by Amy Lane
Well, until Tino had come to live with Channing and be Sammy’s nanny, and then, hey, hello, being touched was apparently taken off Tino’s bucket list.
“Like Brandon, right?” Taylor muttered before taking another swallow of beer.
Channing did the slow-blink thing that indicated the question wasn’t what he expected. “Sure,” he said easily, gray eyes still large and surprised. “Jacob’s cousin? Yeah. Brandon’s a good boy. Conroy takes after him too.”
“So what’s his deal?” Taylor blurted before he could control himself. “Brandon, not the baby. The baby seemed cute enough. I’ll probably lose pounds chasing him through the house.”
“I lost ten chasing Keenan,” Channing confirmed. “Tino lost twenty, but he fusses more. Up the stairs, down the stairs—I used to time him, holding Keenan on my hip, waiting for Tino to figure out I had him.”
“Three seconds,” Tino said dryly, walking in with the ice chest. “There’s barely a flight of them. It was the laps around the two sitting rooms, the kitchen, and the dining room to make sure he hadn’t gotten out onto the patio somehow.”
He set the ice chest down, and he and Channing both shuddered.
“Thank God for Sammy,” they said in unison.
“He kept you sane?” In spite of Taylor’s misgivings, hearing the two of them talk about their problems raising children was actually reassuring. The prospect of being in charge of Jacob and Nica’s kids was still bloody terrifying, but the fact that Tino and Channing had been terrified too made him feel like not such a screwup.
“He kept us organized,” Tino said with feeling. “Here, Channing, I’ll do ice, you do bottles.”
“Course.”
The mildness in Channing’s voice told Taylor all he needed to know about who kept them organized. Channing Lowell was a world-class businessman, but apparently he didn’t let his ego get in the way of letting the expert run his household.
“He kept us grounded,” Channing said, setting the bottles in the ice chest while Tino pulled out a bag of ice and went to work. “It was important to remember, you know, we were doing it all because in the end, there was family.”
“So an end goal,” Taylor said thoughtfully. He’d been competent at that once. Good grades to get into college. Good looks to get laid. Good lies so his parents wouldn’t know. He’d gotten into the military with his AA under his belt, and his life had been reduced to much shorter-term goals. Get through this day so you could get through the next. Get through the next day so you could get through boot camp. Get through boot camp so you could get out in three years. Get through the first three years so you could re-up. Get out of the way of the shelling so you could stay alive to wake up and get out of the way again.
Well, he’d done his best. Most of that had happened.
“Yeah,” said a new voice. “What is your end goal?”
Brandon entered the kitchen, the width of his shoulders barely letting him through the doorway.
“Help Nica out until she finds someone better,” Taylor said promptly. “Keep my apartment until my VA grant clears and winter semester starts. Finish my degree and get my credential.”
“Credential in what?” Tino stood up, the limp remains of the ice bag crumpled in his hand. “I never did know what degree you were getting.”
Gratifying how Tino sounded absolutely confident that Taylor would finish what he started. Taylor remembered having that confidence—but he also remembered the chip on his own shoulder that came with it, and he was almost glad the confidence had gone in the same direction.
“History,” Taylor told him, trying not to pull the stiff muscles in his shoulders when he shrugged. “History teacher. Yeah, I know. Not what you expected, is it.”
“No,” Tino said simply, throwing the bag in the recycle bin. “Why history?”
Taylor took a sip of beer and tried to find words.
“Forget history—why you?” Brandon asked for the umpteenth time. “Seriously, the whole family just keeps assuming this is a done deal. I want to know why they think you can just move in and be a part of everybody here. You weren’t here for the kids being born, you weren’t here for them growing up—what right do you have to come around stirring shit up—”
“Brandon!” Tino barked.
Brandon glared at him with hurt green eyes. “What?”
“Look, I get it. You don’t know Taylor and you don’t understand why we trust him. Taylor was like you. Don’t you get that? He grew up with Nica and me—I changed his diapers, same as Jacob changed yours.”
“Oh God,” Taylor groaned, embarrassed.
“Yeah, well, big brothers. It’s a thing,” Tino shot back. “And I don’t know what you see in him that’s so scary, because I’m telling you right now, if you don’t think the eye patch is sexy, you weren’t watching the right movies as a kid!”
Channing laughed and held his fist up for the bump, and Tino gave him back. “Told ya,” Channing said softly, and Tino rolled his eyes.
“I don’t care if he’s hot,” Brandon muttered, undiscouraged. “He’s taking care of kids I care about—”
“I’m taking care of Nica’s kids,” Taylor said, voice gruff. “I know you don’t know who I am, but Nica cared for me when nobody else did. I hurt her once—bad—which is why Jacob hates me, but don’t worry. I’d rather die than hurt this family again.” His lips twisted, and he could feel when his scarred side resisted the muscle pull that would make a real smile. “And trust me, I know about being close to death. I’d rather face an M-16 without a flak jacket than piss off your cousin’s wife.”
“She’s not that scary,” Tino said into the tense silence.
“You’re scared of her.” Channing nodded seriously. “Because you’re not stupid.”
Taylor appreciated the backup, but he was too busy meeting Brandon glare for glare. The boy’s green eyes were snapping and passionate, and a flush had washed up his pale throat. His forearms were tanned darkly, but his face had the fair complexion of someone who needed sunblock, day in, day out, to keep from burning. A few bright pink spots on the back of his neck and his ears testified to that.
And he was apparently not buying a word Taylor said. He crossed arms that bulged with muscle across a barge-sized chest. “Just remember, I’m watching you. My summer job is helping to build the extension on the house. You screw up—bang the help, steal the silver, so much as let Conroy run around in a soiled diaper—and I’ll have you out of that house—”
“And panhandling on the street. I get it, kid. You’d rather see me at the grocery store with a sign and a bedroll than at your cousin’s house earning a living. I’m just a pariah, I’m not a moron.”
And with that he pivoted on his good leg and stalked away.
He wanted to stalk out of the house, into his car, and home to his tiny apartment in Rocklin, but Tino’s mom grabbed him on his way out.
She was helping a late-thirtyish woman in jeans and with a long brown braid set the table for a potluck. Before Taylor could so much as pass the dining room, she thrust a full plate of food at him and told him to go outside and sit.
“You’re scrawny,” she said critically, running a mom-eye up and down his body. “You need good food to heal, Taylor. There’s no better thing.”
Taylor looked guiltily at the food, remembering that Stacy Robbins had needed to go in for back surgery a couple of years ago, and here she was on her feet.
“You should take the food and let me help,” he told her. “I can, uh—”
“All done!” the woman—probably the mysterious Carrie—piped up. “I’m going to take my plate and run off to my room now. Do you think that’s okay?”
“You don’t want to join us?” Stacy asked kindly.
Carrie shrugged sheepishly. “I’m sort of studying for finals, Mrs. R.—Hope’s graduating from school next year, and I don’t need the flexible hours quite so much. I figured I’d see what a desk job is all about.”
“Well, you do that,” Stacy said,
her face lighting up. “And as soon as you get your degree in…?”
“Accounting,” Carrie supplied.
“Good. As soon as you get that degree, come see me, and I’ll be your first client.”
Carrie squealed and threw her arms around Mrs. Robbins. “My kid’ll be so excited. She loves you—she hated the thought that I’d be working for anybody else.”
With that she scurried off, leaving Taylor holding a plate of food and looking nervously at the porch.
“You worried Jacob’s still mad?” Stacy asked softly.
“He was pissed at me pretty much until I shipped out.” Jacob never had understood that Taylor and Nica had made up.
“Yes, well, Nica needs you—”
“Needs a nanny,” Taylor corrected.
Stacy Robbins snorted. “That’s what she’s telling people, honey. You remember my daughter. I know it’s been years since you shipped out, Taylor Cochran, but do you for a moment believe that asking for help is any easier for my daughter than it is for you?”
Taylor thought about Monica Teresa Carol Gaudioso Robbins-Grayson—and how stubborn she’d been about accepting help from anybody outside of family. She’d once had the flu for two weeks and had gotten all of her papers in on time, even the ones she wasn’t there for when they were assigned.
Of course, that had been with Taylor’s help.
He sighed.
“Only family,” he told Stacy now, getting it.
“You still qualify,” she said gently. “Now go out and eat. Meet the kids. Dustin is the hardest to impress, Belinda is the bossiest, Melly is sneaky, and Conroy is so much like Tino it’s terrifying. Children that docile shouldn’t exist. It’s against nature.”
“True that.” He gave a quiet smile and ventured out onto the patio.
Nica promptly sat him at the kids’ table next to Dustin, who, along with the rest of the cousins, stared at Taylor’s left side with wide, story-hungry eyes.
“You know,” Taylor said after a few moments of tense silence, “my old boyfriend used to stare at me like that.”
He couldn’t see Dustin’s face, but he could hear the audible gulp. “What happened to him?”
Taylor swung his head around and pinned the boy with his one good eye. “They never found the body.”
Then he winked.
The kids all gasped in appropriate horror—but the teenager burst into raucous laughter.
Taylor grinned at him, glad to have an ally. “Don’t believe me, Sammy?”
“Nope!” Sammy grinned unrepentantly and took a bite of hot dog. “You were my friend for two summers, Taylor. I don’t remember any bodies in the garden or skeletons in the closet.”
“He coulda put them in the b-b-b-athtub,” the blue-eyed waif next to Dustin lisped before eating the top layer of her lasagna off with her fingers.
“That’s good, Melly. He could douse them with acid!” her older sister said, the idea obviously catching fire.
“Oooh….” Tino and Channing’s son—Keenan?—was obviously excited about the idea. “Then all that would be left would be people soup!”
“Which tastes icky,” Melly finished up.
The two babies in booster seats at the end of the table began to squeal. “Icky! Icky! Letty, Melly said is icky!”
“Icky soup!”
“Oh dear God.” Sammy was trying so hard not to laugh, Taylor thought he might choke. It was time to put an end to this.
“Enough!” he barked sharply. “All dead bodies are off the table!”
Sammy spit milk out his nose, and Taylor ignored him. The rest of the kids were wide-eyed and staring his way, and this might be his one chance to establish any sort of authority whatsoever.
“My name is Taylor Cochran, and for, uh”—he blanked on names and began pointing specifically to Nica’s kids—“you, you, you, and you, I’m going to be your breakfast maker, lunch maker, dresser, and taxi service for the next two to five months. And my very first order of business is—”
“Not to stare at your scary eye patch?” the oldest boy—Dustin, dammit!—offered.
“You can stare at my scary eye patch all you want,” Taylor shot back. “Jesus, kid, I can’t see you when you’re on my left side; what do I care? No, first order of business is to not talk about dead bodies on the table. I mean at the table. We’re eating lasagna and spaghetti, and frankly? I haven’t had a home-cooked meal in months. Don’t ruin it for me. Talk about swimming or school or the book you read last week or potty training—”
“Conroy and Letty are the only ones not potty-trained,” the next oldest—Belinda! Oh thank God, her name was Belinda!—told him.
“Great,” Taylor said, hoping it really was. “I’m sure they have lots to talk about. Do we have anything else to dis—”
Splat.
Taylor swiveled his head all the way to his left again and caught Dustin putting down the fork he’d just used to catapult lasagna onto Taylor’s face.
“What?” Dustin asked, throwing attitude.
Taylor stuck out his index finger and pointed it up under the boy’s chin, raising his hand slowly while Dustin scrambled to stand up so Taylor didn’t poke him.
“Nica!” Taylor called and then turned his head just enough to give her a full view of the lasagna sliding down his cheek.
“You told my mother?” Dustin asked, horrified.
Taylor made sure the boy could see his one good eye. It was important that they understood each other in this matter. “Kid, as far as I’m concerned, your mother is the voice of God. Do you hear me? Anything you don’t want her to know about? You need to make sure I don’t ever catch you doing it. Are we clear?”
“Dustin!” Nica scrambled up and stalked over to them, horrified. “Oh my God. Kid, you had better have a good excuse for this, and you had better have it now.”
“He said he couldn’t see!” Dustin whined, and Taylor thought Nica’s head was going to pop off.
“Not acceptable. I don’t care if he can feel it or not, he’s an adult and he’s my friend and he’s part of this family. You do not disrespect an adult who has done nothing to you but sit down next to you for dinner. Now you go wash your hands and sit in the living room without television, and you think about what you did and how you’re going to treat Mr. Cochran better in the future. I’ve never been so embarrassed in my life!”
Nica’s voice faded as she frog-marched Dustin past the other adults—who were all trying to hold on to their judgey faces, Taylor could tell—and Taylor looked back across the table of little miscreants to see what they thought.
“Wow,” Belinda said, looking from where Dustin had disappeared and back to Taylor again. “You’re not afraid of Mama.”
Taylor grabbed a couple of Dustin’s napkins and started to wipe the lasagna off his cheek and eye patch. “First thing you learn in the military, kiddo. You respect the chain of command, and the chain of command will respect you.” He didn’t add that this lesson only worked when your CO had your back, but he figured that was for another day. Right now he knew Nica had his back, and the kids knew he respected the powers that be. It was enough.
“Well done,” Sammy said quietly. “What are you going to do when Nica’s not there?”
Taylor grimaced. “Well, for starters I’m going to ask you to help me remember their goddamned names.”
“I can do that.” He looked out at the table. “Okay, guys, I’m going to play a game. I’m going to say your name, and you’re going to say a word that sounds like your name. So I say ‘Taylor,’ and he says…?”
“Sailor,” Taylor said promptly. The kids giggled, and he winked. “Next one!”
It worked.
By the time they got from Taylor the Sailor to Melly Belly, Keenan Meanie, Letty Spaghetti, Conroy Little Boy, and Splenda Belinda, Taylor had every kid’s name firmly implanted in his head.
He finished his lasagna feeling slightly better able to cope.
“Uh, ’scuse us.”
&
nbsp; Someone tapped his shoulder, and Taylor looked up to see Jacob doing the chin thing toward the table.
“Dessert?” he asked hopefully, because damn, he just didn’t want another heart-to-heart.
“Humble pie,” Jacob told him dryly.
Taylor had to laugh. He and Tino’s best friend had always gotten along—right up until Taylor had come out and Jacob had moved in on Nica. Well, they were adults now, right?
“I’d rather have ice cream,” he said, and Jacob grinned. He sported a few more wrinkles in the corners of his eyes and his blond hair was closer to brown these days, but still. Bam! Right there. Taylor remembered that smile from when they were kids, remembered Tino and Jacob hanging out with Tino’s little sisters and their geeky friend. Takeout, trips to the movies, trips to the lake—a thousand things that had made this man as much a part of Taylor’s childhood as the rest of the family.
“Me too,” Jacob said. “C’mon, let’s go raid Tino’s garage. I know where he keeps the butterscotch gelato.”
Taylor’s mouth watered, and he swallowed back a whimper. “Butterscotch?” he asked wistfully. Back when he and Nica had truly been kids, before Taylor had decided he had to “prove he was a man” by banging every man that moved, Taylor had pissed off the old man in a truly epic way. When he’d gone over to Nica’s that weekend with bruises on his face and his arm in a sling from “slipping in the bathroom,” Tino and Jacob had offered to go get him anything he wanted from the store.
Nobody else in Taylor’s house liked butterscotch. Not his mom, not his older brothers, not his old man. He’d been hurt—not just from the beating, but because he’d realized why his father had beaten him. It had nothing to do with Taylor being a good boy or a bad boy and everything to do with him flirting shyly with the guy who’d been landscaping their backyard.
Tino and Jacob had come back with butterscotch turtle pie and butterscotch ice cream, and Taylor had….
Well, he hadn’t eaten butterscotch since.
Not because he hadn’t loved it and not because he’d made himself sick, because he’d always been smarter than that.
But because he’d never been sure if he could recreate that feeling, that moment, of being cared for unconditionally by people he respected and admired.