The Bridge of Silver Wings Read online

  Table of Contents

  THE BRIDGE OF SILVER WINGS

  Blurb

  Copyright Acknowledgement

  Dedication

  Quote

  Prologue

  Part One

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Part Two

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Trademarks Acknowledgment

  MLR PRESS AUTHORS

  GLBT RESOURCES

  THE BRIDGE OF SILVER WINGS

  More Heat Than the Sun, Book Three

  JOHN WILTSHIRE

  mlrpress

  www.mlrpress.com

  Ben discovers the truth of the adage ‘Be careful what you wish for’. Nikolas has exorcised his demons, but when they end up stranded in Russia, the monster inside needs to be let loose. Siberia in winter isn’t a place for good men.

  There is nothing Nikolas won’t do to keep Ben alive.

  Home again, Nikolas then faces an enemy he can’t defeat: Ben Rider himself. Discovering a new family, Ben realises he’s been living too long in the shadows cast by Nikolas’s all-consuming love. For the first time, life apart from Nikolas is possible. Is Nikolas strong enough to let Ben go?

  Copyright Acknowledgement

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright 2014 by John Wiltshire

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  Published by

  MLR Press, LLC

  3052 Gaines Waterport Rd.

  Albion, NY 14411

  Visit ManLoveRomance Press, LLC on the Internet:

  www.mlrpress.com

  Cover Art by Deana Jamroz

  Editing by Christie Nelson

  Print format: ISBN# 978-1-60820-950-7

  ebook format

  Issued 2014

  This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of International Copyright Law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines and/or imprisonment. This eBook cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this eBook can be shared or reproduced without the express permission of the publisher.

  DEDICATION

  To my mother, who always told me to write about what I know. I’m fairly sure she didn’t actually mean this.

  “I want to live like I know I’m dying

  Take up my cross, not be afraid…”

  – Thousand Foot Krutch

  PROLOGUE

  Seven men and women gathered around the conference table in the office within the high glass tower. It was the most expensive tower ever to have been built in London, and that the owner of this foundation could afford a headquarters within it awed those gathered, even though they themselves enjoyed all the privileges of working for some of the best-known charities in Britain. They’d variously travelled to the meeting by first-class train and chauffeured car, or flown first class and been whisked through the London traffic in their privately-owned charity vehicles. One or two had even walked in the brisk autumn air from their own deluxe offices in the heart of London’s business district. They’d all come to this meeting to ask for money, although that’s not the way they actually thought about it. They saw themselves as saviours of the poor, the needy, the sick, the old—anyone whose helplessness enabled them to live lives of conspicuous luxury. That the head and owner of Agency for Non-Governmental Emergency Logistics—ANGEL, as this new foundation was known—had offices in this soaring edifice of glass and ostentation encouraged them in the belief they were with people who understood the true nature of charitable work.

  They recognised, of course, one of the two men who came in and sat at the head of the conference table behind the logo of the falling angel. There was hardly anyone in Britain now who didn’t recognise Ex-Special-Forces-Expert Ben Rider. His picture, after all, was on the cover of the current edition of Time Magazine. It was the second man they hadn’t seen before. He matched his choice of office: expensive and out to impress. They sensed the delicious taste of donation coming their way.

  Before the meeting could start, however, a young man pushed open the glass conference room doors and apologised, flustered and embarrassed, for being late. He’d got on the wrong tube, apparently, never having been in London before, and had then had to walk, asking people as he went for directions. This strategy hadn’t been all that successful, as his accent was almost indecipherable. He sat down with the immaculately suited others, brushing down his sweat-stained shirt, as if that would help. Next to their professionally presented portfolios, he placed his A4 envelope, on which it appeared he’d been doodling.

  The meeting began. Each of the project directors outlined the work they did and where and why they needed logistical support from ANGEL. No one mentioned money of course; it was revenue enhancement, empowerment, moving the needle. One woman even referred to the impending crisis in her area as a burning platform for which moving the needle could see significant results. All their projects were, apparently, scalable. No one mentioned money, until the turn came of the young man who’d been late. He’d frowned all the way through the other presentations, watching the pictures of the needy people, fiddling with his envelope. He hadn’t brought any pictures, because he’d only that morning flown in from Afghanistan. He told them simply the Taliban had burnt down his school, and that unless he could find some money to rebuild it, not one of his twenty young girls would be able to continue her education. When he was asked why he’d come to this meeting with this request, he claimed a British soldier had given him Ben Rider’s card and promised he’d help. There were polite smiles from the others around the table. Five minutes later, the meeting was over. Chauffeured cars were called, and seven men and women left empty handed. The young man was invited to dinner to discuss his project, an invitation he declined as he admitted he wanted to fly back, if he could, that night. He left with enough money to rebuild the school, stock it with laptops, one for each girl, and a promise of a team of builders to be on site by the end of the week.

  Owning your own charitable organisation and funding it entirely yourself gave great scope to eccentric and eclectic decision-making, Nikolas had discovered.

  PART ONE

  CHAPTER ONE

  “You’re such a bugger, Nik.” Ben came up behind Nikolas and slid his hands in under Nikolas’s jacket.

  Nikolas continued to stare out at his very expensive view. “I assume you’re not referring to what I’m thinking of doing to you in the next few minutes.”

  “In a glass office?”

  “In my glass office. I’m allowed. Besides, we’re the only ones here.”

  Ben kissed the back of Nikolas’s neck. “You invite them here, build up their expectations and then sen
d them home like naughty schoolboys.”

  “No, I send them home like greedy politicians, scum of the most corrupt aspects of your western democracy.”

  “Oh, God, we’re onto your Stalinist manifesto again. I think I’ll start asking you for a change, who won the war?”

  Nikolas gave his most irritating dismissive wave. “You only won because we knew you’d defeat yourselves with your own inherent decadence sooner or later. We Russians have learnt patience. Our time will come.”

  Ben sighed. Nikolas was restless again. It wasn’t a good sign. The last time Nikolas had been bored, he’d decided their lives needed to be radically changed. To be fair to him, they’d just survived a natural disaster that had claimed the lives of over a hundred thousand people. Such gifts of God tended to change a man, and Nikolas Mikkelsen had been transformed. He’d seen the direct effect money could have in simple ways, something, as a very wealthy man, he’d never before considered. He’d also felt the power that came from being different, from being someone who was willing to break the rules, someone who, in fact, didn’t recognise rules and had never been constrained by the things that constantly restrained other people. These traits in the normal world had confined him, forced him to hide and be small and had led to unfortunate avenues for escape and expression of his bigger nature, addiction and sin. Now, he’d seen where people such as he could thrive, could make a difference, and he’d found a new, better addiction. He’d converted the apartment he owned in the glass tower to office space and had set up ANGEL. He had no board of directors, no shareholders, no controls at all over what he wanted to do. He’d funded some very unusual projects in Ben’s opinion.

  Ben, surfing on the fame and popularity of a wave that had killed so many and ruined so many lives, was less comfortable with his own newfound status. But he couldn’t deny he had a natural talent for it. Even he was impressed with himself when he appeared in yet another ANGEL project documentary, gave another interview, attended another media event. He was the new face of the creed of giving.

  They stood together watching the sunset over London, content in their own company and their own thoughts. Eventually, Nikolas roused. “Go to Afghanistan next week. Film the project and see it through. If they need more money, I’ll send it to you.”

  Ben nodded, reluctant—but also hesitant to admit this to Nikolas. He came over to the table, perching on it, watching Nikolas as he sorted some of the information the young Afghan teacher had brought with him. “Can you really afford all this, Nik? You never talk about finances with me.”

  Nikolas didn’t look up but quirked a smile. “Benjamin, we hardly make a dent in the interest. Do you know what the most profitable sector to be in is in any decade, any era?” He apparently knew Ben didn’t, so he told him, “Armaments. My grandfather invested in war, and we profit every day and in every way.”

  “We make money from armaments and war, but spend money putting right the wrongs wars cause?”

  Nikolas grinned. “Yes.”

  “But that’s sick!”

  “Not at all, it’s almost holy. Didn’t God create man with free will and then spend the rest of his time pretending to mitigate that first great mistake, just to justify his existence?”

  Ben shook his head despairingly. “I think I preferred it when you just drank vodka and watched very dubious porn.”

  Nikolas seized him around the waist and kissed him. “I could do that and run this company? No, I thought not. So, are you hungry?” They laughed at the old joke. Ben was always hungry, and now they had a tunnel leading from their office to a restaurant at which Nikolas had a permanent reservation.

  § § §

  While they were waiting for their food to arrive, Ben, toying with the cutlery, suggested, “You should come with me next week. Get out in the field; remind yourself what it’s all about.”

  Nikolas shuddered theatrically. “I’m allergic to the word field. Take Tim or Michael. In fact, do take Michael, because if you don’t, I may kill him.”

  Ben grinned at the thought of their two male colleagues in ANGEL—Tim Watson, Head of Resource Allocation and Michael Heathcote, Head of Inter-Agency Co-operation. They’d chosen their titles themselves. No one really knew what they did, other than the fact Tim calmed some of Nikolas’s more outrageous and unethical plans, and Michael, aka Squeezy, usually accompanied Ben on his filming assignments as an all-round fixer and carrier of bags. They also had a computer specialist, Kate, and Nikolas had recently recruited a trauma specialist, Andrea Gillian, to join the team. She had excellent credentials as far as Ben was concerned. She saw through Nikolas’s bullshit and was the only one in the team willing to tell him what to do.

  He took Nikolas’s hand and entwined their fingers, something that would’ve been unthinkable only a year ago. “I want you to come. I miss you when I’m away.”

  Nikolas huffed. “They implied on This Morning that you were now seeing Katie from something amusingly named Essex Trash Forever? Is she pretty?”

  “Gorgeous, and it’s not called that. She’s a bit orange when seen in natural light. Are you seriously watching This Morning?”

  “Radulf likes it. It gives him a sense of superiority. So, dating Katie?”

  “She was on Jonathon Ross with me, remember?”

  “She was slightly orange.”

  “So, will you come to Afghanistan?”

  “I’ll think about it. I have many calls on my time.” The food arrived, and while they were eating, Nikolas announced casually, “I may be going to Russia for a few days.”

  Ben stopped eating, still a fairly rare event for him. “Why?”

  Nikolas shrugged. “It’s been a year.”

  Ben leant back. “Since Gregory died.”

  Nikolas nodded. “Yes. Since Gregory died.”

  “You never told me exactly how he died.”

  “No, and I never will, but I wish to go, so I’m going.”

  Nikolas, Ben reflected, had a tendency to live his life entirely in his own head, planning, organising. Then, when it suited him to announce his decisions, he did, leaving no room for compromise or discussion. This new hobby ANGEL only seemed to increase his godlike delusion. Sometimes, Ben watched Nikolas standing at his glass window, staring out, surveying his domain. What was it like to be in Nikolas’s head, being so entirely self—he was thinking centred but amended it more charitably to contained, then decided he’d been right the first time—centred? This decision about Russia entirely epitomised what Ben had been thinking recently. Nikolas casually dismissing him to Afghanistan for weeks was another example. He’d been entirely sidelined in Nikolas’s life since they’d returned from the Philippines. He wasn’t calling Nikolas sir, but other than that, their relationship had almost returned to the one they’d had for the first four years. Nikolas saw Ben when and where it suited him for sex, and the rest of the time he led his life entirely to suit himself.

  Ben toyed with the water glass as he thought these depressing thoughts then moved the salt and pepper shakers around for a bit, but when he started to play with the sugar, Nikolas enquired, somewhat testily, “Are you bored?”

  Ben looked up and gave a bitter laugh. “No. I’m not.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It’s not supposed to mean anything. It means I’m not bored.”

  Nikolas pursed his lips, clearly debating whether he could be bothered to pursue this. They’d hardly seen each other over the last few weeks and Ben knew very well that fighting would be the last thing on Nikolas’s agenda for that night. What he had in mind probably also began with f, though. But Nikolas had learnt over the years that if he wanted Ben to comply with his wishes, he sometimes had to think with an organ above the neckline. Ben waited for one of Nikolas’s gems of empathy.

  “Why are you being more annoying than usual?” It was almost endearing.

  Ben debated just apologising for existing, which is what he usually did, and turning the subject with a joke so they
could coast to bed on the easy pretence all was well. But he didn’t want to. Nikolas casually announcing he was going to Russia had really hurt him, firstly because he was sick of hearing about Gregory, and secondly because it didn’t seem to have occurred to Nikolas to ask him along, too. What were they, what did it say about them, that Nikolas still lived such a separate life in his head? Ben sometimes felt he didn’t make a cup of tea without asking Nikolas about it first. That’s what he wanted as well. Well, not exactly that, the actual making of cups of tea—more what the tea represented. He wanted Nikolas to be as obsessed with him as he was with this infuriating golden god of his. But Nikolas wasn’t, and this really, really pissed Ben off.

  He began to twist his napkin and then just confessed, “This isn’t what I want anymore, Nik. You and me. I’ve been trying to tell you for ages, but you just don’t listen.”

  § § §

  Nikolas leant back very slowly into his seat. He felt a wholly unaccustomed and very unwelcome feeling he was going to be sick. He fought it, swallowing, but he could feel sweat breaking out on his brow and down his spine. He eased forward and picked up the sugar spoon, but his hand was shaking, so he laid it back down carefully. After a moment to ensure his voice was steady, he asked, “How long?”

  “Weeks. God, I’m sorry. I should’ve told you earlier, but I didn’t want to…” Nikolas focused on Ben’s fingers fidgeting anxiously as his voice trailed off.

  He saw himself stay at the table and be forced to hear a name, hear Ben say he hadn’t meant to hurt him, that he couldn’t help himself, that if he, Nikolas, got to know him he’d probably like him or her…this was also a distinct possibility.

  He also pictured himself just getting up and walking out. He preferred the second option so he did it. No warning, no talking, no hearing anything. He just rose, threw down his napkin and walked out.

  § § §

  Ben was so startled by this abrupt departure from the table he didn’t realise Nikolas actually meant to leave the restaurant until it was too late to stop him, and then the waiter arrived with the bill and he had to pay for the meal; so by the time he made it out onto the pavement, there was no sign of Nikolas. They’d parked in the underground garage of the glass tower, so he jogged over and ran down the stairs. Nikolas was standing by the car. He looked up and pointed out calmly, “You have the keys. I can’t get in.”