by Tara Lain
Chapter Twelve
“Hi. This is Rico. Leave a message.”
Ian huffed. Damn. He’d called the man six times.
Beep. “Hey, Rico, it’s me. I have something important to tell you. I’ve tried a few times, and I’m starting to get worried. Will you call me back, please? I hope everything’s okay. You know, that you’re not in the hospital or something. Hope to talk to you soon.” He clicked off. Weird. He’d left one other message and said it was important. That was yesterday and still no response. He stared out his car window toward the ocean. Braden’s explanation of Rico’s weirdness sounded plausible. He might just be closeted at home. Ian sighed. Do I believe that? Shit. Until something better comes along.
Three guys walked past his car, hauling trays and chairs. One of the women from the party team waved at him as she carried what must be tablecloths or something into Braden’s house. Ian hopped out of his front seat and trotted over to the catering truck. “Can I help?”
A big Hispanic dude transferred two huge chafing dishes that smelled like heaven into his arms, and he headed for the front door. Dodging five men and three women from the office, he threaded through the dining room and set the pans on the counter in the kitchen, which was so packed he could barely walk across it. He retreated though the bifold glass doors to the huge deck outside the living room and, one more time, glanced at his phone. He’d waited three days after talking to Braden to call Rico. His plan was to give Rico enough time to miss him. Shit, best-laid plans.
Braden’s multilevel deck system with its awe-inspiring view literally climbed down the hill toward the sea. The highest level, where Ian stood, spread out like an extension of the big living space, perfect for entertaining, while the lowest, two stories below, looked like an ocean-viewing platform, where an observer could stare straight into the pounding surf and rocks.
Ian walked to the edge and looked down. His heart squeezed. Leaning over the rail on the lowest platform stood Braden, perfect profile etched against the blue of the water below him. If you could see loneliness like clouds, Braden would blot out the sky. He just stared, immovable, so rigid that if you touched him, he might shatter.
Ian stepped toward the stairs—then stopped. Would Braden even want him to interfere? Come on. Your friend needs you. He headed down the steps. As he got lower, the rumble of the surf covered the sound of his footsteps, so when he touched Braden’s arm, he jumped. “Sorry.”
Braden looked at him with soft eyes, blinked, glanced around nervously, and stepped back from the edge.
“Is everything okay?”
“Yeah.” He grimaced. “No. Last night, I discovered someone’s taking pictures of me.”
“Pictures.”
“Yeah. I’m pretty sure it’s for my wife.”
“She doesn’t know what you look like?” He grinned. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to be a wiseass.”
Braden half smiled back. Even a half a smile from Braden pumped up the blood. “Yes, you did.” He blew out a long column of air. “She’s pushing me against the wall. Either give her a lot more money for a long time, or she’ll take the kids. I’d give her the money, but I can’t. It’s the company’s, and I’m not the company.”
“How can she take your kids? Hell, you’re their father.”
“All she has to do is prove I’m an unfit father.”
“Bullshit. You’re a great father. The best. Trust me, I know about bad fathers, and you’re not close.”
“Thanks. But despite all the legal talk about equality, gay men still get looked at with suspicion in the courts.”
“Crap. That makes me so mad.”
“Me too. Nothing to do except try to not give her any more fuel for her fire.”
“More?”
He looked down at his hands. “I got drunk and a little disorderly last night. The fucking cameraman caught some of it on digital.”
“What’d you do?”
Was that a blush?
“It’s not important.” Braden stared off into the distance again.
Disorderly. With whom? Weird. His stomach tightened. Why the fuck do I want to hit someone? Better go call my boyfriend. “I’m going to run home and get my swim trunks and stuff, and then I’ll be back for the party.”
“Oh good, yeah.”
“Will the kids be here tonight?”
“No. I really wanted them, but their mother had some other plans. Mostly plans to not give me what I want, I expect. They usually end up being cared for by the housekeeper. Fortunately, she’s great.” He got kind of a funny, forced smile. “So did you enact plan ‘stealth lover’?”
“What?”
“You know, with your boyfriend.” The smile got weirder.
“Oh, no. I actually haven’t been able to get in touch with him. I’m a little worried.”
“Why? What do you think might have happened?”
He shrugged. “They say the traffic in Mexico City is awful.”
“It is. But he’s probably fine. Maybe his phone got wrecked or something.”
“Yeah, probably.”
“I’ll see you later?”
“Yes.” He ran up the stairs and stopped at the top. Why did he feel so odd when he spoke to Braden now? Because of the argument they’d had over his moving to Mexico? Hell, how odd was it to have a friendship with his boss to begin with? Actually his boss’s boss. Or maybe his boss’s boss’s boss’s boss’s etcetera boss, since he wasn’t even an employee. Just an intern. Everybody in the office kind of outranked him. Talk about out-of-balance power. But dammit, he liked Braden. A lot. Yes, the hotness factor made Ian antsy, but he could control it. He had a boyfriend. Admittedly, one with whom he hadn’t had sex in about three thousand years, but Ian had a well-trained right hand, which would do the job until he and Rico figured out a way to be together.
He glanced down at Braden staring out to sea. Whew. Go call Rico. The sooner you have sex, the better.
He drove home. Jim and Ken were off at the mom’s again, so only Anderson greeted him. He knelt and gave the big guy a pet. “I promise I didn’t see your girlfriend without you.” Anderson flipped and presented his belly. “No, I recognize a trap when I see one. Pet that region and get claw marks on my arm.” He smiled, stood, and headed for the bedroom. Okay, call Rico. He perched on the bed and dialed, idly scratching behind Anderson’s ears as he snuggled next to him.
“Hi, this is Rico.”
Damned recording! He clicked off. Okay, this was bad. Even if Rico was upset or angry, he wouldn’t miss this many calls. “What should I do?”
Anderson didn’t offer an opinion.
Where had he left that home number? He bounded up and searched his messy desktop. The number Rico had given him before he left to use in case of emergency showed up under a stack of drawings for class. Should I? Hell yes.
He took a breath and dialed. It rang once, twice.
“Bueno?” A woman’s voice.
Whoa. “Uh hello, do you speak English?”
“Oh, yes I do.” She sounded kind of young. Not like Rico’s mom or anything. “How can I help you?”
“Oh, thank you. I’m a friend of Rico’s from California. At work. I’m trying to reach him, and he hasn’t answered his cell phone. I thought maybe, uh, something was wrong with his phone. Is he there?”
“Oh no, I’m so sorry. He probably hasn’t answered because he’s been traveling. But he’s actually in California now, I believe.”
“He-he is?”
“Yes. I think maybe he’s packing. But you should be able to reach him on the phone soon. Is there a problem?”
“Uh no, I just heard he might be moving to Mexico, and I didn’t want to lose touch with him. I, uh, have a new number, so I wanted to be sure he has it. I hope everything is going well with his father.”
“Oh yes, very well. Thank you for asking. I’m Rico’s sister.”
“Hi. My name’s Ian.”
“Oh. I believe he’s mentioned you.” Her voice changed.
Was it cooler?
“Anyway, thanks so much. I’m sure I’ll be able to get a hold of him soon.”
“If he calls, I’ll tell him you’re trying to reach him.”
“Thank you. Bye.” He clicked off. In California. Packing. That seemed pretty damned final. It also seemed like a good chance to present his proposal.
He leaped up, upending Anderson, who yowled. Grabbing his sexiest pair of jeans from the closet, he stripped, pulled them on, added a tight black T-shirt and a green hoodie Rico always said made his eyes look like jade, slid on his flip-flops, and ran out the door.
It took about twenty minutes to get to Rico’s apartment building in Irvine. Ian found a parking space at the Spectrum across the street since visitor parking in the complex was—complex. He waited for the light, then trotted to the three-story buildings massed on two blocks of prime Irvine Company real estate. Manicured lawns and an identical workout facility in each building made the place feel too planned for Ian, but Rico always said he liked it because he didn’t have to think about it. It was a good-sized place, with tenants always moving in and out. As Ian approached the entrance to Rico’s building, a tall, good-looking blond guy walked out, carrying a flat-screen television.
Ian stepped aside, then entered and climbed to the second floor. If nobody was there, maybe he could check with the building manager to see if Rico had moved out yet.
As Ian walked down the hall, a banging like a hammer echoed off the sterile walls. Okay, promising. The door to Rico’s apartment stood open. Ian half smiled.
At the door, he peeked around the corner. Rico, looking as delicious as ever in board shorts and a T-shirt, stood on a stepladder, hammering at some shelving units.
Ian grinned. “You never could handle a hammer worth a damn.”
Rico gasped, turned, fell backward off the stepladder, staggered a couple of feet, and flopped on his ass. “Shit!”
Ian rushed across the room. “I’m so sorry, baby. I didn’t mean to startle you so badly. Are you okay? I just wanted to surprise you.”
Rico frowned and rubbed his elbow, which looked red. He must have bumped it in the fall. “What are you doing here?”
“I kept trying to call and, when I couldn’t get you, I got worried. Finally I called your house, and your sister told me you were here.” He cupped Rico’s chin with his hand. “I’ve missed you so badly. Your sister said your dad is doing great. I’m really happy to hear it.” He leaned in for a kiss, and Rico turned his head. Ian frowned and pulled back. “Look, it’s okay. I was calling to tell you I realized you probably aren’t out to your family. But it’s okay with me. I’m happy to be your secret boyfriend until we can find a way to be together.”
“Ian, what are you talking about? I told you, it’s over. I’m not coming back.”
“And yet, here you are.” Ian tried to smooth the crease popping between his eyebrows.
“I just came to put most of my shit in storage.” He leaned forward and sighed.
“And it didn’t cross your mind that I might want to help you with that?”
“Ian, I tried to tell you—”
“It’s okay. I can come to Mexico sometimes, and you can come here, and we’ll see each other, and—”
“Over my dead body.” The voice came from behind Ian. His head should have flown off into space, he snapped it back so hard. Standing in the doorway was the same guy he’d seen carrying the flat-screen out the door. Handsome if you liked Rutger Hauer movies, tall, blond, probably in his late thirties, and clearly madder than piss.
“Who the fuck are you?” Ian leaned back.
“I might ask the same question, except I know who you are.” He adopted a snarky smile and sauntered a couple of steps into the room. “You’re Rico’s little boy toy who kept him company in California until he could come home and get a real man to love him.” His weird accent, some combination of German and Spanish, grated along Ian’s every nerve.
“What’re you talking about?” He looked at Rico. “What the hell?”
“I’m Rico’s fiancé, boy. So why don’t you get your hand off my intended and your ass out of this apartment so we can get finished packing and go home.”
“Intended?” His head swung back to Rico, who stared at his feet, his mouth open like a fish. Yeah, a fucking piranha. “So that’s the big emergency?” He swung an arm toward the blond man. “You getting fucked by Arnold Schwarzenegger over there is why you stayed in Mexico so long?”
Mr. Fiancé snorted, but Rico said nothing.
Ian practically couldn’t get the words out fast enough. “Oh yeah, you getting your ass reamed while I’m hanging out here like some faithful housewife clearly took up lots of your time, you sorry-assed, lying snake.”
“My father was sick.” He never looked up from his shoes.
“For what, a day? Two? Is he even leaving the company?” Ian’s hands shook, and he stood and wiped them on his jeans. I won’t cry here. I can’t. “You deserve what you get. Bury yourself in some fucking Mexican second-rate developer, and your career will never get out of the shithole.” He glowered at the big man. “As for him, who knew your taste ran to the SS?”
The guy moved faster than he looked like he could. He grabbed Ian’s arm, swung him toward the door in an arc, and let him go so that Ian flew against the wall in the hall and crumbled like a wet sock.
“Ian! Karl, don’t hurt him.”
Ian registered Rico’s voice just before the door slammed in his face.
Chapter Thirteen
Ian stared out the windshield of his car at the boring high-rise buildings of the Irvine Spectrum. How did I get here? Couldn’t quite remember what happened after he hit the wall. After Karl threw him against the wall. Somehow he’d made it through the apartment complex and across an eight-lane highway to his present catatonic sitting session.
Karl. Fiancé.
He swiped a hand over his face. You’ve got to drive home. Get it together. No, not home. To the beach party. Shit.
His head hit the steering wheel. Rico was getting married—to someone else. He was in love with someone else. Someone huge. Blond. Not anything like Ian. That’s what he’d wanted all along. He’d lied his fucking ass off. Probably from the moment he left.
Wait. Ian’s head popped up. When had he started lying? Before he left? When he said they’d move in together? When he said he loved Ian? Had everything been a lie?
His hands gripped the wheel until they hurt. Want to hit Karl.
That’s called suicide.
A sob burst out of his mouth. Don’t care. Nobody loves me.
Don’t be stupid, Drama Queen. Jim loves you. Ken. Anderson.
Another sob. Not like that! Want Rico to love me. Hold me. Fuck me. Oh God, now he fucks Karl. He swiped at his face, but no use. Like trying to stop the rain.
No. Stop thinking. Drive.
He turned the ignition, threw the thing into drive, and pressed the accelerator. Somewhere up there on the right, there had to be a turnoff for the freeway. With another swipe at his eyes, he estimated the turn, ran over the curb, banged down onto the asphalt, and managed to hit the on-ramp. Okay, get up to speed. Foot on pedal. Press. Cars whizzed by. Go faster.
Beep! Every nerve contracted, and he jumped a foot. A car raced in front of him and the driver lifted a hand, middle finger extended.
Pay attention, dumbass.
By the grace of some benevolent deity, he managed to get into the second lane and established a steady pressure on the accelerator. Fortunately, the turnoff for Laguna came up on the right, and he barely had to turn the wheel to get on it. Laguna Canyon Road, as usual, resembled some offspring of a holiday parade and a parking lot. He crawled down the winding street that single-handedly limited the population of Laguna Beach. If you wanted to live there, you had to endure this road.
Finally, after thirty minutes of determined nonthinking, he pulled into the driveway of Jim and Ken’s. Not his house. Hell, what had he ever done to contribute
to it besides add some sweat?
Do I have to go to the party? Yeah, he’d promised to help with herding the employees’ kids on the beach. He had to be there. Shoving the car door like he wanted to shove Karl, he crawled out and powered into the house, dodging Anderson until the cat jumped on the bed and stomped on his shorts.
“Meowrr.”
Ian flopped down beside him. “Sorry, guy, but I can’t take your sympathy right now. I gotta make it through this fucktard party. After that, for the rest of the night you can tell me what a dumbass I was to count on Rico.” He sucked in a deep breath. “Shit! Okay, gotta go. Cats are better than people. You’ve proved that about a million times.” He leaned over and kissed the big, fuzzy head, snagged his board shorts from under Anderson, pulled them on, then headed out the door and down the street toward the Thousand Steps, carrying some jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt in a tote bag for later when the temperature dropped twenty-five degrees.
At the highway in front of Braden’s drive, a van was unloading a bunch of the company employees and their families. Braden had arranged for parking at a supermarket lot about a mile up the highway, since only six or seven vehicles would fit in his drive. The van ferried people back and forth. Kids yelled and dragged their boogie boards toward the steps that led to the sand, while the adults tried to herd them toward the house. Ian sucked air. You can do this.
Max climbed out of the van with Daisy and two stocky teenagers who looked like a composite of their parents. Max waved at Ian.
Smile. He waved back and trotted to the crosswalk, since running across PCH with no light required more of a death wish than he could muster—despite fucking Rico and double-fucking Karl. When he got to them, Daisy gave him a big hug and Max shook his hand, then introduced him to Phillip and Austin, their kids.
“The guys are dying to get to the beach.” Max laughed and ruffled the hair of Austin, the younger of the two. Probably thirteen or so, about Jo-Jo’s age.
Might as well dive in. “Why don’t you two take your stuff in the house, and I’ll show the guys the ropes down below?”