What the hell have I done?
Grady prowled the small confines of his apartment, each step jarring his sore ankle and nudging his tender balls. A form of self-punishment or a reminder of what he shouldn’t have done—shouldn’t want?
He fell into a chair, a gasp sucking the breath from his lungs when his nuts hit the cushion. The reflexive arch of his spine relieved the pressure until only a dull throb remained. Fucking…There weren’t enough curse words to cover the flexing span of emotions roaring within him.
“Damn it.” His voice rasped over the curse, the sound weaker than the feeling behind it. He dropped his head into his hands, fears and thoughts and doubts tumbling over one another until he swore he was crazy. Insane.
His skin crawled again, an itching drive to run or scream or something. Anxiety swam in his stomach, a toxic mix that slithered up his throat in a sour bid for escape.
He was a mess. A train wreck Micah had tried to fix but couldn’t.
Was he even fixable? Savable? Ha!
He rocked back and forth in an effort to contain his scrambling fears.
Exposed—he’d never felt so open. Flayed apart—and who was going to put him back together?
Micah.
His name rang like a beacon in the encroaching darkness.
He jerked up, anger racing forward. “What in the fuck am I doing?” His question bounced off the walls to slam back at him. “I don’t fucking need someone to make me feel better,” he mumbled, slumping back. Or save me. He stared at the ceiling, denial protecting his pride. “And I sure as fuck don’t need a Dom thinking I’m some damn submissive he can torture at will.” Been there, done that.
The string of lies smacked so hard it fishtailed back to nail him in the gut. I’m not a Dom. How many times had Micah said that? In his heart, he believed it too. Knew it was true.
But that still didn’t define what Grady was. Who he was. Sub, submissive, bottom—did the term really matter? He liked to give up his power to other men. Period.
And that made him weak. No stronger than his mother and exactly what his dad had told him he was. Now Rig and Ash knew it too. How long would it take before everyone at Kick knew? Is that when they’d realize their mistake and withdraw the partnership offer?
He dug his fingers into his hair, tugging hard before he let his hands fall to his sides. His thoughts had circled in this endless loop since he’d awoken, tucked protectively within Micah’s embrace.
A sigh rolled out. His muscles relaxed just thinking of how amazing it’d been to be in Micah’s arms. Protected and…loved.
Was it though? Really? How could it be? They’d only known each other a few weeks. Casual sex didn’t equal love. Christ. Being tied down, teased, and hurt until he flew so high he didn’t care what happened to him wasn’t love. James had proven that.
And if that was the only thing between him and Micah, he wouldn’t be spinning out of control right now. Wanting to run yet for the first time ever not wanting to leave.
He’d given his trust to Micah almost from the first, and it hadn’t been abused or disused either. Not yet at least. He forced himself to remember how James had moved slowly, taking months to exert his control over Grady.
The memory surfaced of Micah’s fortifying hold and the don’t-fuck-with-me tone he’d used in the hallway last night with Rig and Ash. Was that the real him? The Dom in hiding?
His gut said no, but he’d still been flying, a heady concoction of adrenaline and endorphins overwhelming his system, the rush exactly what he’d needed. Giving everything over to Micah in that moment had been…terrifying? Exhilarating? Exposing? Right?
Insanely weak?
A rapid, sharp knock blasted through the room. He jolted upright to stare at the door. His heart leapt into his throat, pulse skyrocketing in the instant it took to process the meaning behind the sound.
Micah didn’t know where he lived. He’d never shared that information with him. The only people who had his address were employed by Kick.
The knock came again, harder and more insistent. “Grady.” The shout was muffled but clear. “Open the damn door.”
Rig. His heart sank, stomach knotting tighter.
His gaze shot to his phone where it sat turned off and silent on the battered coffee table. Apparently Rig wasn’t waiting for him to come into the office to call him on last night. Of course not.
He limped to the door, an empty sense of finality settling over him. He could go anywhere now—or as soon as Finn was better. He didn’t have to stay at Kick. But he would face Rig. He wasn’t that much of a wimp.
And he’d snuck away from Micah in the middle of the night because he was so strong. Right.
The door opened on a whine of old hinges. His scoff was out a moment later. “Great. A double team.” He turned away, uncaring if Rig and Ash followed.
The five steps it took to reach his tiny kitchen stretched like a mile. He yanked the mini-fridge open, hand closing around a beer bottle only to freeze. One held breath and he grabbed a water instead. Alcohol wouldn’t help him.
He faced them, shields up, battle plan formulating.
The door was shut and his already-small place became even tinier with the two of them standing in the middle of the room. Ash’s gaze traveled over the plastic bins holding his clothes and the twin bed shoved against the wall, an unzipped sleeping bag for a cover. His gear took up most of one wall. Paddles, PFDs, ropes, rigging, safety packs, dry and wet suits, camping equipment—everything organized and ready to go at a moment’s notice. He could have it all loaded in his car within an hour.
“We’ve been trying to reach you,” Ash said, getting straight to the point.
“And I’ve been avoiding you,” Grady countered, too tired to lie. He set the unopened water down and braced his hands on the counter behind him.
“Why?” Ash’s cool reserve frosted over Grady in that superior way of his. Always dressed crisp and neat, not a hair out of place, he exuded confidence with every breath.
“Does it matter?” he deflected, chest contracting around everything he shouldn’t—couldn’t—want. Micah. The partnership. Friends. A place to belong. Nerves swelled in his stomach, combining with the earlier knot to lodge heavy and hard.
“Yes,” Rig insisted. “It does.” He stepped closer, conviction deepening his tone. “You’re new to Kick and shit came down on you before you found your footing with us. But you’ve seen how we work. We’re a team.” He let that sink in for a moment. “We’ve watched out for you as much as you’d let us, and we gave you the space you seemed to want.”
“Forced us to keep is more like it,” Ash interjected.
Rig scowled at him and Ash shrugged. Grady couldn’t object either. Ash was right.
He ducked his head. The knowledge wrapped around his longing to shame him. But he’d had his reasons for keeping his distance. Ones that still applied.
“But we’re here if—when—you need us.” Rig paused until Grady lifted his head to meet his gaze. Rig’s promise flew over the short distance to beckon him. “We’re all hoping you’ll take the partnership offer, but if you’re not ready for that or don’t want it, we understand. You’re welcome as an employee too.”
“Either way, I’d still like your help defining how and where we can expand our whitewater offerings,” Ash said. “Plus we could really use you on the river right now.”
Shit. He clenched his teeth, his want threatening to burst free. He couldn’t let it though. Couldn’t dream that far only to have it crushed yet again. Not when there was the big stinking elephant of last night sitting between them.
“I can’t go on the river yet. Not with my ankle.” Grady glanced at his wrapped foot, skirting their eyes and avoiding the rest of what they’d said.
“What happened?” Rig asked, crossing his arms over his chest. Like he needed to emphasize his girth more.
He shrugged it off. “Tripped while running.”
Ash’s short laugh matched the disbelief in his smile. “Are you sure about that?”
“Yes.” Grady scowled, defenses rising higher.
Ash shook his head, then grilled Grady from behind his glasses, eyes narrowing.
He clamped his lips tight and refused to defend himself. It’d only prolong their visit when he just wanted them gone.
“God, you’re a stubborn fuck.” The growl in Rig’s voice was typical of him and tugged a dry laugh from Grady. Hadn’t Micah said the same thing at some point?
The silence stretched while Grady noticed every worn spot in the industrial carpet near his feet. The hairs stood up on the back of his neck, the cold of the encroaching doom climbing over his skin.
“What’s going on?” Rig asked, cutting through Grady’s bullshit with his clipped tone.
“Nothing.” He forced himself to look up.
Ash scoffed. “You’re a sucky liar.”
He glared between the two, jaw tight, his denial locked behind the truth. He tucked his hands under his arms to keep them still, the energy racing through his system in search of an escape route.
“You’re damn good at what you do.” Rig’s calm tone failed to work on Grady. “Finn and Chris wouldn’t have trusted you on that river if you weren’t.”
Grady squeezed his eyes closed. There was no way he’d let the prickling burn out. Not in front of them.
“Everyone accepts that it was an accident,” Rig went on. “A fucking awful one, yes, but still an accident. The only one who doesn’t seem to get it is you.”
Damn it, no. He sniffed, rubbed at the itch in his nose, throat working to cut the tightness.
“You’re a whitewater rafting guide,” Ash stated.
“No fuck,” he lashed out, desperate to siphon off the pain wrenching his chest in two.
“Then get your ass back out there.”
“I will when I’m ready,” he snapped. He’d been waiting for almost two months to get back on the river, and now he couldn’t with Kick. He couldn’t go through each day worrying about what everyone knew and thought of him. Second-guessing every look or comment until he drove himself crazy.
“That’s your fear talking.” Ash shook his head, sighing. “So which is worse? The fear of getting back on the water or working with us? Because if it’s the latter, you need to get your head out of your ass and come back to work.” He paused. Smirked. “Or do we need to talk to your Dom about that?”
The blow hit him so low and smooth there was no way to prepare for it. His mouth worked but nothing came out, long seconds passing as he tried to regroup. He finally managed to bark out a jagged laugh, each forced roll tripping over another piece of fear.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” He clamped his arms tightly around himself in a last-ditch effort to hold in the crumbling walls of his defenses.
“Did he do that?” Rig nodded to Grady’s ankle.
“No,” he insisted. “I told you I tripped jogging. Micah would never do anything to hurt me.” There was no point in pretending he didn’t know who they were talking about. “At least not in a way that I didn’t want him to.” The admission came out in defense of Micah. He wouldn’t let them think badly of him. He didn’t deserve it and Grady couldn’t throw him under the bus when he was the one who’d needed Micah last night.
Ash shrugged. “You wouldn’t be the first sub who defended his Dom when he should’ve been asking for help.”
Rejection rushed up Grady’s throat in a sour taste of wrongness. His head was shaking before he thought. “It’s not like that.” Not at all. God, how he knew the difference.
He froze. He knew the difference. The certainty sunk into him. He leaned back, tracking that logic down until a portion of his fear slid free. He knew what an abusive relationship was like, and he’d never allow himself to be in one again, no matter what his desires craved.
“Then what’s it like?” Rig asked.
He took a slow breath. “It’s really none of your business.”
“We’re concerned,” Rig said, voice lowered. “That’s all. You’re new to the scene—or you are at least as far as we know. And with Finn being down”—he glanced at Ash—“we just want to be sure you know what you’re doing. That you’re safe.”
He studied their expressions, getting very little from them. But intuitively he believed what Rig was saying even if he didn’t trust it. They’d never lied to him before, as far as he knew. No one at Kick had. And Finn had trusted and believed in them. That said a lot.
“I had a drink at Dane’s,” he confided. “I’ve talked to Micah because he has experience with coma patients. He’s a good guy. You should know that.” His heart raced with what he was revealing. Nothing much, but more than he’d ever thought he would.
Ash tilted his head, eyes narrowed. “What was last night?”
He frowned. “What does it matter?” The urge to protect what he and Micah had roared up to reinforce his defiance.
“Micah was pretty damn possessive and you were so deep in subspace you didn’t even respond to us in the hallway.” Ash’s steady stare dared Grady to deny him.
He wanted to, damn, how he wanted to. His breaths came in short bursts he tried to control but couldn’t.
“He’s not my Dom. I’m not a sub,” he insisted, his denial so ingrained he couldn’t stop it. But that much was true. Whatever they were together, it wasn’t that. Apparently the terminology did matter.
“No?” Rig flicked a brow up. “It’s not an issue. You know that, right?”
For Rig, maybe.
Old panic clutched his chest. Could he really believe that? Them? Words were different from actions and they were the Doms. Would he lose their respect, their friendships over time? And with it any chance at finally belonging somewhere?
“You’re running from that too?” Ash scoffed. He looked away, lips compressing. “If you’re a sub, own it and be done. None of us give a fuck.”
Shitshitshit. There was no way this was happening. “I’m not a sub,” he insisted, fists clenched tight at his sides. But they weren’t listening to him. They’d already formed their opinion and the sub label was stuck on him whether it was true or not.
“Whatever.” Ash waved him off and opened the door. “You’re expected at the office tomorrow unless you submit your resignation.” He left without a backward glance, the crisp material of his khakis swishing with each stride.
Rig studied him, expression stoic. “You can talk to me whenever you want. About anything.” He took a step to leave, paused. “I know you’re hurting. We all are. Just don’t let your pain make you do something you’ll regret.”
Grady couldn’t respond, refused to even look at him. There was nothing left to say that wouldn’t bury him deeper or destroy him completely.
The hinges creaked their protest as Rig shut the door behind him. The following silence was shattered by the roar in his ears. He rolled forward, breaths gusting out too quickly to fill his lungs. His head spun, darkness creeping in on the edges of his vision.
They believed he was a sub.
It no longer mattered what Grady thought. What he believed and knew. How long would it take for the rest of the partners to brand him as the submissive? Proving himself after that would be impossible. They’d lose their respect for him and eventually they’d reject him. Experience told him that, even if none of them had done a thing to prove his conclusions as truth.
He jerked up, a wave of dizziness tilting him sideways. He stumbled, caught his weight on his injured ankle. The jab of pain flashed up his leg and raced straight to his sore balls. Imagined or not, the double-barrel shot of agony grounded him.
Brought him back.
Was he overreacting? Jumping to conclusions based on the past, not the present? There was no way to know. Not without testing them. Seeing how they reacted and if their behavior toward him changed after they saw him as a sub.
He didn’t think of himself as Micah’s sub, but their perception mattered more than the truth. He huffed out a sardonic laugh. Wasn’t that always the case? It had been the reality through all of his fucking life. From the scrawny weakling to the pansy-ass faggot to the desperate submissive.
Which led him to one big question: How did Micah see him?