Nothing Between Us by Roni Loren
One of the men smiled in that ain’t-no-thing kind of way and turned back to his friends. Good. Message received.
The motel wasn’t big, and Colby found Keats’s room without much trouble. But when he lifted his hand to knock, he heard a crashing sound from inside and angry voices. Every part of him went on alert. He grabbed the door handle and shoved. The door hadn’t clicked into the lock and it swung open easily, but what was on the other side was much worse than he expected. Keats was in a tangle, scrapping with some greasy-haired dude, fists flying. Before Colby could even process what he was seeing, the other guy broke free and shoved Keats onto the floor. The resounding thump of Keats hitting the ground snapped Colby out of his momentary shock.
Colby didn’t think. He launched himself at the guy. Surprise and size were on his side, and he propelled the man into the wall. The cheap drywall rattled behind him as the guy slammed against it. The man tried to swing out at Colby, but he was too disoriented to land a punch with any accuracy.
Colby pressed his forearm against the guy’s throat. Keats must’ve already landed a few good punches. The dude’s nose was bleeding and his jaw was starting to swell. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
The guy struggled and spat. “This fucker stole from me. I’m here to collect.”
Colby peered over his shoulder at Keats.
Keats got to his knees and wiped his bloody mouth with his forearm. “I don’t owe you shit, Hank. Talk to your goddamned sister. She’s the one stealing from you.”
“You fucking—” Hank lurched, but Colby held fast.
“If I were you, Hank, I’d stop struggling and watch how you talk to my friend,” Colby said calmly, even though he really wanted to slam this guy to the floor and beat him like Hank had been doing to Keats. “I’d hate to have to crush your windpipe.”
A wild look flashed through Hank’s dilated eyes and he reared back. Colby saw the head butt coming half a second before it would’ve connected. Colby tilted to the right to dodge the attempt. But the click of something deadly had his heart stilling.
Colby turned, finding Keats holding a gun with hands as steady as a surgeon’s. His eye was already swelling and his lip was cut. “Hank, you need to get the hell out of here and drop this. I don’t owe you any money. Nina’s just pointing that shit at me because she’s mad we broke up.”
“Liar!”
“You want to argue with me right now?” Keats asked, voice cold, gun trained on Hank. “You think I have anything to lose if I pull this trigger? Look around, what do I have to fucking lose?”
Hank’s Adam’s apple bobbed beneath Colby’s forearm.
“Listen,” Colby said in a quiet voice. “You know you’ve got no chance against me or that gun. But this doesn’t need to turn into anything. You walk out that door, leave him the fuck alone, and this is done.”
Hank didn’t respond at first, and Keats stepped closer. That was when Hank finally saw the light of logic. “Fine.”
Colby eyed Keats and tipped his head toward him, letting him know the direction he was going. Then he eased his forearm from Hank’s throat and grabbed the guy’s bicep in a firm grip. “Move.”
Hank seemed to grow a few brain cells because he didn’t try to fight. Colby led him out the door and ushered him into the parking lot with a few more warning words. He let him go but didn’t take his eyes off him. The guy was hyped up on something and could make another rash move at any moment. So Colby returned to the doorway, walking backward, and didn’t move away until Hank crossed the parking lot and climbed into a beat-up black Mustang and drove off with a fuck you and a one-finger salute. Only when the taillights winked out of sight did Colby let his shoulders relax. The bed squeaked behind him as Keats dropped onto the mattress.
Colby shut the door and locked it, adding the chain to it for good measure, then went over to the bed. Keats was hunched over, holding his side, and cursing under his breath. The gun was on the side table. Colby went to the gun first and checked that the safety was back on.
“What are you doing here?” Keats asked, letting out a soft groan when he tried to turn to look at Colby.
“A gun, Keats?”
He flinched at Colby’s tone, or maybe it was from pain. “Yeah. It’s the one I stole from my father when I ran away. I’ve never had to fire it, but you have to protect yourself.”
Colby sighed and crouched down in front of him. He grasped Keats’s chin and tilted his face toward the light. The skin hadn’t been broken except for the minor cut on his mouth, but he’d probably have a black eye tomorrow. “Do you need a hospital?”
Keats licked the spot of blood off his lip and gingerly pressed at his ribs. “No, I don’t think anything’s broken. Luckily, he wasn’t wearing his steel-toed boots tonight.”
Colby rubbed a hand over his face. “Fuck.”
“Look, it’s not a big deal, all right?” Keats said, the tightness in his voice making lies out of the words. “Just a few war wounds. I’ll be all right.”
“Yeah, you will. Pack your shit.”
“What?”
“You’re coming home with me and never coming back here.” Colby stood and walked to the window to make sure Hank didn’t return for a second round with his own weapon.
“Colby—”
“This isn’t a negotiation,” he snapped.
“But—”
He stared out the window, trying to keep the reins on his temper. “Did that guy have a reason for coming after you?”
“No, my ex is throwing me under the bus. I didn’t take his stash.”
He looked his way. “You do drugs, Keats? Sell them?”
Keats’s movements were slow and tentative as he pushed up from the bed to a stand. “No, not anymore.”
“Meaning?”
“I used to sell weed when I first got out on my own to make some quick cash. But the guys I sold for wanted me to get into the harder stuff. I wasn’t up for that. I try to stay away from things that will get me arrested or dead.”
“Fantastic,” Colby said with exaggerated enthusiasm. He stalked to the other side of the room and opened the closet. A large duffel bag was on the ground. He grabbed it and tossed it onto the bed. “Then you should have no problem coming with me. Because right now, listening to me is what’s going to keep you from getting arrested or dead.”
Colby folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the wall, daring Keats to challenge him again on this. But after a brief stare-off, Keats swore under his breath and started packing.
FOURTEEN
The ride back to Colby’s place was a quick and quiet one, and Keats was looking forward to crawling into bed and passing out. His head was pounding, it hurt to move, and his eye felt like it had its own heartbeat. He just wanted to sleep for a few days. But Colby had other ideas because not twenty minutes after they’d gotten back and Keats had lowered himself onto the bed, Colby was back in the guest room.
Colby leaned over the bed, frowning. “Lie still. I’m going to take a look.”
“I’m fine.” But Keats’s fingers dug into the sheets when Colby dragged Keats’s shirt up and off to inspect his back and ribs. The soreness was settling in now, and even the brush of cotton over his skin felt like too much. Colby pressed a warm palm along his side, applying the barest amount of pressure.
“Any trouble taking a full breath?”
“Not really.” Keats demonstrated and managed to keep his grunt of pain to himself. “I cracked a rib in middle school. This doesn’t feel like that. I’ll be all right.”
Colby leaned back, looking unmoved. “We’ll see. I have a doctor coming over to check you out anyway.”
Keats rolled onto his stomach too quickly, sending a sharp pain up his side, and his breath left him for a moment. “What?”
Colby hooked his thumbs in the pocket of his jeans. ?
“You know a guy?” Keats asked, adjusting the pillow beneath his head and trying to keep the bracing pain each movement caused from showing on his face. “Did you forget to tell me you were in the mafia or something?”
Colby smirked, his dimple making him look like a mischievous kid. “Not the mafia.”
A few minutes later, the doorbell rang and Colby left the room. Keats pulled the blanket over himself and let his face drop back onto the pillow. The last thing he wanted to do was see a damn doctor. He just wanted to crash and forget tonight ever happened. But Colby wasn’t going to be swayed, so he’d have to grit his teeth and get through this.
Footsteps and voices sounded in the hall, and Colby returned to the room with his guest. “Keats, this is Dr. Montgomery. He’s going to take a look at you. Let him.”
Keats kept his face planted in the pillow. “Please tell me you come bearing fistfuls of pain pills.”
The doctor sniffed. “Rough night, huh? Why don’t we see what we’re dealing with?”
Keats peeked out with his good eye, surprised that the doctor seemed vaguely amused. Colby leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb, obviously intending to stay for the exam, and Dr. Montgomery—who was hard to think of as a doctor with his jeans and faded Oregon Ducks T-shirt—came to the side of the bed. At least he had a stethoscope around his neck. Keats gingerly rolled onto his back and moved the blanket aside.
The doc recoiled.
“Jesus.” Anger crossed his features. He sent a hard look toward Colby, accusation in his eyes. “What the hell did you do, Wilkes?”
Colby frowned deep, his gaze darting to Keats for a brief second before returning to the doc. “Seriously, Theo? You know me better than that. The guy got in a fight.”
“Oh.” The doc’s shoulders sagged as he released a breath. “Sorry. I just—”
Colby waved it off, though he still looked annoyed. “Just make sure he’s okay.”
Keats peered back and forth between them, trying to figure out what was going on. Why would the doctor think that Colby had hurt him?
The exam proceeded without many words exchanged. Dr. Montgomery poked and prodded, asked a few questions about pain levels, and checked Keats’s vitals. When he seemed satisfied, he stood and declared that Keats had bruised ribs and a mild allergic reaction to ant bites but was otherwise okay. Then the bastard prescribed regular ol’ ibuprofen because he figured Keats “could handle a little discomfort” and prescribing pain meds outside the hospital could raise eyebrows.
Colby thanked the doctor and walked him out, leaving Keats not much better off than he had been before the doctor came. When Colby darkened the doorway again, the grim expression he’d been wearing since he’d found Keats at the motel had softened a bit—relief. So Colby really had been worried. That concern burrowed into Keats and settled into a place he didn’t want to examine. He shifted on the bed. “Well, a helluva lot of good he did me. Ibuprofen and rest. I could’ve told him that. And where does he get off knowing what I can and can’t handle? This shit hurts.”
“All the tattoos and the fact that you’re at my place probably gave him that idea.” Colby gave him a wry smile. “He thinks you’re a masochist who’s used to handling pain.”
“Why the fuck would he think—” Then it hit him. “Shit. He thinks I’m like—”
“Mine,” Colby said, leaning against the wall and looking way too entertained by Keats’s reaction. “He thinks you’re my submissive. That’s why he was pissed when he saw how hurt you were. He thought he was coming over to tend a few battle scars after a fun night. That’s usually what he’s called in for.”
Keats’s lips parted, the information almost too much to process. “Usually? You injure people often?”
“No. I hurt people often, but with their permission, and I know what I’m doing. I’ve never had to call in Theo for one of my own. But I work at a kink resort on the weekends as a trainer, and Theo’s the go-to guy if something goes wrong. Accidents can happen.”
“So he’s like—fine with all of that?”
Colby shrugged. “He’s part of all of that. Very popular with the female dommes at The Ranch. Excellently trained submissive.”
Keats scooted up the headboard and raked a hand through his knotted hair while trying to picture the smug doctor kneeling at some woman’s feet. “I don’t get it. The guy seems like a bossy asshole. I wouldn’t think he’d be the type—”
“There is no type,” Colby said simply. “The man’s a world-class trauma surgeon. Successful, well respected, in charge in his day-to-day world. But behind closed doors, he likes something different. What people are on the outside doesn’t always match the desires hiding beneath the surface.”
Keats considered that. “I guess I just had an image of what a submissive guy would be like, and I was expecting some wimpy dude who wanted someone to take care of him.”
Colby rubbed a hand along his jaw, observing him in that way that made Keats want to squirm. “Submission takes more bravery than anything else—especially for a guy because of all the stereotypes out there. Putting complete trust in someone else, someone who happens to enjoy using implements of torture on you? Cowards wouldn’t go near a dom. And yes, a dominant takes care of his or her submissive, but that goes both ways. Some of the worst fights I’ve seen in my years in the kink world are submissives going into protective mode when someone tries to mess with their dominant.”
“I guess it’s just hard for me to understand it.”
“Is it?” Colby asked with a little head tilt. “Last night in the kitchen, you said you were fine suffering the torture of listening if it turned Georgia on. You said there wasn’t much you wouldn’t do to please a beautiful woman.”
Keats blinked. “All I meant—”
Colby held up a hand, halting him. “So if Georgia wanted to tie your hands behind your back, put you on your knees, and demand that you make her come, that would turn you off?”
Keats groaned at the image, a twinge of heat sparking low. “Well, fuck, of course it wouldn’t. But what guy wouldn’t be turned on by that?”
“I wouldn’t,” Colby said matter-of-factly. “I had to do submissive training in order to be a trainer at The Ranch. I was terrible at it. Couldn’t get hard when I wasn’t in control.”
Keats stiffened, embarrassment and anger mixing into one. “So what? You’re saying something’s wrong with me?”
“I tell you I couldn’t get it up for something, and you think I’m saying something’s wrong with you?” Humor sparked in Colby’s eyes and a hint of a smile appeared. “Of course not. People who like to be tied up and forced to do things are some of my favorite people.”
Keats’s stomach dipped, and he hated that his body responded even when he knew Colby was purposely goading him.
“I’m only trying to help you understand that there’s nothing wrong with being one or the other, or both or neither. You asked me earlier about my lifestyle. Since you’re going to be staying with me a while and probably meeting some of my friends, I’m simply answering some questions.”
“And you think I’m submissive,” he said flatly.
Colby crossed his arms, impassive. “I don’t make assumptions about anyone, especially someone who’s never tried kink before. Nobody really knows until they experiment and find out what does it for them. There aren’t always neat boxes. I know masochists who are dominants. Submissives who hate pain. People who switch roles depending on who they’re with. It’s complex. So no, I haven’t slapped some label on you, Keats.”
“So the people you train at that resort, they already know what they are?”
“No. Some of them are still figuring it out. I help them with that if they need it.”
Keats focused on folding the edge of the blanket into small
“What do you mean?”
“This isn’t a neighborhood for a teacher’s salary.”
“Counselor.”
“Whatever. Bet it pays a lot less than fucking people for cash.”
Colby’s jaw clenched. “I’m not having sex for money. I’m a trainer. I don’t fuck students.”
Keats couldn’t help the snort that escaped. “Yeah, I got that message the night you tossed me out of your house. Loud and clear.”
Colby blew out a breath and ran a hand over his face, looking drawn and exhausted all of a sudden. “You know what, Keats? Part of me wishes I had kissed you back that night. No matter how wrong or inappropriate or illegal it would’ve been. Maybe that would’ve kept you there for the night and off the street the next day and the day after that.” He met Keats’s gaze, regret resting in his. “You were too good a kid to have to travel down this road. The world had bigger things waiting for you than this.”
Keats’s lungs felt tight, and it had nothing to do with his ribs. He didn’t want to think about the what ifs. He dropped his gaze to the comforter, memories flooding him. Memories of the boy he used to be, the dreams he used to cling to, and how his dad had finally crushed the last bit of them that night. Remembering how desperately he’d wanted to believe that if he meant something to Colby, then maybe he wasn’t as worthless as he felt. “I don’t even know what I would’ve done if you had kissed me back. It’s not like I had any idea what I was doing.”
“Would’ve never happened anyway.”
Keats smirked, still staring at the comforter. “You’re bad for my ego. I had no shot, huh?”
Colby made some indecipherable sound and moved toward the door. When Keats dared to look up, Colby’s back was to him, his hand braced on the door frame. “No, Keats. You were a kid. I didn’t think of you that way. Not back then.”
With that, Colby disappeared into the dark hallway and shut the door behind him, leaving Keats staring after him. Not back then. But now . . .