Laird's Choice

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Laird's Choice Page 5

by Remmy Duchene


  "Why'd you put me on speakerphone?" Laird asked needlessly. Whenever he called his brothers and they were all in the same place, he ended up on speakerphone or webcam. Taking a breath, he walked over to the window watching Race run around like a wild man in the corral. "I haven't spoken to Winston yet but with all the noise we were making I'm pretty sure he knows."

  "Oh boy," Savaro groaned.

  "What?" Xavier asked.

  "There's this—thing… I just feel like I can't breathe when he looks at me. It's a strange reaction, I know, but I love it."

  "Go back to the noise!" Rajan pushed.

  Laird rolled his shoulders, knowing he would have to tell them sooner or later. He might as well get it over with. "So the other night he took me out. We went to this club. I got us VIP and everything was going great until somehow he baited me and I was in his lap and we were making out like a couple of horny teenagers. Then I realized the kind of piercings he had—well I knew from before but I could only see it pushing out of his shirt. But then I felt them…"

  "Oh boy!" Rajan interrupted.

  "What?" Xavier questioned again.

  "Then things just went downhill from there after this jerk barged into the VIP to hit on me."

  "Whoa! What?" Xavier was beginning to sound like a broken record. "What did your guy say?"

  "He was mad enough to spit fire. He wanted to pound the creep into the ground but I couldn't let that happen. So I tried talking some sense into the man who of course wouldn't listen so Race threw him out."

  "Did you just say Race?" Xavier questioned. "Race McKade?"

  Laird felt his heart lurch then raced. "You know him?"

  "Erm… How much has he told you about himself?"

  Xavier replied.

  "Not much. I notice that people around here treat him like a leper and they whisper when he passes by. He keeps saying there's something in his past that I won't like but he just can't seem to bring himself to tell me."

  "Why the question?" Rajan wanted to know.

  "X? What's going on?" Savaro pushed.

  "Erm… I don't know if it's my place to say this…"

  "Your place? You're my boyfriend, a part of my family. If this is going to affect my brother I damn well need to know!" Rajan spoke up. Laird could hear the angry urgency in his brother's voice. "What is it?"

  "Race was a good kid," Xavier started.

  Laird pressed his eyes shut, waiting for the hammer to drop.

  "A few years… about—about eight years ago, he was charged and convicted…"

  "Xavier? What was he charged and convicted

  with?" Rajan urged.

  "Murder…"

  Laird's heart snapped then. His hands shook and the phone slipped from his hand to the ground. Making his way across the room he slid the lock in place then pressed his back to it. He then slid to the floor while reaching into his pocket for his cell phone and called Winston.

  "Winston Clemons?"

  "You couldn't have told me?" Laird accused. "Holy shit, I had this man… Why didn't you tell me?"

  "Tell you what? You're freaking out, Laird!"

  "You're damn right I'm freaking out!" Laird yelled before catching himself. "You're damn right I'm freaking out! This man was convicted of murder and you have him not only living in this house but you didn't say anything and he and I… shit."

  "You're not a child, Laird. You can say it. You fucked like rabbits."

  "Don't be crude!"

  "Then what?"

  "I have to go."

  "Damn it, Laird!"

  Laird hung up the phone and stayed locked in the

  bedroom. Taking a breath, he just couldn't get his breathing to slow down. His heart raced. His mind was filled with all the horrible scenarios anyone would think in his situation.

  Suddenly it was as if he was unglued. He grabbed

  his suitcase, opened it, and chucked his things in. He dragged it down to the front door then made his way back to his room to finish packing.

  Chapter Seven

  The moment Race saw the suitcase he knew what

  had happened. There was a silence in the air that told him of the hell he had just walked into. Climbing the stairs, he leaned against the door frame and watched Laird shoving some toiletries into a carry on.

  "You know."

  Laird turned around. "You lied to me."

  "No. I didn't lie to you, Laird. I told you there were things you should know but I just couldn't tell you."

  "You're a coward."

  Race swallowed the lump in his throat. He rooted

  himself into the spot where he was standing and wrapped his arms around himself. "I see. Do you think I did it?"

  Laird said nothing. He simply slipped to his knees and reached under the bed.

  "Laird."

  "What?"

  "Do you think I did it?"

  "It doesn't matter."

  Race groaned and moved across the room before he

  could stop himself. He took Laird by the shoulder and pulled him to stand. Tilting his head, he stared into the man's beautiful eyes. "Tell me. Do you think I did it?"

  "Yes."

  The strength in his body left him and Race's hands fell from Laird's shoulder. He smiled and nodded his head.

  "Put the offer in on the house. If we get it…" Race reached into his pocket and pulled out a check. "I've been walking around with this in my pocket—here. There's no need to call. If you have… If you need more money or if there is anything I need to know, call Winston."

  Stepping back, he turned on his heels and left the room. He stopped long enough to grab his hat, then stuffed it over his head and exited the house, closing the door behind him. He didn't want to be anywhere near the ranch when Laird left—he just couldn't watch Laird leave.

  Somewhere along the way he'd fallen for the real estate mogul. He knew it wouldn't end well—he knew with his history no one could love him back. But it was good to know he could still feel tenderness toward a lover. He walked through the woods behind Winston's ranch. He kept on walking until it was dark and he was exhausted. He slumped to a large rock, buried his face into his hands and, for the first time in a long while, he cried. For the first time since the day he was arrested for murdering his brother, he allowed tears to flow down his face because the situation warranted it. He was losing something he cared about again.

  But he didn't sob for losing Laird—at that moment years of frustration, loss, and anger bubbled to the brim and overflowed. He cried for the brother he didn't get a chance to mourn for. He cried for the conviction that stole his life from him even with the acquittal. He cried because of how foolish he was for thinking the acquittal meant anything and finally, he cried for his broken heart. When he felt drained of tears, Race rose from where he was and leaned his back against a nearby tree.

  He wasn't sure how long he'd been standing there

  before his back pocket began vibrating. Arching a brow, he reached for the cell phone he still wasn't sure how to operate and pressed the button with the green phone on it.

  "What?"

  "Race, where are you?" Winston questioned.

  "I don't know. I just started walking."

  "What? Are you still on my land?"

  Race looked around. "Probably. I just can't be there right now."

  "What happened? Come home and let's talk. Or tell me where you are and I'll come to you."

  "You can't drive here, Winston. He found out. He thinks I did it—he thinks I killed Shane. I just need some time to be by myself."

  "Son of a bitch…"

  At that moment Race could see the veins at the side of Winston's head throbbing even though he was far away from his friend. "Winston, breathe… it was bound to happen, right?"

  "And you two didn't talk this through?"

  "He was packing, Winston. There's nothing I could have said to make him stay. And why would I want him to?

  He thinks I'm capable of murder. I can't hold it against him t
hough, it's my fault. I should have known better."

  "Race…"

  "It's all right. I'll be home soon."

  Before Winston could continue the argument, Race

  hung up.

  * * * *

  Time passed like a dark cloud taking its sweet time passing before the sun. The days melded into one, leaving Laird with a feeling of foreboding he never thought possible. After a while, it was like he was working through a daze—doing things not because he was paying particular attention, but because they came naturally.

  Laird sat in his office staring out the window. Each time his phone rang, he would yank it off the cradle, hoping it was Race. It wasn't. It had been close to three months since he'd packed up and left. True to his words, every business dealing Laird had regarding Race's house was done through Winston. Reaching for the phone on his desk, he dialed Winston's number.

  "Hello?"

  "Winston, it's Laird."

  "Hey."

  "How is he?"

  "I don't know, Laird. His house is finished. He moved in. He calls once a week to check on me and that's about it. I try figuring out what's happening to him—how he's doing but he doesn't want to talk about that. I'm worried, Laird."

  Laird took a breath.

  "What happened with you two?" Winston pushed.

  "Everything and nothing."

  "Shit. You're just as bad as Race with the fucking riddles. For once, could someone give me a goddamn straight answer?"

  "He asked me if I thought he did it."

  Winston groaned. "And?"

  "I told him yes."

  "I can't talk to you right now, Laird… that was a fucking asshole thing to do!"

  "Winston, I…" Before he could say anything, all he heard was the dial tone. Laird slammed the phone into his desk a few times until it snapped in half in his hand. He dropped the pieces, letting them clatter to the ground, and pushed from his seat. He'd just gotten to his window when a knock sounded, riling him even more. "This place is getting on my damn nerves," he muttered. "What!"

  The door eased opened and Xavier stuck his head

  in. "Your brother wanted me to pick you up for lunch—is this a bad time?"

  Laird tilted his head to one side, desperately trying to kill the hurt he was feeling inside. He shook his head for he could find no words. His thoughts were muddled.

  "Xavier, I… I…"

  Xavier hurried across the room and pulled him into a hug. "Breathe, Laird. Take your time."

  "I hurt him…"

  "Who?"

  "Race… I hurt him in the worst way possible."

  Laird gripped the back of Xavier's shirt, holding on tightly.

  "I'm sure it's not that bad."

  "He asked me if I thought he did it."

  "You said no… right?" Xavier released Laird and their eyes met. "Laird."

  "I just wanted to get out of there. I just couldn't…

  he was convicted, X."

  "For a smart guy, you sure are a dumbass. He was convicted of murder—that carries a penalty of life. He was out in eight years because he was acquitted… they cleared his record. Why? Because he didn't actually do it."

  Laird felt weak then. His knees shook as he fell

  backward into the chair behind him. "How… what happened?"

  "I'm not going to do your job for you," Xavier said.

  "You're going to have to ask him yourself. So, do I tell Rajan you're not coming today?"

  "Yeah…" Laird replied. "I'll call later."

  Laird laced his fingers to hold his head up while bracing his elbows on the desk. He sat there in silence for a long time wondering if he could go back and ask Race what really happened all those years ago.

  Chapter Eight

  Race jogged along the water, going as far down the beach as possible before turning around. By the time he arrived back at his house, his lungs were burning, his chest was heaving, and his knees wanted to give out. He fought to catch his breath, and even though he was in the house, he stopped only long enough to grab some water before pacing around. The last thing he wanted was for his muscles to seize up. Lifting the water to his mouth, he took a long, satisfying drink. When he didn't feel as if his lungs would explode, he turned for the stairs when the doorbell rang.

  Glancing at the clock, he wondered who that could be. Winston was in court and he didn't associate with anyone else. Shaking off the urgency he felt at being possibly burnt at the stake as being overly dramatic, he yanked the door opened and instantly wished he hadn't.

  "Hi, Race."

  "What do you want, Laird?"

  "You haven't come to see me."

  Race held his breath, bit his tongue, and began

  closing the door.

  "Race, please!"

  When it came to Laird Anatolis, Race seemed not to have any common sense. A tiny voice deep inside screamed that he should just slam the door, climb the stairs, and crawl into bed. That small voice was quickly silenced by the aching arousal between Race's legs, the loud throbbing of his heart, and the little flip of joy his heart did. Soon the little voice was no more and against his better judgment, he stepped aside and allowed Laird to walk by him before closing the door quietly behind him. He led his former lover through the house to the sitting room where the sun seeped through the glass and sounds of the ocean floated in through the window. Flopping to a seat, he motioned to the one across from him but Laird didn't sit. He walked instead to the window.

  "I need to talk," Laird finally spoke. "I know I was being a coward but all I wanted to do was get away—get away from you, your touch, every thought of you."

  "What precisely do you want me to say to that?"

  Race questioned.

  "I don't know." Laird still hadn't turned around to face him. "I just couldn't find the right words and I still don't know what to say; how to begin."

  "Then why are you here?"

  "I'm here…" Laird turned then, "…because I need to be. I fear if I didn't come I'd lose you and the thought of that broke me. Look, I don't know what happened in your past. I can't even begin to imagine but you have to understand how shocked I was."

  Race frowned. "You think I didn't understand? I understood. But I expected you to corner me—ask me questions, demand the answers. Not to run away like some scared little boy!"

  He saw the impact his words had on Laird, but the anger simmering inside Race's body just couldn't let him care.

  "Can we please get past that? I don't know how to react to things like that. It's not every day someone tells me the man I've been making love to was a convicted felon."

  Race rose from where he was and made for the

  door. But Laird caught his arm before he could get through.

  He whirled around to face him. "If anyone else called me that I wouldn't care… but from you…"

  "I'm sorry… damn. I keep putting my foot in my mouth. The truth, right, Race?"

  Race said nothing. He didn't care what Laird's truth was anymore.

  "I'm falling in love with you!"

  Those words stopped him cold. A silence rang after them that pounded inside his head. Had Laird actually said anything? He was afraid to hope, afraid to think about it, afraid to breathe. Finally he decided Laird hadn't said them.

  Shaking his head, he walked off again and this time he didn't stop until he was in the kitchen with a glass in one hand and a bottle of vodka in the other. Laird entered and frowned.

  "Did you hear me?"

  "I'm hoping to drink enough so when I open my eyes you'll only be a nagging nightmare," Race muttered.

  "Tough." Laird snagged the bottle then the glass. "I need you to be clear for this."

  "What the hell do you want from me? I know this is a joke for you. It has to be."

  "No jokes…"

  "First you ran when you found out what I am. Then you come back and tell me you're falling for me? How does that work? Tell me what you want from me so I can give it to you and you can leave
me in peace."

  "That's just it, Race. I don't want anything from you.

  What I need from you is for you to forgive me."

  Race walked away from Laird to press his back

  against the counter across the kitchen. There was a heat coming from Laird's body that clouded his senses and weakened his knees. Folding his arms over his chest, he took a breath and leveled his eyes on Laird wondering if he should do what his mind was telling him.

  "His name was Shane…" Race reported, fingering the pendant. "He was my brother."

  Laird's eyebrow shot up. "What are you talking about?"

  "The man they accused me of killing."

  "They accused you of murdering your own

  brother?"

  Race nodded, paying close attention to Laird's

  expressions.

  "Well that makes no sense. I mean sometimes I feel like murdering my brothers, especially the little one, but I would never…"

  "It wasn't supposed to happen you know. Shane wasn't supposed to die but he kept some really bad company. I mean, I was the bad seed. The one who lied about my age to get my first tattoo when I was fifteen. The one everyone thought would end up dead in an alley somewhere. Not Shane—he was taking grade twelve

  calculus in grade nine… he was the smart one. One night he went to a party. He told my mother he was going to study, but I knew something was wrong. Shane was a horrible liar. When he lied, he couldn't keep eye contact; he started sweating and stuttering. So, I followed him. I watched from the darkness, and everything was fine, until a fight broke out. Someone jumped on my brother and the anger just welled inside me like a balloon. I just couldn't control it. I jumped in to get my brother, to protect him but something went wrong. There was a loud bang…"

  The sound echoed through Race's head again, just

  as loud as the night it'd happened. He caught his breath, willing his ears to stop ringing. He felt Laird's hand, gentle on his shoulder, and he couldn't command the strength to pull away. "I stopped and looked around for Shane but I couldn't find him. Everyone was screaming and running. I called his name and that's when I saw the gun on the ground. I didn't know what to do, I picked it up. I just stood there—staring down at this heavy thing in my hand. Then he said my name…"

 

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