soft mattress and be made love to. Ben was a very skilful lover and, of course, he knew Nikolas’s body extremely well, knew exactly how to trail his tongue down his smooth, broad chest in just the way Nikolas liked. He knew exactly where Nikolas wanted that tongue to go, too. This had always been Nikolas’s favourite thing, other than the obvious—pushing deep into Ben’s arse—and he could not help a groan of bliss as Ben slid down, pressing his nose deep into Nikolas’s wiry hair and then pulling off with a strong suction that made Nikolas swear with helpless delight. He pressed hard to Ben’s head, unfair he knew, but he was unable to control himself when he thought of his cock slipping between those lips into Ben Rider’s mouth—the mouth millions of fans would fantasise about.

He felt a hand parting his thighs and he obliged by opening them, lifting his legs, and then Ben eased a finger in, working him as he sucked and played and licked. He didn’t often do this, but when he did, it made Nikolas’s whole being thrum with rising tension. He made a soft grunting sound, pushing on Ben’s head, rubbing his palm over the shaved stubble as he encouraged Ben deeper and harder, and then he was there, rising slightly off the bed, his stitches screaming at him as his balls unloaded and he spilled into Ben’s mouth, pulsing thick, milky release, until he sank boneless back into the bed with a exhale of extreme satisfaction.

Ben twitched the blanket up over them both and curled around Nikolas’s side, one arm protectively over his chest, one heavy leg thrown over his thighs.

Nikolas felt bizarrely that their roles were reversed—he the spoilt celebrity being pleasured and Ben now his guard, his protection from the world, just as Ben had been after he had told him his awful story about Kristina’s father.

Just for a few hours he decided to let this be.

He would wake later and be what he needed to be once more, but for now, Ben Rider-Mikkelsen wrapped around him and keeping him safe was very welcome indeed.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

When Ben woke, Nikolas was standing by the window, staring out at the park across the street. He was naked, lean, the sunlight catching his hair and making the blond strands glint. He was rubbing his neck idly, not apparently in too much pain.

Ben rose swiftly and joined him, sliding his arms around the too thin waist. “Someone tried to kill us, Nik.”

Nikolas nodded. “I noticed.” He held Ben off a little, inspecting him.

“They nearly succeeded.”

Nikolas looked quizzical as if this was obvious, so why mention it? Ben explained as best he could, “I didn’t think the death threats meant…this exactly. You know what I mean? I thought they were more like trolling…being a total dick and trying to ruin Ollie’s life, but not actually come to fucking New Zealand and kill me!”