1 Chapter 1

1

Ellis

On the tick of 6:59 A.M., Ellis slapped the clock so the seven A.M. alarm wouldn’t beep. He grabbed his phone, swiped through screens, and turned off his backup alarm before it went off at 7:01.

Ellis needed both alarms to get his sorry ass out of bed on regular days, but he didn’t need either of them on the days that mysterious Bryndon Rothe came to the range. Ellis had been lying in his lumpy bed in the two-room apartment over Miss Maggie’s Shooting Range, thinking of what to say to Beautiful Bryn, for the last hour. Ellis knew if he figured out the right combination of words and phrases, Bryn’s entire life history would come pouring out of that kissable mouth. He’d get more than a sneer or a smirk, more than a poker face and a grunt: he’d get a whole conversation. A back and forth, a chat, even an exchange of, God willing, numbers and a promise to text.

Hope, as Ellis’s mama would say, sprang eternal. Especially where hot dancer boys were concerned, Ellis would add. He would have said his piece silently, though. Mama didn’t believe in the Easter Bunny or being gay. She’d never understand what Ellis saw in Bryn, but that was okay. It wasn’t like Ellis would get invited home with his would-be boyfriend anytime soon. His father would shoot his ass on sight. That was all right too. Ellis had long passed the need for parental approval. He had the range and his nonblood family and semiregular visits from Pretty Boy Bryn. Pretty Boy, Very Silent Bryn.

It was a game they played, the Make Him Talk Game, though Ellis wasn’t sure Bryn understood they were, actually, playing. But they’d only been sparring for a few months. It was clearly too early to call it a draw.

“How’s it going today?” Ellis said softly to himself as he climbed out of bed. He stretched and rolled his left shoulder, the one with the metal plate holding together the bone. Damn ricochet. Damn war. Damn stiff son of a bitch. He needed to lift. Later. Right now he needed to get ready.

In the bathroom, Ellis took his morning piss. “What’s happenin’, man?” Ellis frowned. No, way too casual. He’d tried that tack before, and Bryn hadn’t responded well. Meaning, he hadn’t said a thing. The goal was more words, not less.

“How are you today, sir?” Ellis asked his reflection before stuffing his mouth with a toothbrush dolloped with paste. Better. He’d not tried the “sir” thing yet. When Miss Maggie had told him a client had made arrangements to come to the range before official operating hours to shoot, she’d referred to Bryn as “Mr. Bryndon Rothe.” So the first time Ellis met Bryn, he’d said, “Mr. Rothe.” It’d been the most natural form of address, seeing as how his best friend and mentor, Maxwell Call-Me-Clark, was “Mr. Clark” to Ellis. Well, Mr. Clark in public—just Clark or “Sarge” in private when they played games with rope and cuffs and pain.

Ellis’s eyes rolled back into his head. Visions of the last round of playtime at Mr. Clark’s townhouse swarmed Ellis’s brain in vivid, full-color flashes: Clark in nothing but cuffs, chain necklace, and hard-on; Clark’s husband and Dominant, Daniel Germain, in silky shirt, dark pants, and boots; both men smiling at Ellis like wolves over prey.

Ellis spat into the sink and exhaled. Would he have time to jerk off before Captain Gorgeous arrived? Ellis checked his phone. No, definitely not.

“Later,” he muttered to his morning wood, which had been reinvigorated by thoughts of fuckings past. He needed to focus on Bryn and unlocking the hidden mysteries buried in those haunted, honey-brown eyes.

Throwing on his good jeans, a black T-shirt, and a long-sleeved button-down the color of rust, Ellis searched for clean socks. It took a while. Laundry. He needed to do laundry. Shove all his shit into the army surplus and drag it to the ‘mat a subway stop over.

Socks found and boots laced, Ellis made his bed and took the three seconds he needed to tidy his room. He used to be a horrible slob. Shit just everywhere. Then Clark had pointed out that a man’s environment was a reflection of a man’s mind. Ellis hadn’t been able to get that out of his brain, and as he’d gone to the support meetings Clark ran for vets with PTSD, and as Ellis had gotten calmer and better and smarter about life, he noticed that his room got neater. It was the strangest thing. Almost like one day he could barely wade through the dishes and clothes and magazines on the floor, and the next day he was installing shelves and buying containers. And hangers. And fucking organizer labels.