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Marcus lifted a shoulder. "We find ourselves agreeing to all sorts of insane things to honor the people we love. To give them the gift of our faith, and trust that sometimes they might know a little more about things than we do." His lips quirked. "Though if we're smart, we don't tell them that. Else they'd become unbearable."
A meal and a night's rest had restored his strength. Though Des had protested fiercely, Marcus and Thomas hadn't stopped with offering him dinner, probably because he'd only eaten the amount of it needed to prevent dangerously low blood sugar. His lack of appetite only increased their worry. Thomas had driven Des in his truck the several hours back to Charlotte, Marcus following in his car.
"You look like shit," Marcus said bluntly. "We're going to get you home."
Des and Thomas had their talk, though it was clear that Marcus had spoken the truth. Thomas had no concerns about donating Des his kidney. He also didn't bring up much about the familial connection, sensitive enough to realize--or Marcus had cued him to it--that Des wasn't really ready to discuss that.
Des had eventually nodded off, sleeping through the offerings of the radio station that Thomas turned on as background noise. When he woke, Betty was leaning over him through the open window.
"I'll take care of your dialysis tonight," she said. "You'll feel better tomorrow."
He was unable to refuse. He pushed down that familiar demon of helplessness, of being far less of a man than Julie deserved. Thomas helped Betty get him into the house, his arm strong and sure around Des's waist, Des's hand gripping his broad shoulder. His cousin. This was his cousin.
No, still not going there. But as he glanced at Thomas, at the serious brown eyes and straight nose, he wondered if they shared any common features.
"Thanks," Des said. "Thanks to you both. Sorry about this."
"Nothing to be sorry about."
"Well, I wouldn't say that." Marcus had rolled in the case with the dialysis equipment and was at the foot of the bed. He gave Des a humorous look. "I did tell you that Elaine Wilder was your
aunt. The horror of that is enough to put anyone on his ass."
"My mother is going to put something up your ass."
"She says worse about me all the time. Your mother has a gutter mouth these days."
"From your influence."
As the two men bantered back and forth, Des was aware of Betty hooking him up, her mouth thin and eyes worried, but when she caught him looking, she stroked a hand along his face, a maternal caress.
"Just rest, Des," she said quietly. "I'll handle this tonight."
He drifted off. When he woke, a few hours from dawn, Marcus and Thomas had gone. Betty was asleep on his couch. She'd removed the dialysis hook ups when it finished cycling, shut everything down and prepped it for the next treatment. He would have done that. He usually did that, usually did all of it himself.
But as Marcus said, family cared about you when you needed it. He spent the next couple hours staring into the darkness, thinking about how he'd find the courage to fight for family and love for the first time in his life... And fight for his life, one more time.
Des came into the theater. The audience area was dark, but with the stage lit, he didn't have trouble finding Julie's silhouette. She was watching the ongoing rehearsal, leaning against the seat in front of her. Lila and Harris were handling most of what was going on, but she'd watch and give her opinions. She would enhance without taking over, provide direction where the path was murky. He'd watched her do it during the prep work for Consent, offering suggestions to Harris, to the tech people. She had a grasp of the whole picture invaluable for making the resulting production the best possible offering.
She wasn't always nice about it. She could be a bitch when needed, stepping in when someone was going the wrong direction and needed a firmer hand. She knew her ultimate responsibility was to owners, investors and, most importantly, the audience. Turning out quality, art, was her focus. Not control or power. She understood that beauty happened with the placement of rocks at the right spots in the stream. She directed and altered the flow, so sunlight could sparkle in a different pattern upon it, or so a tree's roots wouldn't be eroded by the water creeping up the banks. Yet she retained her appreciation of water as water, maintaining the integrity of what it was.
He loved taking all that passion and submissive response and doing the same with his rope. Shaping, driving her to a churning peak, seeing the many different ways she would overflow, respond to his will. Yet he was always dipping into the same deep immutable pool, the soul of who she was.
He'd been a bastard. Marcus was right. She'd forgive him, because that was part of who she was, too. But he had no intention of taking that generosity for granted or abusing it too often. And not just because Marcus would cut his kidney out with a dull edged knife if he didn't.
Des slid down into a seat four rows behind her, wanting to take time to savor the way she was when she thought no one was watching. The slight movements of her shoulders and head were like an alert, smooth-feathered bird.
She picked up a notebook, scribbling in it, and set it back down, leaning forward to fold her arms on the chair in front of her, showing her sharpened attention for the next scene.
Onstage, the hero walked across it as the heroine stared at him. Master Horn and Cherry Blossom were good choices for these roles, a handsome couple, but not so pretty that they didn't look real, or glamor over the strength of the Dom/sub dynamic happening between them. Des had watched them in a club environment, and they could be mesmerizing.
From the conversation back and forth between Lila and the director, Des knew the setting of this scene was supposed to be a colorful marketplace in the islands, with a small cluster of extras shopping around the hero and heroine. As they approached one another, the movements of the others would slow, all people on stage except them frozen.
Harris spoke. "Lights will dim and our center stage characters will be spotlighted, as if time has stopped."
Master Horn slid a large hand over Cherry's shoulder, wrapping his fingers in her streaked blond hair to tilt her head back. Their eyes locked. "I'm going to take you home now. Tie you up so you can't move. Then I'm going to whip you. Your ass, your back, your thighs. I'll press myself up against all those marks and, when I'm balls deep in you and start thrusting, that pain will become pleasure. You'll beg for more. Because surrender is tearing yourself open, taking pain and asking for more. Nothing is sweeter or more terrible than cracking open your soul and giving it to someone you trust. Do you trust me?"
"Yes," she whispered.
