Seduced By My Doms BN (6 page)

My thoughts and emotions jumped up and down like a
five-year-old on an inflatable moonwalk. Shoving thoughts of James aside, I scanned
the patient board, then marched to Trevor’s room.

Staring at him sleeping on the clean white sheets, a sense
of peace settled over me. The lacerations on his lip and forehead had been
stitched, and the blood washed from his long, wheat-colored hair. The bruises
covering his swollen face and eye had mottled to an even deeper shade of black,
purple, and green. But he was alive and no longer in pain. I took comfort in
that.

“You poor baby,” I whispered. Leaning in, I feathered a
finger through his soft hair before pulling a chair alongside his bed, and took
a seat.

Cupping his hand gently beneath mine, I bent and placed a
soft kiss on the bandages covering his knuckles. He’d fought hard, and it made
my heart ache, knowing he’d endured such senseless brutality.

It had been almost two years since my brother,
Dayne
, wrapped his lips around the barrel of a
nine-millimeter and blew his brains out—leaving me to struggle with the pain of
his decision every day of my life. Even now, the wounds felt as raw and fresh
as they had the night he gave up on his friends, his life, and most
devastatingly, me.

The warmth of Trevor’s hand in mine ignited a flicker of
hope. Some faceless, nameless stranger had called for help, and saved him. He
or she had given the precious gift I’d failed to give my own brother: help. The
void within expanded, the never-healing hole inside burned. With it, the
familiar black, oily slime of regret seeped through my veins.

Dropping my forehead on Trevor’s bed, I closed my eyes and
let the darkness consume me. Tears spilled down my cheeks as I silently wept
for my brother, myself, and the wrongs that could never be righted.

Dayne
had been seeing a man for
months, yet he’d kept the identity of his lover a secret. I didn’t press him
for details; I’d trusted my brother’s judgment. Suspecting his lover was
married—it’s not an uncommon thing for men to deny their true sexual nature in
order to live an accepted lifestyle—I thought if anyone could help the man sort
out his longings, it would be
Dayne
. But never in my
wildest dreams could I have imagined the real truth.

It wasn’t until I picked up the paper one morning, that I
learned my brother had become embroiled in a political scandal. His secret
lover turned out to be a long-time conservative councilman who’d been keeping a
politically deadly secret—
Dayne
. The private details
of my brother’s love affair with the very married, very Christian, up for
re-election, city official was splattered across the front page. Their secret
had somehow been leaked to the press, and the fallout was as explosive as a
well-placed brick of C-4.

Forced into the limelight,
Dayne
neither confirmed nor denied the allegations brought against him. Nor did he
refute the drama-hungry reporters who assassinated his reputation. He lost his
job as a well-respected science teacher and track coach at a prestigious,
private boys’ school.

And while
Dayne
was being raped of
all privacy, his lover, Councilman Ted Cromwell, clamored to dispel the rumors
via the media every chance he could. He went so far as to drag his wife up to
the podium, kissing her and proclaiming his undying devotion to the Misses,
which aired on every local television station in town. The perfectly coiffed
Mrs. Cromwell smiled tightly to the cameras as she declared her husband to be
‘all
man, and a tiger in the sack’
. Either the woman was on crack, or so elite
hungry she turned a blind eye to his non-hetero exploits. The rat-bastard
denied his association with
‘unholy homosexuals’
, quoting scriptures
from the Bible as he damned
‘the gay abominations to eternal hell’
.
But Cromwell didn’t stop there. In an attempt to secure his bid for
re-election, he blamed his opponent for spreading the slanderous lies. A
campaign of defamation ensued.

Even as
Dayne
was being crucified
in the press, he tried to reach out to Ted and offer an apology. The heartless
prick wouldn’t even take
Dayne’s
calls. He completely
shut my brother out as if he’d never existed. Ted Cromwell played the victim card
like a Vegas pro and won his re-election. The lying sack of shit was still in
office while my sweet, loving brother lay dead in the cold, hard earth.

At the height of the scandal, a group of Cromwell’s
conservative supporters camped outside Dyane’s house for weeks, picketing and
preaching. An entourage of crazy zealots from Kansas showed up—nasty,
hate-mongers—holding signs and screaming anti-gay rhetoric, day and night. My
brother was mortified. The media zoo outraged not only him, but his neighbors in
the predominantly gay and lesbian subdivision.

With his reputation destroyed,
Dayne
locked himself inside his house, refusing to leave. I called him daily, trying
to convince him to let me stay with him until the shit died down. But he
adamantly refused. He was terrified that the media circus would follow me home.
He wouldn’t let me step foot in his house to see him, even after I explained
that I didn’t give a shit about reporters. No amount of begging or pleading
would sway his conviction. He made me promise not to come see him and like a
fool, I agreed. I never should have kept that vow.

His neighbor Carl called me every day, keeping me apprised
of
Dayne’s
physical and emotional state. I knew he
wasn’t eating or sleeping much. More than once, I climbed into my car
determined to see him…to talk to him. But the thought of breaking my promise,
when everyone else in his life had let him down, had me turning off the motor
and trudging back into my house. I couldn’t disappoint him, too.

One hot, summer Sunday night, Carl called. The man was
beside himself, crying and cursing. He told me that
Dayne
had lashed out at him, and ordered him to leave the house and never come back.
Carl said he’d never seen my brother so despondent or act so cruel. When he
asked me to come and check on
Dayne
, I jumped in my
car. Before I reached his house, a cop stopped me at the end of the block. Blue
and red pulses from the patrol cars, ambulances, and fire trucks lit up the
houses like a macabre carnival. Gawkers gathered in hoards on the sidewalks,
waiting and watching, like predators.

Pulling to the curb, I shut off my car and tore off running
toward
Dayne’s
house as cries of anguish and fear
burned the back of my throat. Ducking beneath the crime scene tape, I rushed
toward the front door, but a police officer snagged me around the waist and
held me tight as I struggled to break free.

“I can’t let you go in there, Ma’am,” the officer warned in
a deep voice that I now knew belonged to James.

“He’s my brother,” I screamed. “Oh, god. Please tell me…is
he still alive?”

If James answered, I didn’t hear him. I stopped fighting for
freedom as I watched two solemn-faced men from the coroner’s office push a
black zippered bag atop a gurney out
Dayne’s
front
door. I slumped from James’ arms and fell to the grass, screaming and sobbing.

Moments later Carl wrapped me in a tight hug. Holding each
other, we cried. After a long time, he picked me up off the ground and carried
me to his house next door. Soon after a parade of detectives wandered in and
out. Numb and in shock, I answered their questions as best I could, inwardly
cursing Councilman Cromwell for taking my brother from me.

Raising my head, I wiped my tears as I stared at Trevor.
Drawing his hand to my cheek, memories of the last time I’d felt
Dayne’s
touch twisted my belly. The emptiness inside grew
even more debilitating. I longed for one more day with my brother. Longed to
see his smile and hear his voice. Longed for the chance to convince him that
giving up wasn’t a choice at all. I wanted one breath in time to make him
realize that the bleak and hopeless place he’d landed in would pass… That his
world still held hope for a brand new tomorrow.

“Don’t ever give up, Trevor. Please, don’t give up,” I
sobbed.

A warm, broad hand settled on my shoulder. I jerked, choking
on a yelp of surprise. Quickly wiping the tears from my face, trying to mask my
emotional breakdown. I drew in a shallow breath and turned to find Drake
staring down at me. Sorrow and pity lined his face. For a moment I hoped his
bleak expression was aimed at Trevor, but it was directed solely on me.

“Oh, little one. I’m so sorry for all you’ve been through,”
Drake murmured. “
Dayne
deserved better from the
press, the community…hell, the whole fucking world. He was lucky to have a
sister like you.”

“Did you know my brother?” I sniffed.

“No.” Drake slowly shook his head. “When James mentioned
your last name, it all clicked together. I’m sorry for your loss.”

Stepping around me, Drake combed a gentle hand through
Trevor’s hair before bending and lightly kissing his battered, bruised cheek.

“Thank you,” I sniffed again. “He’s probably not going to
wake up until tomorrow.”

Drake nodded. “That’s what the surgeon told us, but I don’t
care. I need to be with him.”

“Of course you do.” I nodded and stood. “I should go home
and let you be with him.”

“Stay,” Drake compelled. “I mean… I’d like you to stay if
you can. You’ve obviously grown fond of my boy and well, I’d feel better if you
could stay with us for a little while.”

“Okay, and yes. I have grown fond of him.” Sliding another
chair to the opposite side of Trevor’s bed, I sat down as Drake stared at his
lover’s badly beaten face.

“I should have been there. I saved him once. It’s how we
met.”

“You mentioned that earlier. I don’t mean to pry, but…”

“You’re not prying at all, girl.”

Drake sat down in the seat I’d vacated, then strummed his
thick fingers up and down Trevor’s arm. Simply touching his flesh seemed to
ease the anxiety humming off Drake.

“I’d gone to visit an old, navy buddy down in southern
Alabama. It was my last night in town. I was alone because my friend had a
wedding to go to. So I stopped at this little neighborhood bar not far from my
hotel to grab some dinner and a beer. I had an early flight the next day, so I
headed back to my room around nine o’clock at night. Rounding the corner, I saw
three guys kicking the shit out of another kid who was on the ground. At first
I thought he was dead. Poor guy was outnumbered and out-weighed. He’s always
been a little wisp of a thing. Well, let’s just say I evened out the odds.” He
shrugged his wide shoulders as his mouth turned down in an expression of
indifference.

“How many ended up in the ER that night?” I chuckled.

“All of them.” Drake’s tone dripped with animosity. “I left
the assholes bleeding on the ground, just like I’d found Trevor. Anyway, I
hailed a taxi, picked him up in my arms, and ordered the driver to take me to
the nearest hospital.”

Drake stared at Trevor with such sorrow I nearly started to
cry again.

Swallowing tightly, Drake continued. “He was so beat up, I
was afraid he was going to die on me before I could get him the help he needed.
So I started talking to him, asking him questions. He told me he had family,
but didn’t want me to bother contacting them. Said they’d disowned him when he
was just a teen.”

That sounded way too familiar.
Shoving my own
sorrows away, I focused on Drake.

“He laid there in my arms, bleeding all over me, staring up
at me as if I were a god. Then he raised his head and softly told me the guys
were beating him up because he was gay. At that moment, I wished I’d killed
them. Trevor looked at me after his confession. His gorgeous, blue eyes were
filled with fear. I think he thought I was just another redneck prick who’d
simply finish him off in the back of the cab. All I wanted to do was kiss his
swollen lips and remove the heartbreaking fear from him. So I leaned down close
to his ear and whispered that I was gay, too.” A melancholy smile spread over
Drake’s mouth.

“A spark flashed in his loving blue eyes, and he didn’t say
another word, just looked up at me for a long time. Then busted lip and all,
Trevor smiled at me. That’s all it took. He climbed deep inside my heart, then
and there, and never left.”

Both of us were brushing tears away when Drake was done.
“How long ago was that?”

“Let’s see.” He tilted his head as he gazed at Trevor. “He
was nineteen, so it’s been a little over fifteen years ago.”

“He still looks nineteen,” I choked with a watery smile.

“Yes,” Drake grinned. “Little shit still gets carded at bars
and liquor stores.”

“I haven’t had that happen in years.”

Drake shot me a look of disbelief. “Please. You’re what?
Twenty-two?”

I rolled my eyes. “You don’t have to blow smoke to get on my
good side. You and Trevor are already there,” I teased. “I’m thirty-one.”

 
“You look a lot
younger than that.”

“Thank you. Please, go on.”

“Well, after I got him to the hospital and found out he was
going to live, I took a cab back to my hotel. I packed my things and went right
back to Trevor’s side. I stayed with him day and night until he was released.
He invited me to move in with him, but when I saw the ratty apartment he called
home, I told him to pack his things. I bought two plane tickets to Chicago and
he’s been with me ever since.”

I couldn’t help but smile at the poignant love story. “Why
does he call you Daddy? Is it because you rescued him?”

“Not really. We’re not into age play, or the Daddy/son kinds
of kink, if that’s what you’re thinking. We prefer other kinds.” A smug smile
tugged his lips as he watched my reaction.

I felt my cheeks burn in embarrassment.

“Have you ever heard of the BDSM lifestyle?” Drake asked,
arching a brow.

“Who hasn’t?” I issued a nervous chuckle, uncomfortable for delving
into their personal lives in the first place. “I mean, I’ve read a couple of
books about it, but I figured they were just fiction.”

“BDSM isn’t fiction, at least not the kind that Trevor and I
live. Let me shed a little more light on the subject. It might be different
than the things you’ve read.” Drake smirked. “When Trevor was in the hospital,
the first time, I asked the nurses to show me what he needed and then I took
over. I gave him sponge baths, helped him to the bathroom, brushed his hair, his
teeth, fluffed his pillows, and even helped him shower when he finally could. I
spoon-fed him breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Pampered him and tended to all his
needs. It was my gift to him. The fact that he allowed me to do all those
things for him was his gift back to me. In regard to normal, lifestyle
standards, some might say that I submit to him. But they don’t understand. When
Trevor relies on me to do things for him, it feeds my Dominant need to protect
and care for him. Does that make sense?”

“Yes. But aside from being pampered, what does he… I mean,
what feeds him?”

“My love and my pain. Lots and lots of pain.”

My mouth fell open and Drake chuckled.

“So what you’re saying is that BDSM is all about whips and
chains?”

“No,” Drake replied adamantly. “Not at all. The basis of the
lifestyle has nothing to do with pain or sex. It’s a power exchange. But we
incorporate sex and pain in our relationship because Trevor likes pain. He
finds freedom in it.”