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And with that, he left me in a room where every one of my pieces had sold, feeling like I’d failed in some way.
Archer
Islammedmylaptopclosed, heat flooding my face, my cock pushing painfully against my jeans. It had been like this for the last month, since Ionee’s gallery show. I didn’t know if it was being surrounded by such graphic pieces, or if it was that one simple line drawing that shifted everything.
I ran that night because talking to her, listening to her openness about sex, being so close to such a beautiful woman, looking at that drawing, and then the photos on the website—well one in particular—it brought my cock back to life. In fact, I think it brought me back to life. I’d been numb for so long, I wasn’t sure I’d ever feel anything again, but that night… that moment in time with her… it kickstarted my arousal, reminding my cock that it was alive.
I’d been hard pretty much constantly ever since. But while I could now get an erection, I still couldn’t come, and trust me, I’d tried. I’d rubbed myself raw daily since then, but still nothing. I was frustrated and Fox and Charlie had noticed. I knew they were worried about me, but what could I say? I couldn’t explain the fucked up mess in my head. Not even to my two best friends.
I could have just looked at the website Ionee showed me. I could have broughtthatpicture back up. The one of the man tied and submissive, the rope knotted around him like he was a living piece of art. That image… that fucking image haunted my dreams. I wondered what he had felt like bound like that. I wondered if the rope burned or if his body found pleasure in being held in one place. I knew deep down that if I looked at that website again, I would blow my load. I knew it because it nearly happened in the gallery. The images of people strung up by the rope, hanging in awkward positions, didn’t do it for me, but the simple images where the rope held them captive… fuck, those ones really got to me.
But I didn’t look again. I looked at ‘normal’ porn. A man and woman having sex. Missionary, vanilla, safe. I’d learned my lesson the hard way; I’d dabbled in something more and look what happened. Whip marks to my back that took months to heal. A scar that stretched across my skin that would last forever. I couldn’t do that to myself again. I couldn’t risk someone hurting me… physically, mentally, emotionally. I couldn’t risk any of it.
My phone buzzed, pulling me from my deprived thoughts. Seeing it was Sophia, I answered quickly.
“Hey, Soph.”
“Arch, it’s Mum,” she cried.
Although I’d cared for my mum for nearly twenty years, since I was on tour so much, we’d switched her emergency contact to be my sisters. I hated that they had to take on that role, but there was little I could do to help if I was on the other side of the world.
“What?” I fired out, my chest tightening.
“She’s had a fall. Broken her hip and her ankle. She’s at the hospital now. They need us to go down and sign some paperwork before they operate. We need you, Archer. Please come with us.”
“I-I,” I stammered.
“It’s not your fault she’s in a home. You couldn’t have cared for her, even if you had an office job. She needs specialist help. You need to forgive yourself and come and support us. You know how Laura gets in hospitals. She’ll turn into a crazy enforcer and all the staff will hate us. Please, Arch.”
I let out a long sigh, already knowing what the answer would be. “Of course I’ll be there. I need to sort out some security, but I’ll be there as soon as I can. Text me where she is and you might want to make sure she’s in a private room, so no reporters try to get to her so they can get a story about me.”
“Already done, Arch. Text me when you’re on your way.”
Standing in the doorway of the private room, my sisters off somewhere getting coffee, I took a moment to look at my mum sleeping. I’d not seen her since I put her in the home she was currently in; the guilt was too much. Her dark, short, wavy hair was flecked with more gray than I remembered. She looked like she’d lost weight, her body tiny and slight beneath the hospital sheets. Her relaxed face brought a smile to my lips. Since she’d been ill, a frown was permanently etched into her face, as if she was constantly searching her mind for her lost memories, so seeing her at peace eased my guilt for a moment.
Stepping closer to her bed, I took a seat, covering her hand with mine. The feel of her skin opened the floodgates and memories of moments we’d had together before she got ill. They rushed to the forefront of my mind, stealing my breath, because I missed her so fucking much.
Her teaching me to cook, pushing me on a swing, reading to me before bed. Her promising everything would be okay before a test, telling me she loved me enough for two when Dad left, pressing ice to my eye when I got into a fight.Dementia sucks.
“Mr. Walters?” I looked up to find an older, bald headed doctor standing in the doorway. “I’m Dr. Ellison.”
“Archer, please. How is she?” I asked as I stood to greet him.
“On lots of pain medication until her surgery. Your sisters have signed the paperwork, but they wanted me to talk to you before we took her down.”
“'Kay.”
“Your mum will have surgery on her hip and we need to pin the break in her ankle. I won’t lie. Recovery might be hard because of her dementia. She’ll need to take it easy, but we would need her to have some pretty intensive physio and rehab to get her mobile again.”
“Can she do that? I mean, getting her to follow instructions or stick to any kind of schedule is virtually impossible.”
“I know, which is why I’m mentioning it. She’ll probably need a nurse with her 24/7 and the care home just doesn’t have the capacity to do that. I would suggest finding a specialist home where you could get her that level of support.”
“I can’t move her again. It took her months to settle into her current place.” I pushed my fingers into my temples, trying to ease the headache building. “What if I paid her home for a full time nurse?”
“You’d need to talk to them about that, but from our side, that would work. She’ll be with us for at least a few weeks, so it gives you time to find the right solution.” He paused, wrapping the stethoscope he’d been carrying in his hand around his neck. “I do have one more thing to talk to you about and that’s your mum’s DNR. You know she has it, right?”
I swallowed. I hated that she’d decided she didn’t want to be resuscitated once she’d had her dementia diagnosis, and hearing it being mentioned before she had major surgery was doing nothing for my stress levels.
