Page 8 of The Barn: Frost and Q

Seven

“ T ug, you are a genius.” Frost looked at the custom bondage gear that Tug had brought up for him, stroking the inside of one cuff. It was the softest damn thing he’d ever felt, and he grinned hugely, imagining it around Quentin’s wrist.

Tug studied his fingernails, lips pursed. “I know. I’m amazing, buddy. Just ask me.”

He chuckled, giving his friend an ironic eyebrow lift. “You’re also modest.”

“Yep. And shy and retiring.” Tug’s bright green eyes glittered like naturally grown emeralds. “So this fits the bill?”

“You know it does.” There was a wide padded collar with D rings embedded in it. The cuffs. A blindfold… God, just the thought of using that on Q made his cock start to harden…

“Good deal. I got the quick release like you asked for,” Tug put in.

“They’re perfect.” Frost had done his research. Both on the internet, and in correspondence with Carson’s friends, who were coming up this weekend. He thought he had a handle on Dom-ing someone who had limited mobility.

In theory, anyway.

In practice, he knew he had a lot to figure out, chief of which right now was getting Q to agree to doing a scene.

But if they were going to stay together, he needed to do this. Carson was right. Being a Dom was who he was, not just a fun thing he did on the weekend. It was who he was, and he and Q had grown together as Dom and sub, really finding a good place.

Before the accident.

A lot of it was his fault. He just felt so damn guilty. He didn’t give a shit that Q wasn’t the same; he was alive and that was all that mattered to him. But Quentin had been an athlete. A smoke jumper. A guy who worked out six hours a day when he was on the job and waiting for a call.

And now…he wasn’t.

But he’d been doing his therapy. He’d been pushing Q to do his. He had all this new wheelchair-safe bondage gear.

And he thought it was time they got to wrangling what they were going to be now.

“Hey, where did you go?” Tug asked. “I need a beer.”

“I’ll buy you one. Let me seal this shit back up, and I’ll have Rayne take it up to my rooms.” Rayne was the perfect delivery sub. He was more afraid of getting into trouble than he was curious about what was inside the boxes.

“Cool.” Tug grabbed his hat. “I am parched.”

“I bet. Flying dries you out.”

“Shit, you flew into fires. You must have bought stock in ChapStick.”

“Shit, man. I had tubes of Carmex.”

“Not the little pots?” Tug teased.

“Dude, those are metal. They might not melt as easily, but it can heat up during the fire and leave you with third-degree burns. In your pocket. Close to your dick.”

“You are not nice.” Tug gagged audibly. “But then I have seen a man with a Skoal can embedded in his tailbone. So.”

“Oh my God.” He stared. Frost loved playing gross-out games with Tug, but that was…

Yikes.

“Yeah, that didn’t go well for him. You text the sub?”

“He’s on his way.”

A breathless Rayne showed up just moments later, flushed from hurrying. “Yes, Sir. Here I am.”

“Good, good.” He gave Rayne a smile. Not too warm. No giving the resident subs hope. But just enough. “Can you run these boxes up to my quarters? Tug here just got in, and I owe him a beer.”

“Yes, sir, Master Frost.”

“Thank you.” He left Rayne to it. The kid had a master key because he did this all the time. He’d never touched anything he wasn’t asked to.

“Come on, man. To the bar. I could eat, too.”

“Mmm. I bet Boone went up to eat with Q.”

“You think? He barely waved when he went through.”

“You know he’ll bug you silly tonight.”

“Yeah.” Tug winked broadly as they walked along. “He’d better.” Tug and Boone had a bizarre relationship. Both of them were cowboys, and they seemed to speak a different language. “So why did you get your head out of your ass?”

“Shit, I don’t know. Carson. I’m going to go with this is Carson’s fault. He’s an asshole.” And Frost owed him, big-time. He could admit that.

“Yeah, but he’s a decent guy, when it comes right down to it.” Tug followed him down to the bar, gaze searching every single thing they passed. “So, how is Q? I haven’t seen him in a long time.”

“I think he’s… I want to believe he’s better.” Quentin was spending more time with him, was talking to him every day, and seemed to be enjoying their discussions, even if they were mainly business.

They’d even played chess once, and Q had beaten him handily.

“That’s good, man. I would love to have supper with you guys while I’m in from the world.”

“Yeah? Do you mind eating in his inner sanctum?”

“I’m good with wherever he wants to be.”

“Thanks.” They sat in the bar area, which was pretty empty as it was lunchtime, and most everyone would be in the dining room.

“Good afternoon, Masters.” The bartender came to put napkins on the tables. “What can I get for you?”

“Hey, Jamie. I want an amber ale, and Tug here is an IPA type. And can you rustle us up some food?”

He knew their preferences were on the computer, so the kitchen would come up with something they liked.

“Of course, Sirs. Have a seat, and I’ll have your beers out in two shakes.”

“Thank you.” He found a booth that was out of the way and settled with Tug. “It’s good to see you.”

“It’s good to be seen.” Tug stretched. “So why aren’t you in the air, man? I know you crave it.”

“Yeah, well, this thing with Q is more important. He has divorce papers, Tug. Now, he hasn’t signed them, so for all I know he got them online. But still.”

Tug winced. “I assume you aren’t interested in signing them?”

“You’d be assuming right. He’s mine, and I’m not letting him go without a fight. He says that I’m too guilty, that I’m not going to get over the kidnapping.”

Tug arched an eyebrow. “Are you?”

“Wouldn’t you be?” He sighed and tried his damnedest not to shake his head. “I will never forget finding the note. The FBI. The calls. The sound of the gunshot.”

And it had all been because some asshole had lost his inheritance when his father played a bad hand of cards.

“Right. I get that. You ain’t ever going to forget that. But what I’m asking is, are you going to let it ruin shit for you? Getting over it doesn’t mean forgetting. It means moving on from all the negative emotions like guilt and shame and doing the thing.”

“I know, I know. I’m not stupid. I just—” He shook his head. “Every time I see that wheelchair, I think. What if? What if I’d never taken that bet? What if we’d gone a different way home? What if we hadn’t gone into town? What if I’d paid better attention?”

So many things he could have done to make a different outcome in that, yet none of them had happened, and he just didn’t know what to do about it and how to work that out in his brain.

Tug rolled his shoulders. “What if the bullet had hit and blown the other side of the skull out? What if the guy had violated him? What if you’d died when you wrecked your car when they took Quentin and nobody ever was around to get the ransom?

What if you hadn’t had the money to get him the best medical care that you could?

The what-ifs totally work both ways, man. Trust me. I know this. So should you.”

Sometimes he hated Tug a little bit. Not often, but sometimes. “I know. That’s why I’m doing this; because it’s time. I’ve stewed long enough.”

Tug nodded. “Yeah, you so have. Simple fact is, you’re not doing anyone any favors. Q is smarter than the average bear.”

“I know Q is smart,” he snarled.

“Wait, are you sure? Didn’t he throw himself out of airplanes and helicopters to fight fires? Don’t seem real smart…” Tug was baiting him.

“Fuck off, you know he was an IT guy too. He got his Masters in weird-assed computer shit.”

“Dude, a Masters in weird-ass computer shit. And he threw himself out of helicopters into fires, and he got himself shot. Totally smart.”

“I will kick your ass.”

Tug grinned at him. “Oh, buddy, you’ll try. There’s not a single, solitary man in this entire place who could even come close, and we all know it. That’s one of the charming things about you.”

“That’s true. You’re short like a Weeble. You wobble but you don’t fall down. You are awful little though.”

“Small but mighty.” Tug winked at him. “Seriously. I’m glad I could bring things to help. It’s time for you to fix this shit between the two of you. Get back on the bull.”

“Yeah, I think so too.”

They stopped talking as Jamie brought over their beers. “I ordered a Philly cheese steak sandwich with onion rings for you, Mr. Tug, and then Mr. Frost, for you. I have a triple patty melt with some fries.”

That sounded good. “Perfect.”

“Talk about getting a triple. Seriously, you’re going to get fat.”

He glanced at Tug. “Are you sure you can eat a whole Philly cheese steak sandwich with onion rings, Tiny? I mean, maybe we should just get you a couple of grains of rice…”

“Oh, now it will be a titty twister.” Tug reached for him, and Jamie hooted, backing away quickly. Once Tug got started, no one was safe.

No one.

“Where do you think I ought to do the scene, Tug?” he asked, hands over his chest.

Tug gave up to grab his beer. He liked them super cold. “In his rooms. This first one. Tie him to the chair. Or to his bed. He’s comfortable there, and he never has to worry about someone walking in. Baby steps.”

“Baby steps,” he agreed. He picked up his beer and clinked it against Tug’s. “I’ll do it. Tonight.”

“Good luck, my friend,” Tug said, sipping his IPA. “Good luck.”