Page 37 of The Darkness Within

Rolling my neck on my shoulders, I moan out loud from the pleasure of the hot water washing away the remnants of my day. After a bit of backyard me time, it’s the perfect way to unwind. Gripping the bar of soap in my hand, it skates across my body, down my sparsely-haired chest, over my flat stomach, to the nest of dark curls around the base of my cock. Once they’re sudsy, my fingers comb through the curls, spreading the soap onto my shaft, where I grip it loosely, stroking back and forth, pulling the skin of my uncut cock back so I can clean around the sensitive head.

Thick long fingers with nails bitten down to the quick. Torn cuticles and red knuckles. Pale dry skin rough with callouses. Hands that belong to a man who hasn’t taken care of himself.

Do not touch your cock and think about Nash’s hands!

This is why I have no business sponsoring him. But he needs help desperately, and there’s no one else he trusts but me. I’d hate to think I’m just telling myself that as an excuse to get closer to him, but it might just be the truth. Yes, my motives for wanting to help Nash are pure, but underneath that layer of selflessness, I can’t deny that I’m attracted to him, that I feel a pull toward him.

If I can just shelve that desire, I might be able to give him the help that he needs.

As I crawl into bed, clean and damp, wearing only a pair of black briefs, I close my eyes and can’t help that my thoughts drift to him once again. Is he sleeping? Will he find any peace tonight? Or will the dark circles under his eyes be darker in the morning?

It feels like I’m barely asleep for more than an hour when my phone rings. Reaching blindly for it on my nightstand, I grab it and answer, my voice barely audible.

“Hello?”

“I can’t sleep.”

“Nash?” My eyes open wide, and I raise up on my elbow. He sounds wide awake, unlike me. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m tired, Brewer. So fucking tired,” he sighs. “But every time I try to close my eyes, I see him. I can smell him.”

“Tell me. What do you smell? What do you see?”

“I can’t,” he whispers, like he’s afraid to speak louder. “I can’t drag you into my nightmare.”

“You can, Nash. I won’t let you suffer through it alone. Take me with you.”

“It’s so fucking dark. And lonely.” His voice cracks, pinching my heart. “It smells terrible. It smells like dirt, and the air is musty and stale. Thick and hot. I smell terrible, like the worst BO, and Gutierrez, he smells…” Nash makes a choking sound, and then he sobs. “He’s rotting, Brewer.”

I swallow my gasp, my stomach roiling with nausea. What in the hell did he endure? How did he ever survive that hell for twenty-two days?

“His foot is gangrenous. They shot it off, and it’s rotting. He’s cold and hot in my arms, shivering, and we both know his fever is from the sepsis.”

“I’m here, Nash. You’re not alone this time. I’m here with you.”

“I’m losing him, and I don’t want to lose him. He’s my best friend, and I don’t want to lose him. I don’t want to be alone. I’m scared, Brewer.”

His voice sounds haunted, remote, and I want to reach through the phone and pull him through it, so that he’s lying beside me, and I can touch him. So that he knows he’s safe. That he’s not alone.

“He’s dying, and I can’t save him. With every labored breath, he’s slipping away from me.” The sound of his breath caresses my ear. “All I can do is listen helplessly as he dies in my arms.”

“Do you remember the last thing he said to you?”

“He made me promise not to let them take his dead body. And then…and then nothing. I was singing to him, and he closed his eyes and never opened them again.”

Hot tears cloud my vision and drip onto the screen of my phone. How does he even wake up every morning and face another day? How do any of us?

“What were you singing?” My voice is barely a whisper, and he answers in the same tone.

“The sun will come out tomorrow.”

“Nash.” My voice breaks, and he knows I’m falling apart because his pain has sliced through my heart. He can hear it breaking for him.

“I’m so tired, Brewer. I just want to fall asleep and forget for a little while.”

Without a second thought, I climb out of bed, pull on a pair of old sweatpants, and make my way upstairs, past the living room, and down the hall, stopping at the third door on the left. I let myself into his room on silent feet, crossing the dark room to his bedside.

“Brewer?” He hangs up the phone.

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