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Restless, Ryker stoked the fire in the
fireplace and added more wood, glad it was stacked on the porch so he didn’t
have to be out in the cold too long to grab it. Winter had always been his
favorite season, for the fresh powder and the snowboarding, the snowmobiles and
how much fun it had always been to play paintball in snowshoes and watch the
landscape dotted with colors by the time they were done.
At least in those skirmishes, everyone
walked away unscathed save for the occasional bruises. His arm ached and his
back twinged, but it was the echo of memories in his head that kept him pacing,
rummaging for a distraction to occupy his time. He came up with a deck of cards
and absolutely no desire for playing solitaire, so he tossed them back in the
drawer. There was a TV with no movies, and a video game console with no games.
A quick search of the bookcase shelf beside the window yielded several old favorites
though, so he snatched up a collection of Poe’s poetry and dropped into a
chair.
Less than an hour later, he was
restless again and pacing.
The words hadn’t helped settle him—if
anything they’d been too dark, full of loss and pain, ushering in more ghosts,
leaving him straining to hear every sound, wondering if there was something
sinister attached to them. Hands rubbing together, he looked for a way to
ground himself, as the sounds warped, shifted, began the ghostly echo of a
moment he had no desire to remember. His heart was hammering, and he no longer
cared if Jesse wanted him to stay away, he was going down the hall and beating
on the door if only to fight with the other man for a little while and take his
mind off the crash of memories trampling through his brain.
Only, music reached him as he
approached, and a honey-smooth voice singing made him shiver and think back on
all those times he’d put in the CDs Kyle sent and lost himself in his cousin’s
music at the end of a long, dirty, dusty, and sometimes bloody day. He paused,
hand raised, prepared to knock, when the words smashed into him.
“I can’t fight these demons closing in.
These lonely nights—they never seem to end. If I could bleed all my fears into
the dust and shake this hollow husk, I’d be free again. But there’s no end from
this pain I cannot voice, from the hate I feel, and the rage I fight, and the nights
I long to die. How can you save me when I can’t save myself? How can you see
me, when my colors bleed, and the light inside me fades to gray? Have mercy,
please; pierce me with your blade; kiss me gently. Let me go.”
Ryker shivered.
It wasn’t one of the band’s songs he’d
ever heard before; in fact, when Jesse sang it again a few of the words changed,
and he realized then this was something he was creating, something that maybe
was a raw honesty he’d never shared with anyone else.
He knew what it was like to plead for
something. Not death—he’d fought too damn hard to survive to ever want to give
in to that. But the peace that eluded him was something he’d plead for. A break
from memories and guilt—a day, or better still, a night when his mistakes
didn’t play over and over in his head.
He should have done more. Should have
seen the signs. Should have been faster. Should have saved them.
Ryker stared at the closed door,
listening to the soft guitar chords drifting out into the hall. Lingering
echoes of his nightmare jackknifed through his mind in bright flashes and metal
tossed so high it obscured the sun. Gritting his teeth, he tried not to brush
his hands down his arms, seeking the phantom dirt and blood his mind
insistently screamed was clinging to his skin.
You’re
not there anymore. You’re here. You’re safe.
He whispered it over and over, a
mantra, a prayer for peace that fell into rhythm with the heartbreakingly
haunting notes Jesse was wringing from the guitar. He wished he could shove the
door open, crawl across the floor, press his front to Jesse’s back, wrap his
arms around his body, bury his nose in Jesse’s hair, and breathe in his scent.
Anything to ground himself.
After Jesse’s shower last night, the
bathroom had smelled like rain in the forest: woody, earthy, taking Ryker back
to a time before he’d left Vermont. Home. Jesse smelled like home, and all
Ryker wanted in that moment was to get closer. Replace the guitar in Jesse’s
lap with his head and cling there until the last of the nightmares were gone.
Instead, he slid down the wall, fingers
gripping his hair so tightly he could feel his fingertips pressing into his
scalp. In the back of his mind, everyone was still screaming, he was still
screaming into the com, ineffable horrors taking place around him. Squeezing
his eyes shut, he willed the visions away. Told himself to focus on the music
and the soft tenor of Jesse’s voice accompanying it.
Breathe in
Breathe out
You’re
not there anymore. You’re here. You’re safe.
Jesse’s lilting voice rose above the
chaos crashing through his mind, wrapping around him, helping him to keep his
breathing even.
“I don’t wanna fight these demons
closing in. This one last night, I pray that it’s the end. I wanna bleed my
fears into the dust, shake this hollow husk, be free again. From this pain I
cannot voice, from the ghosts I fear to trust, from the hate I feel, and the
rage I fight, and the nights I long to die. How can you save me when I will not
save myself? How can you see me when all my colors bleed, when the light inside
me fades, when hopes dies, and dreams burn, and still I lie and say I’m good,
all good? Have mercy, please; pierce me with your blade; kiss me gently. Let me
go.”
So different that time, from breaking
to completely ruined. Ryker wondered if that’s what he was going for, if that
was what he felt, what had driven him to the mountains and made him hide inside
his room. Secrets, grief, regrets, in those words Jesse sang, Ryker saw a
reflection of himself in his lowest moments when he’d come so close to giving
up.
Resting his head against the door, he focused on Jesse singing, wishing he was on the other side where it wasn’t so lonely and cold. Wishing Jesse would sing something a little brighter, something with a shred of hope to chase away the storm before it drowned them both.
The words were wrong. They weren’t
visceral enough, and they weren’t honest enough for the sheer disgust and
self-loathing he felt. He struggled to describe the acts he wanted, the ragged
grating of sandpaper scouring every touch and memory from his flesh until it
all bled. Maybe then he’d stop feeling those phantom caresses, sloppy kisses,
hands groping and pinching and firmly holding him in place; the voice harping
on every failure and plucking at every flaw.
Such a stupid, stupid thing he’d done
in forgiving that first betrayal, in accepting apologies for the backhand to
the cheek that had left his head reeling. Instead of ending the relationship, he’d
carefully blended away the bruise with makeup, accepted the hugs, the promises,
and the fancy dinner Troy had taken him out to after the show. He’d accepted
the attention and the affection, the guitar necklace, and bondage cuffs, and
when that jealous, possessive streak had reared its head a second time, he’d
once again conceded that maybe he was the one at fault. Maybe he flaunted
himself both on and off the stage, flirted too much, let the fans get too
close, let people grab and touch and hug while he smiled, basking in the fact
that they loved his music, never taking a moment to think of how badly it might
hurt the man who loved him.
Because that’s really all it had ever
been. A longing for their praise of his creations, not for their praise of him.
He’d never considered himself anything special, but the music, the words that
seemed to pour down from the cosmos and explode out through his hands—those
were the true gems—and he worked very hard at displaying them in a way the
whole world could see.
He’d tried dialing it back. In the end,
he’d withdrawn from everyone, having no desire to have even the slightest thing
be provocation for a man he’d been too terrified of by that point to ever tell him
to go to hell.
Pouring his soul into the notes, he tweaked
and retweaked the lyrics as he went along, the day fading into night, until
hunger rolled through him again, and he checked the clock. It was well after
ten, and the house was silent. His fingers hurt, and his back spasmed when he
attempted to straighten up. He groaned in pain and lovingly placed the guitar
in its stand, then arched his back, listening to it pop before he rotated his
neck, hearing a sharp crack preceding an instant burst of relief. He knew
better than to play so long without a break. His old man would have chided him
for not taking care of his body, treating it like it was a part of the
instrument he played. Maybe later, he’d set an alarm to keep himself from
playing all night.
Standing, he headed out the door, only
to trip and land half sprawled across a large, hard form. Scrambling backward,
Jesse retreated into his room and stared at the sleeping form slumped in the
hallway. For his part, Ryker just grunted and was silent again, head pillowed
on his arms, legs drawn up. For a moment, Jesse sat there staring at the
sleeping form, wondering what in the world had possessed him to fall asleep in
such an uncomfortable spot.
Behind Ryker lay the empty hall and
firelight. He told himself this might be the best opportunity he had to grab
his food and store it in his room. Still, it bothered him seeing Ryker looking
so vulnerable, with his brows knitted together, and the downturned frown. So
severe and…sad. He went to the living room and grabbed a couple of throws,
returned to the hall, and carefully covered Ryker with them, praying he
wouldn’t wake up. Had he been listening to Jesse’s music?
The thought made him blush with how
rough the song had been. He hated for anyone to listen while he created; he
always felt so dumb, fumbling around trying to piece his thoughts together. For
a moment, he lingered beside Ryker, wondering if he should wake the man and
send him off to his bed, but an image of Troy flashed through his head,
reminding him of the damage big men could do if they set their minds on it. In
the end, he settled for hurrying to the kitchen and grabbing his stash of
booze, canned foods, boxed snacks, cereal, and a garbage bag. It wasn’t the
healthiest collection of edibles. The canned stuff he’d have to eat cold, and
the cereal he’d have to eat dry, but it was better than starving until he was
about to pass out. At least, all his cans were pull tabs. Taking the can opener
would mean Ryker would come knocking on his door the moment he needed it.
Before he closed the door behind him, he stared down at Ryker once more, still bewildered about why he’d chosen to sleep there, of all uncomfortable places. There was another bedroom, not to mention the couch, both warmer and far more luxurious. It wasn’t like the hall was wide, either—even Jesse couldn’t lie across it without scrunching up. It didn’t make any sense. With a sigh, he closed the door softly, not wanting to disturb the sleeping man. But the sight of him sleeping there played over and over in his head, even when he tried to sing it away. In the end, he opened the door a little, changed the tune to something softer, older, and left it that way until he was too tired to play another chord. Only then did he close it and lock it again before settling into sleep.
*****
Ryker woke with a crick in his neck and
a dull pain in his hip. Groaning, he rolled onto his back, batting at the cloth
that suddenly tangled around his hands. What
the hell? Yanking at it, he found it was stuck firm, half trapped
underneath his body. Wiggling, he tugged and pulled until he could wad it up
and shove it beneath his head. He hadn’t brought blankets with him when he’d
come down the hall, had he? No, he’d only meant to knock on Jesse’s door, not
linger there. Which meant Jesse had to have emerged and discovered him at some
point. Ryker ran his fingers over the cloth, soft, warm. Why hadn’t Jesse just
woken him? Ordered him back up the hall with grumbling curses and a demand he
stay away. Why be so kind as to cover him up? He lay there, pondering that for
a while, trying to ignore the constant pressure in his bladder reminding him he
needed to piss. The cabin was silent; he couldn’t even hear the crackle of a
fire in the fireplace anymore. Opening his eyes a little more, he determined
that it was barely sunrise, everything soft and quiet. He rolled over, stood, and
pressed his cheek to the door to see if Jesse was still playing, only to be met
with silence.
He hurried to the bathroom to relieve
himself, washed his hands, and walked to the kitchen, rubbing the ache in his
hip. He’d never meant to fall asleep, just rest his eyes for a little while but
the music had been so comforting. Hell, just knowing he wasn’t alone had been
comforting.
Flipping on the light and opening the
cupboard, he sought out the cereal he’d brought, wanting something quick to
fill his belly and immediately noticed the stack of cans that had previously filled
one shelf were gone. Ryker paused, fingers poised to grab his cereal box,
suddenly very, very afraid he was alone, that Jesse had not only slipped past
him but left in the middle of the full fury of the storm.
No, certainly he wouldn’t do something
so stupid, so reckless…
Ryker ignored the cereal for the moment
to hurry to the front door and yank it open. It was next to impossible to see
anything through the dim light and snow. He couldn’t see his own truck, let
alone Jesse’s. He glanced back toward the hallway, then back into the night. He
could knock and maybe wake him, but after Jesse’s kindness with the blankets
the last thing Ryker wished to do was piss him off. That only left one option.
He closed the door long enough to tug
on his boots and coat and then retrieved his heavy-duty flashlight before
plunging out into the storm. He lined up with the front of the porch, knowing
that as long as he put one foot in front of the other and didn’t waver left or right,
he’d reach the trucks.
The wind howled as the snow fell fast
and furious, stinging his face. He stumbled, foot skidding out from beneath him
and plunging him sideways into a drift. Shivering, he shoved to his feet,
muttering curses as he shone the light at the ground so he could align himself
with his footsteps again.
This is stupid and dangerous, too, he thought when he noted the way the
wind was already beginning to erase them. Still, he had to know. Forging ahead,
he finally caught a glimpse of color in the light. Green, thank God. Ryker
braced himself against the passenger door, nearly sagging with relief. If
anything, the winds seemed to intensify, and Ryker was very aware of the fact
that he was the one in peril and needed to get his ass back inside. It was slow
going, but he made it back to the porch and groaned with relief. Neither of
them would be leaving anytime soon, which might give him a chance to convince
Jesse to stay. If tonight had shown him anything, it was that there was no way
he’d be able to stay here alone for long.
Ryker Jorgensen left the VA hospital with a bunch of prescriptions and pamphlets on how to deal with reentering the civilian world, not that he’s in any hurry to do so. His nightmares still keep him up at night, and every new limitation he discovers gives him more reason to believe that he’s hopelessly useless now. Better to drive up to his cousin’s cabin and lick his wounds. Come spring, maybe, he’d look into being around people, if only for long enough to make the kind of money he’d need to buy his own secluded place.
The last thing he ever expected to see was the man whose face had been plastered in his footlocker and his dreams for the better part of the past six years, but Jesse Winters is nothing like he imagined. When trying to leave Ryker out in the storm doesn’t work, Jesse resorts to ignoring him. But two wounded souls trapped in a snowed-in cabin have little choice but to reach out for one another when emotions get frayed. His only hope is that Jesse will trust him enough to let him drag him back from the edge before he’s just another burned-out star in the legacy that is rock n’ roll.
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