Falls Chance part 3
Riley wouldn't meet Dale's eyes at breakfast,
and while he ate with
what Dale was starting to recognise as his usual dispatch, he said
almost nothing. Dale worked his way in silence through the eggs and
toast Paul put in front of him, which to his surprise he was actually
hungry for, and watched Riley, distinctly uncertain as to what was
happening. Paul and Jasper talked cheerfully as though they hadn't
seen, and Flynn, who rarely said much at mealtimes, took very little
notice either. When breakfast was finished, Flynn got up and gave
Riley a short nod.
"You can straighten out the dishes this morning. Come and find me
when you're done."
"Why me?" Riley demanded.
"Because it's your turn." Paul informed him, getting up.
"Dale, come on out with me and I'll show you what your chores will
be." Flynn went on, tossing a hat across.
"If you want me to stick around so you can have a word because I'm in
a bad mood, just say so." Riley said grimly. Flynn nodded acceptance.
"Ok. Riley, I want you to stick around so I can have a word because
you're in bad mood. After you've sorted out in here. Get to it.
Dale?"
Riley growled audibly. Dale gave him a wary glance and followed Flynn
outside. Flynn led the way across the yard to the door of the barn,
slipping the latch.
"These need to be done daily, around whatever other assigned work you
have. When you're done, come and get me and I'll check them; if
you're not sure about anything then ask. First thing, buckets and tap
there, check and fill the horse troughs. There's one in each fenced
area around the house plus one behind the house that the dogs use.
Second, fill the feed troughs and the hay nets in the stable, you'll
find all the supplies you need in the barn. Third, clean out the
stalls, and I'll show you how to do that now. Fourth, sweep the
stables and the porch. Got it?"
"I'll make notes." Dale said dryly.
Flynn raised an eyebrow at him and Dale felt a slight jolt of
embarrassment, although he shrugged, following him into the stables.
"Memory really isn't much of an issue?"
I was actually co ordinating multi projects in multi departments
across several different corporations a few days ago plus running my
own department. Did you think I spent all day at a desk playing games
on the blackberry?
"Good." Flynn passed him a fork. "Hopefully horses aren't an issue
either. This way."
They did the first stall together, with a dispatch and efficiency
from Flynn that drew Dale's grudging respect: the man missed nothing.
After which Flynn handed the tools over.
"It's all yours. Come and get me when you're done."
He crossed the yard towards the house and shut the kitchen door
behind him. What he planned to say to Riley about a bad mood unless
cowboys didn't allow those either was anyone's guess. In the real
world people had their moods, you ignored it and you moved on: why it
was necessary to make an issue of it was beyond Dale.
Leaving Flynn and Riley to sort out their own issues, Dale lost
himself in the work, welcoming the hard, physical repetition of it
and letting it blank his mind, blotting out everything else. It was a
blessed return to the brief peace and quiet of mind he'd found while
working yesterday, and he ploughed through the immaculately clean and
orderly stable until regretfully, he ran out of things to do. When he
went in search of Flynn, he was grooming one of the heavily pregnant
mares in the yard and Riley, looking extremely grim, was creosoting
the fence rails, a brush in his hand and a tin of creosote at his
feet. Flynn followed Dale into the stables, checked each stall in
turn and nodded, putting a hand across the doorway to block Dale's
path.
"Good. Exactly as I asked. How long did that take you?"
Dale glanced at his watch, confused.
What's that got to do with it for pete's sake? Just give me the next
damn thing to get on with!
"About an hour."
"Ok." Flynn moved the arm, face impassive. "You were working normal
speed?"
"Yes?" Dale said, still more confused.
Flynn nodded. "I give that task an hour and a half minimum if it's
done at a calm pace."
"Calm-?" Dale broke off, exasperated. "Look. I work fast, I don't
muck about. It was done right, it was done properly-"
"It was done at a pace that's based on nervous energy. You're going
faster than is necessary or safe, it keeps you stressed, and you need
to calm down." Flynn said mildly. "Throwing up while you work isn't
normal and it isn't good. I make this job an hour and a half minimum,
which means if you race through and get it done inside that time, you
need to spend the remainder of the time resting to make up for it. I
make that half an hour today. You can sit on the porch step; don't
move until I tell you please."
"For working too fast?" Dale repeated in a slow voice that implied
Flynn needed immediate psychiatric intervention.
"That's right." Flynn said simply. "Go ahead."
This was why the man hung out in the middle of nowhere in Wyoming :
if he lived anywhere normal he'd spend his life being punched out.
These people were absolutely bloody insane.
Dale stalked across to the step and dropped down onto it, hugging his
knees. The sitting reminded him of his lately assaulted backside: he
had checked this morning on waking and been startled to find not the
faintest mark to indicate that anything had happened. Sitting was
perfectly comfortable today, although he'd been tender when he went
to bed last night. Taking no further notice of him, Flynn went back
to the horse and continued to work. Probably at what he considered
an 'appropriate' pace, although it seemed rapid enough to Dale.
Riley, across the yard, continued to paint the fence, keeping his
eyes averted and his shoulders hunched. It sent a bolt of unease
through Dale, distracting him briefly from his exasperation. Riley
had been so friendly yesterday but he had also witnessed the
hallucinations. Possibly Riley found it a good deal less normal or
acceptable than Flynn had. Or else during that episode Dale found
himself uneasily wondering if he had said or done something offensive
that he now couldn't remember.
He shifted on the step, frustrated and restless. Sitting still was
not easy. Which was stupid, it should be the easiest thing in the
world to sit out here in the sun for twenty eight minutes. It was
infuriating. The peace of doing was far, far better.
"Ok, I'll do the next thing slower." he said shortly to Flynn, who
didn't look round.
"Good."
Halleluiah. Getting up, Dale headed towards the buckets and the tap.
Flynn's clicked fingers pointed directly back at the step.
"Sit."
Furious, Dale plonked himself down again. "Why?"
"Because actions have consequences.
He said that ridiculous phrase like it was supposed to mean
something. Across the yard as if on cue, Riley slammed his brush into
his bucket and straightened up, turning to face Flynn.
"I'm sick of this."
Flynn took no notice, continuing to groom.
"There are things I need to be doing." Riley said louder.
"And Paul will do them." Flynn said without looking round.
Riley glowered at him for a long moment until Flynn lowered the brush
and looked back. There was a moment where Dale watched them stare at
each other, then Riley grabbed the brush and resumed painting with
short, angry movements.
The remaining time on the step appeared to take forever. Dale
fidgeted, getting steadily more furious, until by the time that Flynn
called him he was on the edge of exploding. He got up thankfully,
striding across the yard at a pace that shook some of the itch out of
his legs.
"Water troughs. Right?"
"Yes please." Flynn glanced at his watch. "I make that a forty minute
job. If you finish before then you can spend the rest of the time
sitting on the step. It's up to you."
Resisting the urge to bare his teeth, Dale stalked towards the
buckets and the taps.
Even ready to break the man's neck, he did try to take his time. He
seriously did. When he thought about it, he was actually aware of the
effort it took to walk rather than stride as though he had a bus to
catch - it took effort not to catch and grab and place with a rapid
speed that Dale realised rather uneasily was born of a kind of
tension. That probably wasn't a bad thing. He was moving at a fast,
tense pace that to him felt normal the pace at which things got
done which was good in the real world where normal people did normal
things and slowing it down to keep the cowboy happy took serious
thought and attention. He tried. It felt largely like moving in slow
motion. But when he brought the last bucket back, Flynn still looked
down at his watch.
"Twenty five minutes. Go take a seat."
"I tried!" Dale spat at him, and got a calm nod.
"Good."
The urge to kick the porch step was childish and overwhelming. Dale
dropped back down on the step. Across the yard, Riley flung the
paintbrush down into the creosote tin and spun around.
"Ok I am done with this! Either I go and get some real work done or
I'll just frickin' sit here too, I don't mind."
"Your choice." Flynn said mildly. He didn't explain further and Dale
wondered what he meant. Riley looked at him for a long moment, then
folded his arms, standing where he was. Flynn continued to groom the
mare's neck, rubbing the brush steadily down to the base of her
chest, rubbed her nose and untied her rope. He led her around the
corner of the stables without a backward glance. Riley didn't move
from where he stood, arms still folded. Flynn came back a few minutes
later with an empty bridle in his hand, which he hung on the door of
the barn.
"All right Riley."
Riley didn't move for a moment. Flynn waited, and finally Riley
scuffed across to him, stalking up the porch steps past Dale and into
the house.
"Stay there until I tell you, please." Flynn said to Dale as he
followed. The door shut behind them, leaving Dale alone in the yard.
The only sounds outside were the far away baaing of the sheep and the
rustle of the aspens in the distance. Dale stretched his restless
legs and looked at his watch, uncomfortable with what he'd just heard
Riley say and with the whole ridiculous concept of sitting here. This
was nearly impossible and Flynn's reasons escaped him entire-
All right, no they didn't.
Growling, Dale slumped backwards on the steps. Yes, he knew what
Flynn was doing. Yes, Flynn had a point. That did nothing to ease the
homicidal urges. And Riley clearly wasn't impressed with what he was
witnessing: Dale couldn't help wondering with shame and no little
anxiety how much it was his actions and his presence making the other
man so obviously angry this morning.
Riley's voice reached him faintly then from inside the house, and to
Dale's surprise it was no longer remotely angry. It was somewhere
between dismayed and plaintive, like a small boy faced with spinach
on his plate.
"Oh no Flynn, no, not that one-"
There was no answer from Flynn; Dale heard nothing more for a moment,
and then a faint but distinct thwack sound in the distance. He
turned, shocked, and a second or two later there came another thwack
and another and they continued in a slow, steady sequence, like a
table tennis match being played far away. After two or three of those
sounds another began to punctuate them; initially high pitched
squeaks, yelps and protests, then just protests which were rapidly
becoming tearful. Frozen on the step, Dale found himself listening
intently. There were perhaps twenty of those slow thwacks, then
silence again.
It was a while before Flynn opened the screen door.
"Dale? Come and have a drink."
There wasn't a mark on him.
Of course there isn't, what did you expect? Blood on his hands?
Did he really just do - to Riley what he did to you in the barn
last night? Is he serious?
Dale got slowly up from the steps, not at all sure how he felt. He
should have been scared stiff at being here in the hands of this
maniac this definitely wasn't Kansas any more - and yet that wasn't
the emotion at all. He felt tense, but not afraid; although there
were several other muddled emotions he really didn't want to think
about long enough to name.
"It's past eleven." he said to Flynn shortly enough to cover it, "And
I've got less than half done what I could have managed if I hadn't
wasted time sitting here."
"I don't call it time wasted." Flynn indicated the kitchen table and
opened the fridge, taking out the orange juice. Dale sat down,
looking over his shoulder at the family room. There was no sign of
Riley. Flynn put a glass in front of him and sat down, swallowing
from his own glass. Dale looked at him and at the orange juice with a
higher swell of the emotions he didn't recognise at all, except that
they were overwhelming and he was near to shaking with them.
He just did to Riley what he did to you last night, only from the
sounds of it a lot longer and a lot harder. And there is the proof as
if you needed it that they're all totally mad. What kind of a way is
this to solve problems!
"You're some kind of citrus fiend, aren't you?" he said out loud.
"Quite possibly." Flynn agreed. There was something about the calm
tone that didn't help: not because it was mean or unkind or at all
provoking it was actually anything but but it was not at all the
tone that Dale wanted, although he had no idea why. He heard his own
voice gather spite, naked spite and a hardness that he'd never heard
come out of his mouth before.
"Do you push this down every poor bastard that gets stuck out here?
Do you stuff this down Riley too?"
"Riley is fine." Flynn put his glass down, leaning his elbows on the
table. "It's all right Dale. You can ask anything you want-"
"I don't want to know anything." Dale spat back.
Will you shut up? Are you mad? Do you want this Anzac maniac to
wallop you again? Because you know very well, if you push far enough
he will!
Flynn shook his head. "I don't believe that's true at all. I think
there's a lot of things worrying you that you want to talk about."
"You can go to hell." Dale informed him. Or at least his voice said
it. He was aware of listening to himself with growing horror at the
open provocation in his tone. It was like sitting in a car beside an
insane driver with a death wish.
What the hell are you trying to do?
"We don't use that kind of language to each other." Flynn said matter
of factly, moving the juice out of his reach and standing up. "Go
outside, take a break, think about what it is you want to ask, and
I'll-"
"Go to hell." Dale repeated louder, not moving.
He was aware he'd issued a challenge, and he could see that Flynn was
aware of it too. Flynn paused, then leaned both fists on the table,
weight on his knuckles. He wasn't the slightest bit angry; there was
no tension in his body while he looked at Dale, nor in his voice when
he spoke.
"Last chance."
Dale looked him right in the eye, heart thundering and waited right
back. Flynn's eyes were an unusual dark green; almost green black,
and they were steady. Watchful. And surprisingly kind. Then Flynn
nodded and straightened up.
"All right." he said quietly and held out a hand.
Dale had absolutely no idea why he got up from the table or took that
outstretched hand.
The family room was quiet, but Riley was stood in a corner of it,
tucked behind one of the many rough grey stone walls and partitions
that broke up the room and turned it into corners and alcoves and
private places. He was standing quietly facing the wall like a small
boy in disgrace, head slightly down. Flynn didn't speak to him, just
led Dale around another of those little wall alcoves and opened a
dark wooden door that led off it. Beyond the door was a fairly
spacious study, with two large and heavy desks and Admirals' chairs
standing behind them. No computers or phones were in evidence, just
files on the very tidy desks, and all four walls were lined with
books on dark wood shelves. A leather couch was set against the
window and a thick rug lay on the wood floor. Flynn closed the door
and went to the nearest desk, opening the bottom drawer. Dale didn't
recognise what he took out: it was clear, like thin, clear plastic,
and about the size and outline of an oddly shaped and small table
tennis bat. His stomach suddenly gave a lurch. Paddles. Of course.
The Americans were famous for them, although Dale had never seen one
or at least one not designed for sport. This one appeared to be
almost a virtual paddle, the material was completely transparent.
Flynn took a seat on the sofa and reached once more for Dale's hand,
drawing him gently around to stand on his right side. He had been
slippered this way a couple of times, years ago at school, and it was
no surprise: Dale found himself following Flynn's gentle pull on his
hand without hesitation, and bending across Flynn's lap until his
stomach rested over Flynn's jeaned knee and Flynn's arm, heavy and
strong, lay across his back and his hand wrapped around his hip,
cupping it. His stomach was churning, his mouth was dry and his
backside was prickling, feeling extremely vulnerable just as the seat
of his jeans suddenly felt extremely thin but bizarrely there was
no sense of panic or alarm, no instinct to protest or try to escape.
Instead Dale put his hands down on the flat, cool leather of the
sofa, rested his head on his arms and waited, feeling his heart
thumping and the pressure of Flynn's thighs against his body, the
closeness of the strong arm that held him firmly prone. Even the tiny
voice at the back of his mind that had been shrieking What are you
doing?! had been silenced. The first swat was shockingly hard and it
stung fiercely, a far hotter and more solid sting than the riding
crop, and the second smack followed it, the paddle covering most of
one cheek with each swat and setting it equally on fire. Dale gritted
his teeth, burying his grimace in his arms, breath stolen by the
shock and the sheer intensity of the smart. Three. Four. Five. Six.
The smart built up geometrically, each new swat adding a fresh layer
to already blazing territory and they seemed to be getting
relentlessly harder: the sixth drew an involuntary yelp and an
extremely undignified jerk. Dale found his legs scissoring and his
hand flying back without conscious thought in an attempt to defend
against the paddle, and Flynn's large hand closed over his wrist,
holding it gently and firmly to his side in a grasp Dale knew without
trying that he wouldn't be able to free himself from. He would have
sworn that the next swats were even harder, the man appeared to be
part machine, and the paddle rang across the seat of his jeans, each
swat making him jump and twist like it carried an electric current,
and taking away all control over his breath and his voice. The words
came without any conscious thought whatsoever.
"Ok ok I'm sorry I'm sorry, I won't- ow-"
There was no possibility of thinking coherently or of making
speeches. Struggling for breath, mouth dropped open at the sheer,
appalling sting of that paddle, Dale found himself squirming wildly
across the man's lap and sounding suddenly more sincere than any
board of directors had ever heard.
"All right, Flynn I'm sorry, no more bullshit, I swear-"
Eight. Nine. Ten. Flynn was in no hurry, the swats fell slowly but
steadily, and the hand grasping his hip was immoveable. Dale's torso
and head ducked and twisted, his legs appeared to have a life of
their own and his ankles were currently crossing in an attempt to do
anything at all to ease the intensity of the sting and contain it,
but his backside wasn't moving an inch out of the way of that bloody
paddle. For Pete's sake, he was a client. He was new to this. Any
decent man would take that into account and let him off easily! Or at
least more easily than this!
Eleven. Twelve. Hard, measured and relentless, the paddle snapped
down and his entire backside was one flaming ball of pain.
"Flynn
!"
Thirteen. Fourteen.
"Please-" Dale heard his voice crack and didn't care in the
slightest, the first whine was as involuntary as his twisting. "I'll
stop, I swear I'll stop,"
Fifteen. Sixteen. Nothing was going to work. Dale clenched his
shoulders, pushing his head against his hands into the couch.
Seventeen.
Eighteen.
Nineteen.
Twenty.
Silence.
Moving was out of the question. There didn't seem to be anywhere else
in the world to be but here anyway. Dale lay where he was, struggling
to get his breath, his backside apparently going up in flames. A
heavy hand ran over his shoulders and rubbed in wide, steady circles
over his upper back. It held a compassion and a kindness that was so
foreign that it was overwhelming. Dale swallowed hard on crashing
emotions that had full possession of his face and his breathing, and
buried his face harder in his arms.
"Come here." Flynn said quietly and pulled. The man's grip was
insanely steel-like. Against his will Dale found himself hoisted
upright and then without warning his face was against an equally hard
shirt front and arms were around him like a cage, tight, surrounding,
inescapable.
For a minute Dale had no idea what to do, save that pulling away, his
instinctive response, did not appear to be an option.
"You're quite safe." Flynn said very close above him. "Breathe."
Dale took a breath, cautiously, but didn't relax, holding himself
stiffly against the encircling arms. His face was dry, his eyes were
sore but dry, but his chest hurt and he could still hear the
raggedness of his breathing. That hand began to circle on his
shoulders again. This should have been like being embraced by a steel
girder. It actually wasn't.
"You'd just said you'd stop the bullshit." Flynn's voice said near
his ear. "Are we not done yet?"
Dale felt him start to move with a sudden and visceral awareness of
the threat of being flipped back across Flynn's lap, and any
hesitation fled. He gripped Flynn's shirt front, initially to stop
him moving, then as Flynn slowly relaxed back into the couch, he let
his breath go in one long, shuddering gust and leaned against the
broad chest in front of him, aware that he was limp. And exhausted.
And that his backside hurt like all hell. And that actually he felt a
hell of a lot better than he had done sitting in the kitchen only ten
minutes ago. Drained and calm and relieved.
"You know exactly what I mean too," Flynn said dryly. "Don't you?"
Dale nodded, without the breath or reservation left to be
discreet. "Yes."
"You've been playing us." Flynn's hand continued to rub, deeply
comforting as it made its way over his spine. "You'd better regard
this as a free confession, mate. Consider it a fifteen minute amnesty
and tell me what's going on here."
"Riley said it was a mistake going through the motions." Dale said
somewhat incoherently. Flynn nodded, apparently not struggling to
follow what he meant.
"And you feel that's what you've been doing."
"He said it never worked out well in the end."
"Riley's usually well worth listening to." Flynn agreed. "What made
you feel that going through the motions was the right thing to do?"
"Wanting to get out of here as fast as possible." Dale drew back and
Flynn let him go, watching him settle himself in the corner of the
couch although he tucked a leg under him in an instinctive attempt to
take weight off his scorching backside. "I thought if I looked ok and
played along, I'd tick all the boxes and I'd get out of here."
"With nothing fixed or changed." Flynn gave him a watchful look. "But
then as far as you're concerned there's nothing wrong anyway?"
Dale felt himself flush even as he shook his head, the admittance
tearing free but not willingly. "I I had an ulcer eighteen months
ago and the doctor told me then I was headed for a steady row of
them. Charles knew I wasn't sleeping much. I couldn't leave the
projects alone, and when I had the first- whatever it was.
Hallucination. That kind of confirmed that things were really going
wrong."
"It must have been very frightening.
is essentially trying to sneak dream cycles in while you're awake,
it's trying to recharge itself because it's getting desperate for
sleep. Why weren't you sleeping?"
"Just too much well. Not to do. Just too much on my mind." Dale
admitted. "Offices in several time zones, several projects that were
risky and needed a lot of support."
"And you were the only one who could do it? Not much for delegating,
are you?" Flynn wrapped an arm around his own knee, slouching
comfortably in the sofa corner in a way that put their heads on one
height. "What happens if you're not busy?"
"I don't know." Dale said awkwardly. "I suppose I get nervous. Start
thinking about what I should be doing, what's left to do..."
"And the nerves get out of control and the anxiety takes over." Flynn
said mildly. "It's a very common pattern, we see it a lot. There are
several types of workaholicism, genuine workaholicism, and we see
guys from every type. Actual, addictive behaviour."
"Except like drugs and drink you can't just quit work permanently.
Dale said dryly. Flynn gave him a very brief, sideways smile. He
didn't smile often, and the effect was surprising.
"You can learn to control the addictive aspects, and you can learn to
recognise when you're getting into deep water. And you can always
come back to us any time if you start to get out of your depth again.
A lot of our clients end up choosing to come back for weekends or
short vacations to check in with themselves that they still have
things under their control. We're used to helping people fix this
kind of situation, Dale. It takes time because you don't just have to
pick up new skills, you actually have to change your mindset and
perspective, but people leave here, go back to their jobs and
succeed. It can be done."
"If I'm not screwing around and sabotaging what you're trying to do."
Dale said half under his breath.
"I wouldn't call it sabotage." Flynn said mildly. "Denial and poor
attitude at the worst. All you need to do right now is what you're
told. Listen, take it on board, let yourself physically recover.
You'll be surprised how much your perspective can change over a few
weeks just from doing that. When you can see things a bit more
clearly, then we can do the more serious work on planning for when
you go back."
"How long am I going to be here?" Dale said bluntly, looking straight
at Flynn. Flynn gave him an equally straight look, not moving.
"Until I say you're done."
Dale didn't look away. There was a moment while he looked, and then
he nodded, a brief and accepting gesture, without dropping his eyes.
"Anything else you want to ask?" Flynn asked, watching him, but Dale
shook his head.
"No. I'm sorry for being so rude to you. I don't usually lose my
temper."
"I'd think you don't often feel so scared or so cornered." Flynn said
quietly. "You don't need to worry about it. We're more than capable
of handling as much temper as you want to throw around."
It was said without reproach, and Dale would almost have suspected of
being teased save that Flynn was straight faced. He got up and Dale
followed, unable to resist putting his hands behind him and rubbing
very tenderly. The initial smart was beginning to fade down a little
but the whole thing radiated heat like a five bar fire.
"I'm going to find you a corner and you can stand there and think
things over until lunchtime." Flynn said, opening the study
door. "That one'll do. Put your hands by your sides, face the wall
closer please and I'll tell you when you can move. Stand still, no
talking, no turning around."
It was a most bizarre thing to be asked to do but Flynn said it as
simply as if it was a natural part of the daily routine, and it made
a certain amount of sense. Dale moved somewhat self consciously into
the corner Flynn indicated, a juncture of rough, grey stone wall, and
put his hands by his sides. There was nothing whatever to look at but
the grey, and the quiet of the family room soaked in like slow oil.
Cool and hush and the slow, deep tick tick tick of the grandfather
clock. And Riley's voice from some way off, out of sight.
"Flyyynnn
."
"Not a word, Riley, you made your choice." Flynn said firmly, and
there was nothing more said after that.
*
It was a good half an hour by the clock's quiet chimes before Flynn
called to them from the kitchen. It was a novelty to be still and
suddenly it wasn't difficult to be still sore, calm, surprisingly
peaceful, Dale found himself going over the conversation with Flynn
in that study and was aware that he was taking it to heart. There was
something about the big man-
Yeah, that paddle for a start.
- that grabbed notice. And held it. The man would be remarkable in a
boardroom, he'd command attention without the slightest effort or
raising of that incredible voice.
"Dale." Flynn said as the clock struck one. "Come and eat. Riley?"
"Yes sir?"
Riley sounded subdued and he answered promptly. Flynn's tone was
warning.
"You ready to be civil or you want to stay where you are?"
"I can be civil." Riley said sincerely.
"Come on then."
Dale watched Riley walk ahead of him into the kitchen, stretching
legs which were clearly aching before he hung his arms around Flynn's
neck.
"Sorry."
Flynn said nothing but Dale saw and was touched by the strength of
his hug and the kiss he dropped on Riley's cheek before he let go and
pushed Riley gently at the table.
"Lunch. Take it outside, both of you. I doubt you'll want to sit at
the table."
He was right. Dale took one of the plates of sandwiches and a glass
and followed Riley out into the sun of the porch, where Riley put the
glass precariously down on the porch rail and stretched his shoulders
until they cracked. And then turned to Dale with a concern in his
face that was as sincere as it was warm.
"Are you okay?"
"Yes?" Dale said, startled. Riley looked at him hard for a moment,
then gave him a quick smile. His eyes were still slightly red but he
seemed far more his usual self than he had been earlier.
"Don't let him scare you. Flynn can be a pest, but he's as gentle as
they come."
With a backside still throbbing painfully from Flynn's gentleness
with a paddle, that should have made no sense at all, but oddly, it
did. Riley cast a slightly embarrassed look back at the kitchen and
picked up his glass again.
"There's shade over here."
Dale followed towards the nearest of the paddocks in the shade of the
barn, where Riley lay down on his stomach, picking up his sandwich to
tear the crusts off with careful precision.
"I'm sorry I had to go and get Flynn last night." he said without
preamble. "I didn't mean to get you into trouble, I hated doing it,
but he had to know. Does that make sense?"
Dale stooped to put his plate and glass down and settled himself on
his stomach in the grass. A week ago, if he'd been told he'd be lying
in long grass in Wyoming in jeans and a t shirt, with his backside
smarting to hell, having just had a paddle put across it and
talking to another man who'd gone through just the same he'd have
thought the informant was out of his mind.
"I felt awful about it." Riley said, picking off miniscule remnants
of crust with still deeper concentration that kept his eyes from
Dale. "Telling tales is like well. I don't do it. Ever. But Flynn
needed to know. I'm really sorry it got you into trouble."
"I'm not." Dale said frankly, very relieved that this appeared to be
all that was on Riley's mind. "I'd been worrying myself crazy about
those hallucinations. That was the second one in two days."
"So Flynn said." Riley raised his eyes, giving him a brief and
commiserating glance. "It must have been terrifying."
"It was stupid to cover it up, I have been sabotaging what Flynn's
been trying to do by pretending I was fine." Dale looked without
interest at his own sandwich and lay down full length, propping his
chin on his arms. "I don't think I got anything more than I deserved."
"I do that too." Riley said quietly. Dale looked up at him.
"What?"
"Blame myself. Get lost in it. And I hate getting into trouble,
really hate it, but damn do I feel better afterwards."
That was frank and sincerely said, and Dale felt a powerful lurch
inside. That was it exactly, and that was a very embarrassed and very
sensitive little truth he couldn't have put into words himself.
"I'm sorry too about being an ass in front of you with Flynn." Riley
went on, sounding still more embarrassed. "I was upset about getting
you into trouble and him whaling on you last night, and I kind of
took it out on him. He's used to me. Did he use that frickin' lexan
thing on you? The clear paddle? I hate that thing."
Dale swallowed, trying to think of a tactful way to put a question
that he definitely wanted answering.
"Is he
is he the only one who'd -?"
"Spank?" Riley said simply. "No. Paul and Jas wouldn't have put up
with me throwing a fit like that either. It just that Paul's hard to
get that mad with, and Jasper just says to go away until you're done
if you're ranting. Flynn bites straight back, which is why I kind of
pick on him when I'm upset. It's quicker. Are you going to eat that?"
Dale put out a cautious hand and lifted the top of the sandwich.
"I don't really eat ham. I just like the bread."
"Give it here." Riley advised. "I'll swap you ham for crusts."
Dale passed the plate over and watched Riley commit delicate surgery
on the sandwiches.
*
Jasper said nothing at all, but he didn't need to; the eyebrow was
eloquent. Flynn propped his elbows on the table, linking his fingers.
"I know."
"And he settled?" Paul said curiously. Flynn nodded.
"No fighting, no distress-"
"No distress?" Jasper said dryly. "I've seen you use that paddle."
"No tears, but I wouldn't expect them, he hardly knows me." Flynn
said quietly. "But that wasn't what I meant. He accepted it as
perfectly natural and he calmed right down. Relaxed, shoulders down
from around his ears, he opened up and talked to me."
Paul cast a glance out of the window, checking on Dale and Riley who
were working together on the remainder of the creosoting at the far
end of the one fence line. He then drew the kitchen door shut, pulled
out a chair and sat down beside Flynn.
"That's an unusual decision for a client."
That was true Paul, and only Paul could say it in that way.
Uncritical, interested, courteously inviting more information if you
cared to give it Flynn gave him a faint smile that held a good deal
of affection.
"He more or less asked me to do it. He saw me take Riley inside, he
must have heard or realised what was happening. As soon as I came
back to him he said everything he could think of to challenge me. It
was blatant. I thought at first he was scared, but he wasn't in the
slightest, I gave him several chances to divert, he pushed straight
on, and as soon as I started down that path with him he followed like
a lamb. No arguing, he didn't even hesitate, never mind struggle. If
he'd panicked or freaked out I'd have handled it very differently,
but he made it clear he wanted what I'd just given Riley. So I pretty
much did, save that I didn't ask him to undress."
Paul waited, listening with interest.
"You put him over your knee?" Jasper asked from across the table.
Flynn nodded.
"Which I don't think we've ever done with a client before I've
certainly never handled a client that personally or without a good
deal more formality, but "
"That wasn't what he needed." Paul finished, steepling his hands. "It
sounds like Dale knew what he was asking for."
"I think he knew exactly at gut level." Flynn acknowledged. "I'm not
sure why. The most obvious thing to me is that he found some stress
relief from the spanking I gave him yesterday; it did calm him down
and open him up. Whether he wanted that relief again when he began to
get seriously stressed I don't know, I pushed him pretty hard on
slowing down this morning and he wasn't happy. Or whether it was
seeing Riley lose his temper that let loose emotion in him, or
whether it's guilt- I actually think Dale's carrying a lot of guilt,
not least for having broken down in the first place."
"He's tightly wound." Paul agreed. "And we were starting to think he
was a lot more sensitive than he was letting on. Hon, I really
shouldn't worry too much about why right now. We'll find that out in
time. Your instincts are good."
"If it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck," Jasper said
mildly, "Let's try what ducks like and see where we get to. You think
he knows what he's doing?"
"I think the instincts are there. I don't think consciously Dale has
this figured out at all," Flynn said dryly. "But he and Riley spent
the afternoon together and he's been as calm as Ri is. Am I the only
one who's noticed how Ri is treating him?"
From the silence around the table, it was clear he was not.
In the hour before dinner everyone assembled in and
around the kitchen, and Paul, who appeared to do the majority of the
cooking and was usually cleaned up and back to the house first in the
late afternoon, worked at the big counters and the stove. Once
gathered, they all talked before and through dinner, and dinner
tended to be a slow affair built around conversation, which was novel
to Dale who was used to business lunches or snatched meals alone
while he worked. Those meals bore no relation to these unhurried,
casual affairs where people frequently laughed, and the conversations
ranged from work all over the ranch to plans and to teasing. Even
when the dishes were empty no one seemed in a hurry to move and deal
with them, still busy talking. They seemed to share a great deal
about each others' day, and they all kept on drawing Dale into it,
Riley without hesitation nudging him for information on the part of
the day they had spent together as though those details and
conversations were significant and worth the repeating.
After dinner Flynn and Jasper stayed to clear up, since apparently
cowboys didn't know about dishwashers, and the others then gathered
in the family room and Riley pulled down a pack of cards again,
waiting for Dale to come and join him on the hearth rug. Riley
appeared to be fully his normal self again, as though the events of
the morning had never happened, chattering and laughing as easily as
he usually did, and as natural with Flynn as though nothing at all
had happened between them
although he avoided sitting for any length of time and Dale had seen
Paul's hand rub down his back in sympathy when he winced on sitting
down on the hard chairs at the table. Being distinctly tender
himself, Dale had every sympathy, save that he didn't feel his usual
self at all. He felt calm, an unfamiliar sensation that washed
through him with the relief and welcome of soft rain on dry land. It
was insane. Utterly insane. According to popular psychology he ought
to be bitter, sullen and aggressive, when he actually felt anything
but.
Hate being disciplined, but damn do I feel better afterwards.
Riley had said that so easily, as though without any doubts that he
would understand.
It had been past seven thirty when they left the table, and the clock
was striking eight thirty when Flynn lowered his book.
"Dale, bed time. Riley, you too."
There seemed no point in debating it when one was publicly
hallucinating at intervals from a several month-old sleep debt. Dale
got up, collecting the remainder of his cards while Riley sat up and
gave Flynn a look of exasperation.
"You are kidding."
"Not in the least." Flynn said bluntly. "I meant exactly what I said
this morning."
"Rotten." Riley said with heat but without much apparent bitterness,
and got up, collecting the rest of the cards. He stooped over
Jasper's chair, kissed his cheek without reservation, and moved
directly onto Paul who had got up from his chair to head towards the
kitchen and who gave him a hug.
"Goodnight honey. Sleep well."
"You," Riley said levelling a finger at Flynn as he passed, "I'm not
talking to."
"You I'll come and deal with in a minute when I've said goodnight to
Dale." Flynn said without looking up from his book. Riley pulled a
face at him and headed upstairs.
"Goodnight." Dale said softly to Jasper and Paul, and saw Jasper's
quick smile to him, followed to his surprise by Paul hooking a firm
arm around his neck, pulling his head down and kissing his cheek as
though he was Riley.
"Goodnight Dale. Sweet dreams."
Shocked, and with no idea whatever of what to do with that, Dale
jogged upstairs and occupied himself getting ready for bed. While it
was an hour that normally he would have seen as working hours, never
mind leisure hours, the thought of sleep was actually attractive. The
fresh air and hard physical work was exhausting: every night once
dinner was finished he was aware of being physically tired out and
ready for rest. It was never more than five minutes or so before
Flynn came up and Dale heard him on the stairs a minute before he
came in, pausing as he always did to check the window and the weather
beyond it.
"Headache tonight?"
Not at all. That was something of a revelation. Dale shifted onto his
side, too sore to lay flat, and Flynn sat down on the edge of the
bed. His was one of the faces that never really gave away anything
much; it was only his eyes that suggested what he wanted to talk
about.
"How are you feeling?"
"Ok." Dale said honestly. "Better. I got what I was asking for I
suppose."
As soon as he said it, he found himself wondering, with some
humiliation, just what the hell a CEO thought he was asking for and
doing accepting a paddling in the name of some weird therapeutic-
You sound like a penitent bloody sixth former in front of the
headmaster!
"Stop it." Flynn said in a tone that was very quiet but deep enough
and stern enough to make Dale jump and wonder how the hell Flynn had
read that particular thought.
Flynn's eyes were grim and not easy to look away from, and they
didn't look in the least amused.
"You are safe here Dale. No one is going to laugh at you or think any
the less of you or mind about anything, so long as you're honest with
us."
"No bullshit." Dale said half dryly. Flynn nodded, holding his gaze.
"No bullshit. Don't worry, just let yourself be. Go to sleep and
sleep well. Goodnight."