Page 70 of The Darkness Within

“Don’t go.”

Why does he have to look so wounded and disappointed?

“Goodnight, Nash.”

If anyone could fix my dick, my money was on Brewer. But when he left, the moment died, along with my erection. It’s been two weeks, and I haven’t been hard again since. Not that I’ve tried, because really, what’s the point if he’s not watching or participating?

What was I expecting? For him to actually touch me? To put his mouth on me? He’s made it clear time and again about his intentions and our boundaries, and the reasons for them. He doesn’t do it to deny me or tease me, he’s doing it for my own good. Brewer is denying his own desires in order to put me first, something that I respect him for. But every chance I get, I try to cross the line.

How rude of me.

I would kill to be his lover, pay any price, jump through any hoop, but the reality is, I may never be his lover. I may never be able to offer that to him, or anyone. Maybe he’s right, maybe it’s not my dick that’s broken, maybe it’s my head, something I’ve known for months now.

I’m not the same guy I used to be. Being over there, it rewired my brain. I don’t want the same things anymore. My priorities have shifted. Hell, they didn’t shift, they packed up and moved to another ZIP Code. My romantic life used to consist of one-night stands and one-hour hook ups. What more could I have asked for being gay in the Army in a position of leadership? But now? I’m not interested in casual sex. If that’s all they have to offer, I don’t want it.

The only thing that matters to me now is finding that one person. That one person I can connect with, that one person I can trust, that one person I would fight to stay alive for if I were ever trapped beneath the ground again.

For me, that one person is Brewer.

I trust him like I’ve never trusted anyone else before. I can let my guard down with him and be myself. I can show him all the broken ugly pieces. Brewer makes me want to be a better man and live a better life.

I’m not saying I would stay clean just for him, because that would piss him off, but he motivates me to keep working on myself, and on my bad days, I can find refuge in his arms and know that I’m safe with him. That he wouldn’t do anything to hurt me or add to my trauma. Brewer understands the horror movie that’s playing in my head, he’s seen it himself, bought the ticket, and still has the stub.

That’s why I trust him, and because every time I’ve ever needed him, he’s shown up for me, usually without being asked.

Slipping out of bed, I’m careful not to wake a sleeping Valor as I pull on my sweats and head to the kitchen in search of coffee. But what I see sitting next to the coffee machine wakes me up more effectively than a straight shot of caffeine.

Yellow and brown leaves litter the counter around the base of Leif’s pot. I left him in front of the window to catch the early morning sunlight but he’s…he’s dying!

“Leif! No!” In a panic, I rush to him, prepared to perform some sort of plant-based CPR. I check his soil, but it’s moist, and I don’t see any bugs or fungus affecting the leaves. “Help!” I shout, and when I turn, I see three men standing in the doorway, casually leaning with their arms either in their pockets or folded across their chests, but not one of them looks to be in a rush to play hero.

“Don’t just stand there, do something! He’s molting.”

“Plants don’t molt, birds do,” Miles points out.

“Did you take its temperature?” Nacho asks.

Is that a thing? “How do I do that?” I bark, desperate to try anything to save Leif.

Without turning, I hear them snicker, and I know they’re full of shit.

“There’s nothing wrong with your dick-meter plant,” Miles informs me in a calm and rational voice. “They’re pranking you.”

“What? How? Who?”

“We used the leaves from the tree out back,” Tex says, before he doubles over laughing.

“Dick-meter?” Why am I stuck on that instead of kicking someone’s ass?

“That plant’s health is directly related to your dick. If it doesn’t survive, you can’t ever get laid again. It’s your dick-meter,” he surmises with a shrug.

“You’re all in on this?” Fucking traitors. I thought they were my friends. Just goes to show you can only trust yourself and your cat.

“It’s just a joke, lighten up, Daddy Warbucks.”

“If you’re all finished, I need to talk to Nash. Alone.” Brewer’s stern tone has the same effect as a bucket of ice water. Everyone scatters.

Still pouting over my plant’s near death experience, I fill my mug with coffee and slump into a seat at the table. But the first words out of Brewer’s mouth perk me right up.

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