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FINDING SANCTUARY
DC Juris
* * * *
PUBLISHED BY:
Fanny Press on Smashwords
Published by Fanny Press
PO Box 70515
Seattle, WA 98127
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any
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and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Cover design by Sabrina Sun
Contact: info@fannypress.com
Copyright © 2010 by DC Juris
ISBN: 978-1-60381-487-4 (Paper)
ISBN: 978-1-60381-488-1 (ePub)
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* * * * * *
Thursday
Chatter surrounded him, indistinct but overpowering at the same time. Plates clattering,
silverware clinking, people talking, an overly happy woman three booths over with a laugh that
grated on his nerves, the tinkling of the wind chimes as the front door opened and closed, street
noise filtering in. He thought his ears might bleed with it, and he wanted to block it all out—press
his hands to his ears and scream until he went hoarse.
“Vin?”
With a start, Vincent became aware of the man across from him. Sounds rushed away from
him, no longer loud and glaring, but safely in the background where they belonged. “Huh?”
“Have you heard a single word I’ve said?”
“Um ...” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “I’m sorry, Eric. I don’t mean to ignore you,
honestly.” Eric had asked him to drinks after work to discuss “something important,” and Vincent
had no idea what his friend had been saying.
Eric sat back and studied him; those chocolate brown eyes bored into Vincent’s soul.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Vincent shrugged. “Just tired I guess.” He had grown up with Eric—loved him
like a brother. He owed Eric his attention. “You were saying?”
“I know you better than that.” Eric’s voice dropped to an intimate level.
Eric did know him better than that. Knew him well. And sometimes, Vincent wished ... He
shook off the thoughts. “You ever feel like you don’t belong?”
Eric quirked an eyebrow at him and chuckled. “You’re asking your gay friend if he’s felt
like he didn’t belong?”
“Yeah, I guess you have.” Why did his heart pound when Eric said gay ?
Eric leaned forward and stretched his hand across the worn tabletop, not touching, but not
avoiding either. “Talk to me. You’ve been acting funny for weeks now. People are worried.”
“People?”
“ I’m worried.”
“I just ...” Vincent heaved a deep sigh. He just ... what? How did he explain to someone else
what he didn’t even understand himself? “Lately, I feel like ... shit.”
“You feel like shit?”
“No.” Vincent shook his head. “Or yes. I don’t know. I don’t know how to describe it.
Something’s missing, Eric. Something inside me. I have no right to feel this way, do I?”
“Why not?”
“I’ve got nothing to complain about. I’ve got a good job, a nice house. I’ve got Jenny. I’ve
got a fucking picket fence and a dog for God’s sake.”
“You know those are all material things, right? Things can’t make you happy. That’s
something you find within.”
“Thank you, Zen Master Eric.” Vincent grinned and put his palms together in front of him,
gave a little mocking half-bow, as much as he could in the confines of the booth.
Eric rolled his eyes. “What I mean is, maybe you do have a right to feel the way you do.
Just because you’re well off doesn’t mean you’re happy. What do you think is missing?”
“That’s just it.” Vincent shrugged. “I have no idea. I’ve been ...” He glanced around the
cafe, uncertain if this was the most appropriate place for such a conversation.
“We can go back to my place and talk, if you want.”
Eric’s place. Just around the corner. That’s why he had suggested it. Nothing to do with
anything else, so why did Vincent’s cock twitch at the thought? What the fuck is wrong with me?
“Yeah, that’d be good.”
Eric signaled the waitress and paid the tab. “Ready?”
They left the café, Vincent exiting first. As he stepped out onto the sidewalk, he felt the
briefest brush of Eric’s hand against his back. Eric did these things—little touches here and there
—without thinking, Vincent knew. Didn’t mean anything. Nothing. Vincent took a deep breath to
settle his nerves and followed Eric down the block to his apartment.
Eric’s nosey neighbor, Betty—that little old woman with the crooked nose and the gray hair
that reminded Vincent of Don King—stood on the stoop, looking them up and down as they
walked inside. What did she think? That they were going inside to fuck? Well, let her. Maybe he
wanted that, and so what if he did? Maybe. Vincent stopped in his tracks, a sudden throbbing in
his temples, a faint buzzing in his ears. Great. He had worked himself up, and now ...
“Vin?” Eric had stopped as well. He turned, looked at him with concern, and moved back
toward him. “Are you okay?”
“ Just my head.” Vincent felt his cheeks flush, knew they would soon be bright red. Damn
his stupid inability to control his emotions.
“Come on, come inside. I’ll get you some water.” Eric took his hand. God, that didn’t help
at all. Nevertheless, Vincent wrapped his fingers around Eric’s, clutching, clinging. The hallway
spun at a crazy angle and he moaned, lightheaded.
“Vin?” Eric grabbed for him.
Vincent looked up, dazed, trying to force his body to work to no avail. The last thing he
heard before consciousness slipped away was Eric’s soft voice.
“’S okay, baby. I’ve got you.”
****
Hands. Vincent felt them everywhere. Touching his body—stroking, petting, pulling,
tugging, clawing. Gentle, some of them, but others ... Oh, others were not gentle at all. And he
liked it. Teeth. Scraping his cock, biting and nibbling his thighs. He spread his legs, wanting
more. No, wanting was not the right word. Craving. Needing. Yes, needing . He needed this. He
heard a whimper escape his throat; hadn’t known he could make such a small, pleading, helpless
noise, but it sounded good. Sounded right. He wanted to beg, wanted to grovel. Anything to keep
this feeling going.
He had no idea whose hands he felt but that didn’t matter. Could have been anyone’s.
Men’s hands, though—large and rough, calloused in all the right places—and he liked that even
more. One of those hands took hold of his cock while others pressed on his shoulders, holding
him down, pinning him hard. No use to struggle. Couldn’t escape this even if he tried, and god,
he didn’t want to try. The hand on his cock wrapped around, squeezing him tight. So very tight.
Too tight, but he welcomed it, and it no longer occurred to him to wonder why he did. Right.
Pure. He arched into the touch and finally found his voice. “Yes … Please ...”
“Vin? Wake up.”
Eric’s voice floated down to him. Eric. Vincent opened his eyes with a groan. A dream.
Only a dream? But how was that possible? The sensations had been so real. He glanced down at
his crotch, his cock standing tall and proud beneath his trousers. And Eric’s gaze had followed
his.
“That must’ve been one helluva dream.”
Vincent sat up, red heat of embarrassment flushing his cheeks. “Sorry.”
“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” Eric told him, handing him a bottle of soda. “You scared
the shit out of me in the hallway. I haven’t seen you crash like that in a long time. Forgot what it
was like.”
Vincent took the soda and unscrewed the cap, relieved that Eric hadn’t wanted to talk about
his raging erection, or the details of his dream. He downed several gulps of soda before
responding. “Hasn’t happened in a while. I’ve gotten a lot better at dealing.”
Or had he? Don’t you cry, the memory of his father’s voice lingered in his head, even now,
years after the man had died. He had suffered badly at his father’s hands—hadn’t realized that
until he had grown up and moved out, found a therapist. Until then, he’d thought it had all been a
part of a normal childhood. Boys didn’t cry, and good people never got angry. Vincent was a
good person—good people never had unclean thoughts, and if he happened to, well, thankfully
his father had been around to beat them out of him. Fucking psychopath.
Which only served to further confuse him. He had hated his father—hated what the man
had done to him, what he’d been put through, made to endure. So, why in god’s name did he
crave pain now? Didn’t make any sense. He didn’t want to hurt like he had back then, but a part
of him whispered that it wouldn’t be the same. The beating would be done with love this time.
With love?
“Vincent?”
Vincent looked up, caught Eric’s once-again-worried gaze. “Sorry.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Yeah. I guess I don’t know what else to say.”
“What happened in the hallway?”
“What always happens.” He’d felt. For one stolen moment, he had allowed himself to feel
—to think about what lay in his heart, his desires, his needs—and his fucked up brain had
responded like it always did, with a panic attack and a blackout. What he wouldn’t give to be
normal.
“I know what happened, physically. What were you thinking? What caused it?”
“You.” The word slipped out, unbidden, before Vincent could stop it. Like he needed
anything to further cement his lunacy.
“Me?”
“I should go.” Vincent stood abruptly, blinking away the dizziness, and looked around for a
moment. He’d had a coat on at the café. Eric had taken it off him. Vincent reached up, touched
his collar. Eric had removed his tie, unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt. Small gestures,
but so very, very meaningful to him. Why?

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