“Another IPA?” Micah asked the rather squat sub who stood head bowed, eyes averted on the other side of the bar. A single head bob was his answer. The ball gag lodged between his lips prevented him from verbally replying.
He really hoped this sub wasn’t foolish enough to go into a scene with a Dom who’d already consumed three of these beers, but he only served the drinks. The Dungeon Masters monitored the play, and they were all damn good at their jobs.
He set the filled glass on the bar, just out of reach of the sub’s bound arms. He held back his smirk as the man lifted onto his toes and twisted around until he could grab the glass. With his upper arms tied to his sides, elbows braced behind a bar strapped to his back, he almost bumbled the maneuver but managed it. Micah had no problem making a sub work to serve his Master, but he wasn’t the type to set a sub up for failure.
He wiped down the already-clear bar and dried his hands on a towel. Business was slow tonight, typical for a Wednesday. The bar area was stocked and spotless, the three patrons occupying barstools deeply involved in a debate on the pros and cons of a 24/7 slave relationship. Micah had nothing to offer that discussion.
He glanced toward the entrance for what felt like the hundredth time that night. Eager much? His snort of disgust mocked him. It was pure foolishness to be thinking so much about a guy he’d only briefly met. One who was most likely too troubled to give him more than a passing thought.
Here he was—the guy who could get lost in his own damn apartment—lusting after Grady, who was obviously lost within himself right now.
It was a setup for disaster—or a perfect match.
He laughed at his delusion. He was too damn cynical to believe in a perfect anything. Life didn’t work like that and he was living proof of it. As were Finn and Chris. They’d both been vital, strong Doms and that hadn’t stopped life from kicking them in the nuts.
His chest ached with a sharp bite of impotence. There was nothing more he could do for them, except possibly help Grady. That was what he did. It was his way of making sense of his own situation. And sex wasn’t a part of the help equation. Hell, sex wouldn’t be on the table even if the circumstances were different.
Grady had made it clear he wasn’t into the BDSM scene. Neither was Micah, truly. But his situation was unique, and most guys couldn’t understand his needs and limitations, which made his pool of possible sexual partners incredibly small.
Just another truth of his life after his coma.
He finished making a series of drinks that came with an exact list of instructions. No doubt the four Doms would take any mistakes out on the sub. By the gleam in the man’s eye and the slight smirk on his face, this sub was counting on it. He’d been working there long enough for the Doms to know the errors wouldn’t be his, and even if they were, it was the sub’s job to ensure the drinks were correct.
And like slavery, those types of manipulation games weren’t for him.
The entrance door swung open and he looked over to see Grady step into the club. His breath hitched, heart rate ticking up for no logical reason. His skin hummed with the same energy that’d caught him off guard in the hospital.
Grady flashed a quick smile when he spotted Micah. The man really was too damn sexy. He made his way to the bar, strides slow, hips rolling in his torn jeans as his gaze traveled over the room. If Grady was shocked by the view, he hid it well. His black T-shirt was plastered to his chest like a second skin that drew Micah’s gaze. There was power behind his lithe form. Tightly bound and ready to pounce beneath his air of casual indifference.
Micah swallowed and rearranged his dick before it became uncomfortably bent in his leather pants. The man cleaned up nicely, not that the sweaty, post-workout guy hadn’t been hot as hell. Was it intentional? For Micah?
Or was there someone waiting for him at home? Hell, Grady might be straight or in a relationship. But there’d been a definite interest clashing between them earlier.
And interest didn’t mean anything.
“Hey,” Grady said, taking a seat on one of the many open barstools. He glanced behind him, gaze lingering on a thong-clad sub kneeling at his Dom’s feet. “Fascinating place you’ve got here.”
Micah chuckled and tried to see the club through the eyes of someone not accustomed to the collars, nudity, harnesses, gags, and leashes. Not to mention the hoods, plugs, cock rings, and nipple clamps. Most scenes were executed in one of the many other rooms, but there was a sub currently strapped to a bar on the far wall and one splayed ass up over his Dom’s lap.
“It’s a job.” He shrugged it off. “You get used to the view.”
Grady snorted a laugh, which he quickly covered with a cough. “I suppose you do.” He scanned the room one more time. “But I think I prefer the views my job offers.”
Micah took the bait. “What do you do?”
The humor fled Grady’s face in an instant. He dropped his gaze, shifted on his stool. “I was—am—a whitewater river guide. Primarily. I do some other excursions, but rafting’s my forte.” He snatched a bar napkin off a pile, twisting a corner between his fingers.
“And you work at Kick?” Micah ventured, well aware of the business and the partners who frequented Dane’s. Most of them Marines and all of them Doms.
Grady’s head snapped up, eyes wary. He swallowed, a single nod following.
What was he so worried about? “I’m sorry about Chris.”
“You know about Chris?” He jerked around and studied the room again. “Of course you do.” Resigned acceptance hung heavy in his words and posture. “I’m surprised one of the Kick partners isn’t here right now.”
Two were. But it wasn’t Micah’s place to give that information out. He studied Grady, questions mounting, and none of them having to do with Finn or his coma.
“I’m thinking none of this”—he motioned to the bar—“is really new to you, is it?” It was just a hunch, yet Micah wasn’t picking up any of the shocked first-timer vibes that usually emanated from someone newly exposed to the scene.
Grady narrowed his eyes just a touch, his hesitation giving away more than he probably wanted. “No. Not really.”
“Yet this is your first time here,” Micah said. A sub stepped up to the bar, eyes lowered, and Micah chose to let the guy wait. “It’s all right to come in for nothing more than a drink and conversation.”
The corner of Grady’s mouth quirked up. “And there are plenty of other places where I can do that without worrying that every guy is sizing me up for something I have no interest in. Unless…”—he sent a heated glance down Micah’s length that left a trail of fire over his skin—“vanilla is an acceptable flavor here.”
Jesus. Was he serious? His stomach clenched, groin twisting with a burst of interest that had his dick taking too much notice. It was pointless to play this game, yet he couldn’t get himself to let the advance go.
“And vanilla is the only flavor you like?” He leaned on the bar to camouflage the effect Grady’s words had on him, but it also brought them closer. “Have you even tried anything else?” Unexpected, he caught a whiff of warm spice and man. It burned through his system to taunt his desire. Damn. He shouldn’t be able to smell Grady over the overpowering aroma of leather, sweat, and sex.
Grady’s brows rose almost imperceptibly, lips parting before he slowly tucked the bottom one into his mouth. “You don’t have to try something to know it’s not for you. I’ve never tried ballroom dancing, and I know for a fact I would not only hate it but suck at it too. It’s cool for some and there are many who kick ass at it, but ballroom dancing isn’t for me.”
Micah gave in to the laugh that rumbled up his throat. “It’s a good thing this isn’t a dance club then.” Grady’s witty response dodged more than answered, but it really wasn’t his business. He shoved away from the bar and gave his attention to the sub who’d been patiently waiting.
There was little he could do about his erection. Hard dicks were a common sight here. Most wouldn’t think twice about it, and if Grady noticed, so be it.
He took care of a few more orders, then slid a bottle of water in front of Grady. He received a brow flick for the move, but a request for something stronger didn’t come.
“So, the coma thing,” Grady started, glancing at the Doms seated at the end of the bar. He twisted the cap off the bottle and took a drink. Micah waited him out despite the nerves that suddenly tightened across his shoulders. A thousand questions emanated from Grady’s deep brown eyes when he set the water down. “Were you in an accident?”
“No.” Micah had told his story many times since he started volunteering at the hospital, but repetition didn’t make it any easier, especially with people he knew. “I was knocked down by viral encephalitis.”
“Shit.” Grady swiped a hand over his mouth. “What kind?”
Micah didn’t hide his shock. The silent but deadly condition wasn’t exactly well known, let alone that there were a number of different causes. “Does it matter?” he deflected. Yes and no, but most people heard the word herpesviral and thought of sex, not cold sores or chicken pox. “A virus infected my brain and I was in a coma for two and a half weeks.”
Grady studied him, expression flat except for the twitch of a muscle along his jawline. “How old were you?”
“Twenty-three.”
“Damn.”
The low curse carried the pity Micah detested. “That was five years ago.” Long enough to be past feeling sorry for himself. “I’ve recovered. For the most part.”
Grady frowned, studying Micah. “So you still have some long-term side effects?”
He chuckled, some of the tension leaking from his shoulders. “Nicely put.” He ducked the question by moving down the bar to take care of a customer. He wasn’t ready to discuss his condition. Call it selfish, but he didn’t want to give up his normal status in Grady’s eyes. Eyes that tracked him as he filled another order and did his job.
His awareness of the man was so damn intense. He flicked a smile at Grady, pulse increasing when he got one back. What the hell? He was behaving like a besotted sub. That shit had to stop.
He went back to Grady when there was another lull. “I’m not a therapist or expert by any means. But I know what it’s like to be trapped in a dark hell, unable to move when you want more than anything to do just that.”
Grady sucked in a rush of air through his nose. “So you were aware in your coma?”
“A lot of the time, yes.”
He flinched, his fist clenching around the water bottle. It was a moment before he said, “A part of me hopes Finn isn’t like that. He’d hate it.”
“It sucked,” Micah agreed, and the word didn’t come close to the torture it’d been. “Yet it gave me hope and a lot of motivation to wake the hell up.”
“Obviously you did, which means Finn can too.”
Emotions flashed over Grady’s face. So much fear and hope and confusion. He’d seen them all since he’d started volunteering. Whenever a family member heard his history, they linked his outcome to their loved one.
This part always hurt. His heart ached with the desire to give Grady the hope he needed. But he didn’t have a magic wand and he was far from okay. Even if it wasn’t noticeable to others.
“My case was different from Finn’s.” Micah pitched his voice low, careful to keep it neutral. “As much as I act like he’ll wake up, there’s no guarantee. I’m sorry.”
Grady squeezed his eyes closed, shoulders rolling forward. “I know that.” Micah ignored the harsh cut of his tone. “I’ve read the data, listened to the experts. I’ve been there since it happened.” His eyes flashed with defiance when he snapped them open. “I know how long the odds are. I live with them every damn day.”
“It’s hard,” he commiserated. “The accident, Finn, the unknown as you wait for so many answers.”
“Hard?” Grady’s chuckle was dry. “It’s nothing I don’t deserve and nowhere close to what Finn is enduring. Or Chris—” He bit off the last of his words. The guilt was almost a visible companion on Grady’s back as he sucked air into his lungs. The man was going to crumble under the weight if he didn’t let it go.
Empathy rushed through Micah. His family had endured just as much as he had during his illness and recovery. A trauma like that affected everyone connected to the injured person. It was isolating and inclusive at once. And Grady appeared to be holding on by himself.
He leaned across the bar to clasp Grady’s forearm. The muscles bunched and tensed under his palm, the heat of Grady’s skin simmering its warmth into him.
Grady jerked up, lust mixed with angry defiance in his narrowed eyes. There was a dare too. A dare to comfort or condemn?
“It happened to you, too,” he stated, firm and strong.
It was another test of wills, a nonverbal challenge battled through eye contact alone. He refused to back down. Refused to feed Grady’s guilt. He didn’t know the details or circumstances of the accident, but the guy before him was in a downward spiral and he couldn’t let him go.
Grady yanked his arm out of Micah’s grasp and vaulted off the barstool. He shot a last glare at Micah and strode toward the exit, anger screaming from his clipped steps and stiff spine.
“Shit.” He dove around the edge of the bar, his own guilt pushing him. “Grady. Wait.” He’d taken two quick steps before his world shifted.
Damn it. No.
He stumbled, head spinning as everything twisted and fuzzed out. Not fucking now. He caught the back of a chair, his balance off, heartbeat racing with the buzzing dread that prickled over his skin. The chair wobbled, the room tilted, and he was falling. His knee hit the floor, pain jarring through his palm when he tried to stop the crash.
Shouts echoed around him as he tumbled to the wood floor. Darkness encroached on his sight, his breaths quickening with the instantaneous panic that clawed at his chest. One, two, three, four. Counting gave him a focus while his head spun and the sense of disassociation crashed in, like he was a bystander who couldn’t interfere. Couldn’t help or prevent what was coming.
And with it would go all pretense of Grady ever seeing him as normal again.