Men of London 04 - Feat of Clay (3 page)

Tate’s insides danced with pleasure at the
promise of those words. Clay winked then turned and Tate watched as
he went outside onto the small balcony overlooking the green.

He bent down and picked up the crumpled piece
of paper lying under the desk, dropping it into the waste bin. As
he did, a series of loud, stuttering bangs from outside rent the
air, rapid fire sounds that caused Tate to freeze. His heartbeat
sped up, his throat dried out and he reached out to grab the edge
of his desk as dizziness assailed him. Flickers of light blurred
his vision as the noises outside rose in crescendo and the shrill
sound of a siren could be heard in the distance. Flashes of memory
sped through his mind like the fast forwarding of a DVD film.
Immersed in the roar in his ears, he heard the faint echoes of his
own voice crying out as bullets smacked into his body. Remembered
pain and humiliation soaked Tate like a drenching acid rain from
hell, burning and scalding him with his own shame and guilt.

“Bloody kids; they shouldn’t be allowed to
sell firecrackers until Guy Fawkes—Tate, are you okay?” Clay’s
worry and concern settled over Tate like a stifling fire blanket,
dulling his senses, causing his limbs to become heavy as he
struggled to get his racing heart under control. Vomit welled in
his throat, rancid, foul-tasting bile that reached his mouth,
causing him to gag and retch onto the floor. Clay’s hand steadied
his arm and Tate lashed out in anger and self-hatred as he pushed
him away.

“Leave me alone, Clay,” he snarled as he
wiped his mouth. The darkness in his soul claimed him; sneering
caustic jibes about just how pathetic he was buzzed in his ears.
“I’m not a child and I don’t need you picking up the pieces every
time I have a meltdown.”

The words were meant to hurt and yet for the
life of him, he regretted hurling them at the man he loved. A
chance children’s prank and yet another realisation of his frailty
had ignited a self-hating flame that couldn’t be extinguished.

“I wasn’t ‘picking up the pieces’,” Clay said
evenly. “You were having a panic attack. I wanted to make
sure…”

“You wanted to make sure that I was all
right, that the sound of fucking bangs hadn’t driven me crazy and
that poor, damaged Tate could still function.” Tate spat the words
and Clay’s eyes darkened as his lips thinned. “Well, you know what?
You’re fighting a losing battle. Because Tate
isn’t
okay. He’s a useless piece of shit who’ll always
be like this, so you’d be better off moving on and finding someone
who can cope with hearing kids letting off firecrackers in the
middle of the fucking street and who doesn’t wake you up in the
middle of the night with fucking bad dreams.”

Tate was on a roll and he had no way to stop
himself. That was how it worked. The freight train that was his
tormented psyche gained momentum and rolled forward, crushing
everything in its path.

“Christ, I love you, Clay, you know that, but
I can’t take this anymore. I need some space. I need to be alone
and figure this out.”

Clay moved forward, the bulk of his body both
commanding and familiar. Tate wanted to enfold himself in those
arms, feel the beat of Clay’s strong heart against his chest, the
warmth of his man’s body against his, but he couldn’t let that
happen. He needed to get his head right, be someone Clay could
respect again, not this broken, haunted man in front of him—a
weakling.

“We tried that,” Clay said softly, the pain
in his eyes stabbing into Tate’s heart with every blink of his
eyelashes. “Remember? I came and fetched you and brought you
home.”

Tate stared at him. “You broke into the hotel
I was staying at, tied me up and brought me back to that safe
house, where you continued to lock me up while you talked the shit
out of me. Some people call that kidnapping.”

Clay took a shuddering breath. “I call it
love. And it worked, didn’t it? Those slashes on your wrist healed
and you told me you wouldn’t do it again. You even started going to
therapy again.”

Instinctively, Tate stared down at the scars
on his wrists, reminders of that time ten months ago when he’d
decided he’d had enough. He’d booked a cheap room in a hotel, drank
himself stupid then attempted to slash his wrists. He was a cop; he
knew how to do it properly, and yet he’d slashed across instead of
down. Something had held him back. He had no doubt had he done it
the right way, he’d be dead now.

Clay had tracked him down. How, he never
knew, but his lover had his ways. He’d been forcibly bundled him
into a van and a doctor had come to the house to patch him up. Then
Clay had kept him under luxurious house arrest for a week in a
radical one-man intervention. Tate had sworn at him, cursed him,
but in his heart of hearts he’d been glad Clay hadn’t let him die
that night. His suicidal tendencies had abated over these long
months and he was trying to put that whole sorry episode in the
past.

“Yeah, well, maybe if we’d had someone else
to talk to, had friends around that we could share stuff with, it
would have been better for us both. Instead we creep around like a
dirty secret because you’re scared for me.” He slammed his fist
down on the table. “God knows I’ve tried to get you to make our
relationship public but you insist on molly coddling me, hiding me
for my
own good
. It’s been over a year that
we’ve been living like this, Clay.” He spat the words then paused,
his chest heaving.

Clay folded his arms across his broad chest
and observed with tired and shadowed eyes. This conversation was
familiar to both of them.

“You know why I feel that’s the right thing
to do, Tate. We’ve discussed it.”

“That doesn’t mean I’ve agreed.” Tate passed
a hand over tired, sore eyes. “Look, I need to be alone for a bit.
I think you should go, and I’ll call you when I’m ready. Leave your
house keys.”

Clay’s eyes filled with pain so deep Tate
wanted to vomit again. “Tate, love, please don’t do this. Don’t
push me away.”

Tate swallowed bile. “Go, Clay. Like I said,
I don’t want you around right now. I need to get my head round all
this again.”

His lover shook his head. “No.”

He stood firm and Tate knew he had to do
something to get Clay to go, so he could wallow in his own
self-pity and come to grips with the disease that was his damaged
self. Maybe that way he could become more of the man Clay
needed.

“I
will
fucking hit
you,” he warned as he strode toward his partner and held out his
hands for the keys. “Make no mistake. Give me the keys.”

Clay’s hands clenched but he made no move.
“No.”

“I swear I’ll take them from you.” Tate
became desperate. The darkness inside him swelled to a crescendo
and sent grasping, greedy ice-cold feelers out to clasp his twisted
guts.

“Then try.” There was steel in Clay’s
expression, a
don’t fuck with me
attitude
that Tate had seen fell bigger and stronger men than him. But he
had one thing on his side. Clay
loved
him.
And sometimes love was blind.

Tate made as if to lower his arm, and knowing
Clay as well as he did, seeing the imperceptible lowering of his
defences for someone he loved, he struck at a time when the man
wasn’t expecting it. His fist shot out, catching Clay on his jaw.
Clay gave a shout of pain and surprise as he stumbled back, hands
instinctively coming up to block himself. Tate moved in for another
strike and was stopped by the look of despair that crossed Clay’s
face.

Clay held up his hands in surrender. “I’m not
going to fight you, baby,” he whispered, his face bleak. “I get it.
I’ll go.” His hands trembled as he reached down and took the house
keys from his pocket and threw them on the floor. “There.
Satisfied? You got what you wanted.”

No I didn’t. I only got what
I need. What
you
need right now.

The sour taste in Tate’s mouth intensified.
“Thank you.”

Clay nodded curtly, but his eyes were
haunted. “Just promise me you aren’t going to do anything stupid,
Tate. That’s all I’m asking. And keep seeing Doctor Jakes for your
therapy.” His voice shook. “I’m sorry you think I’m so possessive.
I want to let go, I promise, it’s just that…” he shrugged
helplessly. “I don’t want you getting hurt again.”

“I’m not going to try and off myself, Clay,”
Tate said quietly. “I promise. I just need some time. A few days,
maybe a week. Then I’ll call you.”

“I’ll be waiting.” Clay made as if to touch
Tate then reconsidered and dropped his hand. “Call me soon.
Remember I love you. Never doubt that. Never forget it.”

Clay turned and left without a backward
glance, leaving Tate standing there, sick to his stomach and
cursing a dead sadist with all the vitriol in his soul. He stared
at the closed door for a few minutes, trapped in his memories and
filled with self-loathing.

Why the fuck did I just
chase away the best thing that ever happened to me?

Deep down inside Tate knew why, but it was a
secret only he and his therapist shared. And
that
had only come about because Dr. Natalie Jakes was
a master at getting to a person’s core—of digging deep and finding
the vulnerabilities inside. Tate knew he was lucky to have her; he
also knew he
needed
her. Needed her help in
coming to grips with what had happened to him and what he’d done,
but that didn’t make it any easier in the telling of his tale. His
shameful secret was something he regretted every day and not yet
something he was prepared to tell Clay about. God knew how Clay
would react.

The operation with Sonny Armerian had taken
more from Tate than his dignity and self-confidence; it had taken
his soul.

Tate turned and slumped down on the couch,
covering his eyes with trembling hands.

“I’m going to have to tell him soon,” he
whispered to himself. “This can’t go on like this, making us both
miserable. I just need the right time to do it…”

He lay back on the couch and huddled into a
ball, hugging himself tight. The devil on his shoulder gloated that
if he did, he could lose the man he loved. The angel on the other
told him softly that Clay loved him regardless and Tate should take
the chance.

I guess I’ll have to
decide which camp I’m in. Heaven or hell.

Tate closed his eyes and let the darkness of
sleep claim him.

Clay peered
blearily at his watch, trying to see the time through blurred eyes.
He tried to focus on the swimming digits and raised his wrist
closer to his eyes. Around him, the chatter and noise of the bar
buzzed in his ears.

“It’s nearly midnight, boss. Time to be
heading home, I think,” the amused voice of Draven Samuels murmured
into Clay’s left ear.

Clay grinned at him. “Dray, how the hell are
you?” He squinted at his employee and friend. “What are you doing
here? Is Taylor with you? How did you find me?”

Draven shook his head with a grin as he sat
down on the barstool next to Clay. He waved at the bartender.

“Can I have some strong black coffee for this
man, please? Just keep them coming.”

The bartender nodded and turned to the back
of the bar to prepare the drinks.

Draven’s dark eyes regarded Clay with some
curiosity. “No, Taylor is home in bed. The same place you need to
be I think. And you always come here when you’re upset. This is
your go-to place.” He narrowed his eyes. “You, my friend, are as
pissed as a newt. Considering you don’t normally drink like this,
I’m thinking Taylor’s sixth sense was right. Something is
wrong.”

“Taylor had a premoniti—” Clay’s voice
faltered. “A vision of me?” Taylor Abelard was a psychic—a damned
good one that Clay and his police colleagues sometimes used for a
case. He was also Draven’s fiancé.

Clay’s stomach roiled and he swallowed bile.
He’d had this acidic taste in his mouth ever since Tate had kicked
him out of his apartment.

“He woke me up in a panic saying something
was wrong with you.” Draven’s tone was dry. “And we all know I
don’t ignore my man when he has one of his touchy-feely things
going on.” He reached over and touched Clay’s chin gently. “From
the looks of it, he was right. Who hit you?”

The fierce protectiveness in Draven’s voice
gave Clay a warm, mushy feeling. Draven was right; Clay didn’t
often drink to excess and certainly not here on his own, in his
favourite bar. Being told to leave and seeing the pain in Tate’s
eyes when he’d left had made forgetting the image through alcohol a
more palatable option. His head swam and he passed a trembling hand
over his eyes, trying to clear them.

“Tate hit me. He was scared. I didn’t want to
fight him though. So I left.”

“Who’s Tate, Clay? The man you’ve been
seeing?” Clay had never made his relationship with Tate public at
work, not even to Draven. He had his reasons. Draven knew though
that he had someone special. Maybe now was the time to share the
news with a man he respected and liked more than anyone else in his
life—other than Tate.

Clay snorted. “Yep, my secret lover, the man
I’ve wanted for what seems like forever. He kicked me out of his
home tonight.”

He heard the anguish in his own voice and
swallowed. The bartender placed a steaming cup of coffee down in
front of him and he stared at it as his eyes prickled.

“Drink the coffee, boss man,” Draven muttered
quietly. “Then I’ll take you home.”

Clay picked up the cup and took a large gulp
from it. The liquid burnt his lips and he swore. “Fuck. That
hurt.”

Draven’s lips curved in a small smile. “You
are
in a state. So why did Tate kick you
out… or hit you?” The swift change of subject was a Draven special,
designed to put people off guard and take them unawares. Clay
should know; he’d taught him his interrogation techniques. As a
senior operative of Mortimer Investigations, and probably the best,
Draven was a man not to underestimate. Clay really needed to share
and he could think of no better man to trust.