Diablo Blanco Club, Under Control, page 2
When Vance held up three fingers, Ben felt his stomach clench: it was going to be one of those nights. There had been different occasions over the years Ben had known Vance that he"d seen Vance ask to use room three upstairs—the one room in the Club specifically designed for restraint and discipline. He"d gone with the younger man each time and applied the punishment Vance needed to get through the anger or pain of the situation haunting him.
Setting the key for the room beside the bottle of scotch, Ben forced himself to look away from the man he loved and turn his attention to the patrons of the Club. He"d assumed Vance"s silence over the last four months had been based on his need to 10
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recover from his injuries, but one look at the emotionless mask on his friend"s face told him otherwise. There had been more to this last mission than the knife wound on Vance"s throat and the shrapnel in his thigh and hip.
Forcing down his emotions and focusing on an order for one of the customers, Ben heard the scrape of the key on the bar and the soft tread of Vance"s boots as he passed.
He took his time to fill the drink request, knowing the buzz of the panic button would sound once from room three when Vance was ready. Staying busy and chatting up patrons who had questions was the only way Ben would be able to distract himself from the thoughts of what he"d have to do once he joined his friend in the room As strange as it might seem, there were times when the four years of age that separated him and Vance had no bearing on their relationship. Then there were days when Ben looked into Vance"s eyes and, instead of being the older, more mature one, Ben felt decades younger than his friend, whose soul was burdened beyond all imagination. Those were the days Vance would request to use room three. His dependence on Ben to exorcise the demons in his mind had forged a bond between them that nothing could destroy.
On those occasions, something ate at Vance"s stoic control—something only a session under the whip and being bound in shackles would allow him to face and master. And Vance expected—no, counted on—Ben to provide the punishment. Over the last eight years, while they served in the Marine Corps and after his enlistment ended, Ben had never turned away from his friend"s needs, but each time it came to this, Ben was concerned Vance would slip over the edge.
He feared that, instead of using the sessions to determine how long he could remain under control, the young marine would edge into the extreme end of the discipline spectrum. He worried Vance would venture into the realm where blood play and self-mutilation could become an everyday occurrence—a place Ben had no intention of ever exploring.
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Vance paid little attention to the other patrons as he entered the Diablo Blanco Club. A quick shift of his teal eyes as he passed a sofa acknowledged one of the Club"s owners, Bryce Halsey, and his new wife, Mattie. Ben had e-mailed that the Dom had married. In the decade he"d belonged to the Club, he"d seen Bryce publicly fuck his subs. Vance had even seen Bryce direct another man in how to pleasure his companion when Bryce had decided to include a third. Vance noticed this time, though, the expression on the older man"s face carried a hint of pride and possessiveness that hadn"t been there in the past. Perhaps Ben was right in his estimation that this time Bryce had finally met his match.
But even the sight of the pretty brown-haired sub riding her master"s cock in full view of several Club members couldn"t shatter the ice that had been creeping through Vance"s body since his last mission. Inches thick, the ice had built with each successive nightmare or memory tormenting him with what he"d done. Even the concern shadowing Ben"s gray eyes didn"t touch the little bit of soul Vance knew remained inside him, and that just made matters worse.
The anger and self-loathing he"d felt since his last mission had him tense and snapping at everyone around him. At night, he crawled into bed drained, desperate for peace, but it eluded him even in his sleep. There were times when he just wanted to escape from it all. But no matter how tired and no matter how dispirited he felt, there was as always that twinge—the feeling that forced him to face the dawn, crawl out of bed, and deal with the agony of physical therapy and the clawing ache that wouldn"t leave him.
Not bothering with the glass, Vance snatched up the bottle Ben had lain out on the bar for him, hooked his finger through the ring on the key, and headed for the curved stairway on the far side of the bar. He could feel the different gazes of the Club patrons following him up the carpet runner. The back of his neck itched, just as it had on each of his missions. He"d probably never lose the awareness of others watching him. As a soldier, that sixth sense had kept him alive. But it wasn"t necessary at the Club. Since 12
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he"d turned eighteen, it was one of the few places he could actually relax and indulge himself, and he knew Ben would always cover his six.
Ben had never really understood the methods Vance used to cage the emotions that raged within him. As a child, Vance couldn"t understand where the intense anger came from. It was like a slumbering beast inside him: slow to arouse, but frightening when released. By his early teens, he"d discovered a good knock-down, drag-out fight could help him control it, but he hated the reputation he gained at school and the upset it caused his parents.
The disquiet and frustration he had about his feelings truly manifested the first time he grew aroused while kissing his girlfriend. As his arousal grew, so did the intensity of his emotions. The strength of his emotions had overwhelmed and frightened him. Fearing that it would result in him hurting someone he cared for, Vance had gone to his father for help. His father, Gavin Justiss, had listened to his concerns and tried to reassure Vance that the fear he had about hurting someone weaker than him if he lost control was unfounded, but Vance wouldn"t believe him. After several days of discussion, Gavin had turned to the owners of the Diablo Blanco Club—Bryce Halsey and Richard Bennett. Through practice and training, Vance developed the ability to focus his emotions, to draw on the rage and use its energy to maintain control over his emotions and calm his anger. It was that focus—that control—that made him a damned good soldier.
In addition to allowing him to control his emotions, the focus achieved through the use of pain also allowed him to control his body, which had given him the ability to hold off his own arousal and climax, for hours if necessary, in order to fully satisfy his lovers" needs.
Until Aimee. Until he"d grown too confident in his ability. Until his dependence on pain to master his body and mind was used against him. Until he"d lost his control.
In the six months since his last mission, he still hadn"t regained it. The ability to focus his emotions to create and deny response in his body was gone. The mastery he"d Diablo Blanco Club: Under Control
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taken years to perfect had disintegrated into nothing. Even the few times his body had reacted to mental or physical stimulation, climax had been impossible for him, smothered by the nightmarish memories of his last mission, when his body ignored his dictates and an innocent was harmed.
The rage and anger had built up and were eating away at him. He needed focus to regain his control, focus he could only obtain through physical pain. His own attempts to wield the lash on himself hadn"t proved successful, but he knew what would help: Ben. Ben had assisted him with his battle for the last eight years. He would help now too.
While Vance knew Ben would balk once he spotted the healed wounds, he was confident he could get around that. Ben would help him drive away the anger, the guilt, and perhaps even the nightmares that made Vance consider ending his life.
Once locked inside room three, Vance looked around at the familiar surroundings.
Black leather padding covered all four walls of the room. Its tall windows were shrouded in ebony suede curtains. He knew the second closed door led from the sparsely decorated bedroom into a spacious bathroom.
Knowing there was at least another forty minutes left in Ben"s shift, Vance planned on taking his time getting ready. Tossing the key onto the black lacquered table next to the door, Vance twisted the top from the scotch bottle and downed his first swig.
The smooth burn of the single malt warmed his throat and belly. His fingers itched to pull out the picture he carried in his wallet, but he still found it difficult to look at her smiling face. In the six months since he"d failed Aimee, nothing had been able to break through the icy wall encasing his thoughts and emotions, but with Ben"s help that would end tonight.
“A fucking waste,” Vance growled, avoiding looking into the cheval mirror situated next to the armoire. He knew what he looked like, and he had little desire to meet the gaze of the bastard he"d become. After another gulp, he set the bottle beside the key on the table and crossed the room to remove what he needed from the armoire.
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Despite the Club"s rules regarding punishment play, since the early days of his training, he"d received special permission from Bryce for what he required. After introducing Ben to the Club and to Bryce, his permission had continued probably due to his choice of partner rather than his offer of security in exchange for the dispensation.
As long as it permitted him to regain the control he"d lost and needed to allow him to feel like a man again, Vance couldn"t give a shit.
Wrenching open the cabinet doors, he lifted black leather cuffs from a shelf, pulled open a drawer to collect the coiled whip, and then let his fingers hover over the ball gag before deciding Ben would never use it. Hell, it was going to be hard enough to convince him… Vance shook his head and shied away from going there. A second, smaller whip that was more in line with the multistrand floggers joined its larger cousin in his grip.
“Take it one step at a time, soldier,” he ordered himself, carefully closing the drawer and cabinet before moving to drop the tools on the bed.
The seat of the straight-backed chair was firm, with very little cushioning beneath the black leather, but Vance barely noticed it as he leaned forward and began to strip the laces from the hooks of his boots. He cursed as his left hand fumbled slightly. The dexterity in his fingers had been reduced by his injuries. The healing wounds along his left hip and thigh protested with sharp twinges, but he ignored them. Drawing on or pushing past his pain had gotten him through the hardest tests in his life. He was determined that this one wouldn"t be any different. Standing the polished footgear beside the chair with the laces carefully tucked inside, he wondered how long it would take him to lose the habit of keeping everything neatly stored away. If he accepted the diagnosis of the surgeons and physical therapists, he didn"t have a future in the Marines. Not as a soldier, at least.
Signing away the career he"d based his life plans on would be difficult, but he expected it would be. Setting aside the rigorous discipline he"d learned during his ten years in the Marines could begin with the simple relaxing of long-held habits. Leaving Diablo Blanco Club: Under Control
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laces untucked might be the first step toward abandoning ten years of hard work. If the life of his men and himself didn"t depend on him staying in top physical condition, he could stop practicing his daily routines. A snort of wry humor escaped him as he realized that if he could stop finding reasons to keep waking up each morning, he wouldn"t have to worry about losing control again. Keeping his body and mind in top physical and mental condition wouldn"t be an option or a concern.
If he were a quitter.
“Marines don"t quit,” he told the empty room.
He rose to strip off his black cotton shirt, wincing at the pull the motion caused in the recent scars peppering his side and back. The red stripe along his throat wasn"t the only memento he"d received on his last mission.
“Ben"s gonna pitch a fit when he sees this.” He chuckled without amusement as he glanced down at the two recently healed gunshot wounds on his chest and the starburst pattern of marks left behind by shrapnel.
He squeezed his left fist and grimaced at how weak it felt. The resistance from the healing muscles and ligaments in his forearm had him gritting his teeth in frustration.
Suddenly, the image of tear-filled cobalt eyes flashed across his mind, freezing the breath in his lungs. He could almost feel the soft stroke of Aimee"s fingertips along the scars he carried from previous missions. The pain and worry in her gaze had stirred a need inside him that he"d never experienced with anyone but Ben.
His heart slammed against his ribs as he shook off the memory. He very carefully folded his shirt and placed it on the chair seat. The stretch of his muscles against the newly healed scars on his back had him glancing at the mirror over his shoulder. The scars couldn"t be seen in the muted light of the room, but he knew where every line had been placed. Each stroke of the whip against his skin had seemed the ultimate in irony: the one punishment his captors had selected was the very method he found most stimulating—and the one least likely to make him break.
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A brief smile tugged at his lips but flattened out as that memory led to the ones he"d fought long and hard to suppress. He could feel the rage stirring inside him. His need to conquer the frustration, anger, and pain he felt at his failure to control his body and emotions when Aimee most needed him to was what had brought him here to the Club, but it wasn"t the only reason he"d come. Vance also knew it was time to fulfill his promise to Aimee—time to face the man he loved. He loved Ben. Not as a brother in arms or a friend, but as an adult male both emotionally and physically drawn to the older man. More importantly, Ben was the only person he trusted to help him regain control of his need, to harness the beast that was his rage.
Through carefully applied punishment, Ben would be able to help him exorcise the memories that undermined his control. And Ben would also help him fulfill the promise he"d made to Aimee. Vance shook away his thoughts and continued his preparations.
Next to go were his trousers. The soft twill slid over his skin like a caress until it caught on the hammer of the snub-nosed .38 strapped to his calf. Vance knew Ben would be pissed if he told him how many times in the last six months he"d held the cold metal to his own temple. But each time he had set it aside at the thought of what his suicide would do to the man he loved.
He folded and stacked his pants on top of his shirt. Stripping his black socks from his feet, he rolled them into a ball and stuffed them down into the top of one boot and filled the other with the holster and gun before moving to collect the bottle of scotch from the table. The liquor burned again as he swallowed a hefty portion and returned to the high-perched king-size bed. As he passed the mirror, he paused and finally stared at his reflection.
He looked the same.
The same black hair peppered with silver. The same dark stubble along his jaw despite his having shaved first thing this morning. The same darkly tanned skin inherited from his father along with the high, flat cheekbones, sharp nose, and square Diablo Blanco Club: Under Control
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jaw of the Mescalero Apache tribe. After another quick swallow of scotch, he did the one thing he"d avoided for the past forty-eight hours since he"d last set the muzzle of his .38 against his temple and come closer to pulling the trigger than ever before. He looked into his own eyes.
His blue-green gaze was dead, lifeless, as he nodded. “Full circle, Aimee. Just like I promised you.”
His eyes flickered to his boot where the .38 was hidden. But the same three reasons not to put twenty cents worth of lead through his gray matter still remained: Ben deserved to be told how Vance felt; Aimee deserved to have a promise kept; and marines didn"t quit.
He looked himself in the eyes once more. “And I"m a fucking marine.”
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Chapter Two
The buzz came earlier than Ben expected. He"d finished closing out his till and totaling his bottle count and had just begun to help empty the dishwasher when the light under the number three lit up. The bartender relieving him glanced at the panel of panic lights before looking at Ben.
“Vance,” Ben explained, letting the other man know that it wasn"t an emergency signal.
The towel he"d been drying glasses with went into the laundry bin beside the door as Ben headed through it and into the hallway that connected the bar to the kitchen and storerooms. Down the hall, he stopped to wash his hands in the employee restroom before heading up the back stairway to the playrooms. Then, using the duplicate key, he let himself into room three.
On the table beside the door, Ben spotted the scotch bottle; it was more than half full. He breathed a little easier. The more Vance drank, the longer the punishment lasted. It looked like Ben wouldn"t have to spend too long wielding the whip this time.
After closing and locking the door behind him, Ben turned, took three steps into the room, and froze. His breath was sucked away when he spotted his friend naked, sprawled on his back across the black suede comforter. In the dim lights thrown by the Diablo Blanco Club: Under Control
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bedside lamps, the natural reddish brown tone of Vance"s skin seemed pale. Just as his best friend"s sudden appearance at the Club had surprised Ben earlier that night, the sight of him naked on the bed stole his breath and had his heart ready to burst out of his rib cage.
Every other time they"d been in this room, Vance had been careful to remain covered, if not in his boxer briefs, then in a pair of jeans, fatigues, or slacks. He had never gone naked before. But this time his usual black cotton boxer briefs were missing, and evidence of his tendency to sunbathe nude was apparent in the lack of tan lines at his hips and thighs.
