He was rewarded by a heavy thump and an “Ow!” from the closet.
“Paul, are you all right?” Alfred cried out. With his uncle’s attention diverted, Alex didn’t bother to hide his smirk.
Paul emerged from the closet rubbing his head, a large, leather-bound book in his free hand. “Yes, sir. I found the mystery you were missing on the top shelf.”
“I wonder how the blasted thing got there,” Alfred mused. “Ah, never mind. Set it on the dresser, if you don’t mind. It’ll give me added incentive to get home and find out who killed the ambassador. Meanwhile, would you please pack a few magazines for light reading?”
Their easy familiarity wiped the smirk from Alex’s face. Paul’s quiet efficiency left him feeling inadequate, a reminder of the true price of his neglect. He’d unintentionally distanced himself so thoroughly that he was now unaware of his uncle’s likes and dislikes, like he hadn’t known the story behind the painting. When had his pulling away happened? When had he stopped knowing his uncle?
Paul closed a Pullman case, securing the requested magazines in a zippered pocket. Alfred smiled and said, “Thank you, Paul. Would you please ask Isaac to bring the car around?”
Though wary eyes regarded Alex with suspicion, Paul mumbled, “Yes sir,” and then he retreated from the room. When he rushed past, Alex couldn’t help noticing kiss-swollen lips and the bright blush coloring Paul’s high cheekbones, and had to admit that freshly fucked looked good on the man.
Alfred’s sigh brought him out of his reverie. “I think he’s taking this pretty hard, Alex,” he began. “He worries way too much, you know. I thought losing Byron might kill me, but I suspect his death actually hurt Paul more.” His uncle slid from beneath the covers to stand beside the bed in his boxers and a plain white T-shirt.
Alex started to protest, only to be cut off. “Byron meant the world to me, and I to him. When he died, I knew I’d be alone, even if only for a little while. My loneliness will have a short life, I suspect.”
“Don’t talk like that, Uncle,” Alex scolded, overlooking the “alone” and “loneliness” comments. “You’re going to pull through and live to be a hundred.” Only then did he notice the stooped shoulders and sagging flesh, how the boxers and shirt hung limply on his uncle’s body. When did he lose all that weight?
“There’s no denying the truth, Alex. I’ve lived a long, full life, blessed as few are. Then Byron died, and life isn’t the same.” Alfred turned his back, pulling on a pair of navy slacks he found lying on the end of the bed. Like the underwear, they were far roomier than tailored slacks had a right to be.
Alfred entered his closet, still talking, leaving Alex no choice but to follow. When he stepped inside the door, however, an iron fist seized his heart and squeezed. The closet was neatly divided down the middle, and Byron’s clothes still hung where they always had, his shoes haphazardly lining the walls, mocking reminders of Alex’s cowardice.
He skimmed tentative fingers over the sweater he’d sent for Christmas, the cardboard tag on the cuff a silent condemnation for making excuses rather than being a part of Byron’s last Christmas. Byron died three short weeks later, never having worn the gift. Alex squeezed his eyes shut, fighting burning tears. Instead of creating a memory and providing some comfort, he’d gone skiing instead, each and every night taking a different man to his bed in an effort to bury his guilt. The diversionary tactic hadn’t worked very well.
As painful as it was for him to be bombarded by the haunting memories, how much harder would it be for Paul, who’d been in this closet, surrounded by Byron’s personal effects, only moments ago? “What about Paul?” he asked, suddenly feeling sorry for the young man who, by all appearances, played second fiddle, facing constant reminders that another owned Alfred’s heart. What kind of financial gain made up for being with someone who loved—and forever would—a ghost?
Back turned, Alfred couldn’t see the tears and misunderstood the question. “You’re alone by choice, Alex. Paul is different. He was never meant to be a solitary creature. I’m afraid being around me and Byron made him want what we had.”
Was that the reason Paul chased after a man old enough to be his grandfather? The desire for a solid relationship? “That’s not a bad thing,” Alex conceded, considering the situation in a new light. Paul’s rejection finally made sense, especially if he wanted long-term. Until now, Alex hadn’t believed in long-term, for himself, anyway, a well-known fact in this house. After a moment, he admitted, “If I could have what the two of you had, I wouldn’t be alone, either.”
“Really?” his uncle asked, glancing over his shoulder as he donned a light-blue shirt, eyes wide and a grin blooming across his face.
Alex dismissed such foolish ideas with a shake of his head. “It’s not going to happen. No one can see past the money. No one sees me.”
Alfred released a brief chuckle. “Oh, I don’t know about that. I think if you let someone actually see the real you, you’d be amazed at their reaction.” With a quick glance toward the door, Alfred lowered his voice and murmured, “I need to hurry and tell you this before Paul comes back.”
Though curious, Alex remained silent. Was his uncle about to confess? The invisible fist gripped his heart once more.
Alfred winced, lowering himself onto a low stool, and Alex stepped forward, offering his arm for support. When had the man become so frail? Even more shocking, his staunchly independent uncle allowed his help, using the offered arm as leverage to ease himself down, taking deep, panting breaths. “Thank you, Alex. No matter what you might think, I’m not getting older. Unfortunately, my body is. It won’t seem to do what I tell it to anymore. Anyway, I want to talk to you about Paul. Like I said, he’s not used to being alone. Promise me, if something happens to me, will you watch out for him?”
Ah, a confession. After weeks of speculation, Alex expected a sense of justification at being proven right. Why, then, did he feel like he’d lost something valuable? “He seems perfectly capable of looking after himself,” Alex said, remembering the seductive predator from the night before.
Alfred continued, not knowing that he was, in essence, asking the fox to guard the henhouse. “He’s not as strong as you are, and has the tendency to believe the best about the wrong people. Someone could easily take advantage of him.”
Prudently remaining silent, Alex wondered what Paul might have said about their night together. If his uncle knew, surely he’d come right out and say so, wouldn’t he? Andersons weren’t exactly known for subtlety, or for sharing what was theirs.
Instead of accusations, Alfred offered, “I love you both like sons and worry about you, but you’re an Anderson at heart. Many have tried to take advantage of you, and failed. You’d never let it happen. Paul, on the other hand, has experienced firsthand how it feels to be used.”
Words sparking possessive outrage, Alex growled, “Who? Who took advantage of him?” No matter what place he held, Paul was a part of the household, and Andersons took care of their own.
“I probably shouldn’t be telling you this….” Once again, Alfred’s eyes shifted toward the door. “About three years ago, before Byron fell ill, Paul met someone. He was young, witty and handsome.” Eyes narrowing in annoyance, Alfred scoffed, “Unfortunately, he was exactly what you described, concerned only with the money.”
Alfred pulled on his socks, wriggling his feet into a pair of loafers. “Jordan made a point of being available for parties, vacations, and social events, anything that allowed him to rub elbows with the rich. That part of Paul’s life, he didn’t mind sharing—the only part. He amazed even me by the creativity of his excuses not to visit Bishop. Eventually, he gave up the pretense of accepting Paul for himself and begged him to move here.”
Alex didn’t need to hear the rest of the story. Blessed with an active imagination and cursed with a possessive streak, he battled the image of “young, witty, and handsome” in flagrante delicto with Paul. He hated Jordan immediately.
&nb
sp; “The problem,” Alfred explained, “was that Paul didn’t want to live the way Jordan wanted him to. He’s happy with his life. Lord knows how many times Byron and I asked him to move here.”
Misreading Alex’s scowl, his uncle scolded, “Don’t give me that look, young man! We begged you too, you know. Nothing would have made us happier than to have our two boys here with us.”
Alex sighed, reining in his jealous streak and finally catching up to the conversation. No use arguing; he knew he should have agreed to move to LA when Alfred first broached the subject years ago. Instead of forcing the issue and pressuring him, as his grandparents would have done, his uncle allowed him his choice, never batting an eye at paying for an expensive condo in another state. If only there were a way for Alex to turn back the clock…. Desperate to change the subject, he asked, “What happened with Paul and Jordan?”
Once again taking Alex’s arm, Alfred groaned as he rose from the bench, now fully dressed. A flash of pain crossed his face, and he paused a moment to recover.
“Uncle, are you all right?”
“I will be, give me a moment,” Alfred replied, panting. Slowly he relaxed his hold, breathing easier. “Where was I? Oh, yes. Jordan”—he spat the name bitterly—“was pressuring Paul to buy a penthouse downtown, never believing when Paul said he didn’t have money.”
“Jordan broke up with him? Over money?”
Motioning Alex ahead of him, Alfred turned off the closet light and reentered the bedroom. “The little opportunist only wanted someone to support him. He’d prefer his easy money to come from someone youthful and handsome, but wasn’t a stickler for details.”
A gold-digger? Wasn’t that what Paul was?
“He’d involved himself with some unsavory characters, and for Paul’s sake, Byron and I ended the charade. Oh, we couldn’t tell Paul the truth, of course. We let him believe Jordan had fidelity issues, which was true enough.”
“What truth?”
Stoic Uncle Alfred, who’d spent the majority of his life upholding the law and ensuring others did too, said, without a trace of remorse, “I paid him off.”
“You did what?” Alex bellowed. Never in his life would he have believed his uncle capable of such if he hadn’t heard with his own ears, and even then he wasn’t entirely convinced.
Alfred confirmed it. “I paid Jordan to say he’d found someone else and disappear. All Paul knows is that he was unfaithful. Paul honestly and truly loved him, though I’ll admit to never understanding why. The man possessed few good qualities.
“So you see, Alex, the two of you have something in common. Potential lovers look at you both the same way, fantasizing about wealth and power and expecting you to fulfill their delusions.”
“Three years is a long time. He hasn’t found someone new?” Alex prodded.
“The relationship only ended last year. They had two years together, more or less. I dare say poor Paul’s a bit gun-shy now, all things considered.”
“You want me to look after him?”
“Not exactly. I want you to look after each other.”
Paul cut off whatever else Alfred might have said by reentering the room. “Are you ready to go, Alfred?”
“We’ll talk more later,” Alfred assured Alex.
THE patriarch of the Anderson household noticed the strained silence on the way to the hospital and chose not to comment. He knew the boys worried about him. Personally, he wasn’t overly concerned with the outcome of his upcoming procedure, for death held little fear for him now. In fact, he’d invented every conceivable excuse to postpone the procedure, secretly hoping that, with Byron gone, nature would simply take its course. It hadn’t happened, and he’d run out of excuses.
He knew his surrogate sons would take his passing hard, but he’d lived a glorious life and accomplished nearly everything he’d wanted to. Besides, without Byron, all the color had fled his world, and he was getting rather tired of gray.
He had one little promise to keep and then he’d be free to join his love. Surprisingly, “Operation Unite Our Nephews” showed signs of promise. Hiding a smile that would be out of place amidst the troubled faces surrounding him, Alfred recalled the early morning hours, barely suppressing his glee.
Since Byron’s death, Paul had made a habit of checking on him before going to bed, and he’d scarcely returned from the bathroom when a soft tap had sounded on his door. Sliding swiftly beneath the covers, Alfred feigned sleep. A soft kiss brushed his forehead, then Paul whispered, “Good night.”
When Paul left the room, reeking of sex, Alfred had stolen a glance at the clock: 4:00 a.m.
He’d little doubt of the identity of Paul’s lover, and Alex’s jealous and protective reaction to the story of Jordan confirmed his suspicions. Alex was an Anderson through and through, and Andersons were exceedingly possessive of what they considered theirs. Alfred’s disclosures were true enough, but baiting his nephew had been fun. If he’d had more time, he’d have shown Alex the pictures of Jordan and Paul in Las Vegas, but pictures of the two men kissing in front of the Mirage might have proven too much. Andersons were a jealous bunch, with volatile tempers to match. One mustn’t poke sleeping tigers.
Alfred kept himself entertained during the short trip, alternating his attention between a subdued Paul and a thoughtful Alex, whose gaze shifted from Alfred to Paul and back again via the rearview mirror as he drove.
At the hospital, Paul settled Alfred into a wheelchair while Alex completed admission forms, each slipping easily into the role they were most comfortable with: Paul the consoler, Alex the businessman. Good boys. They’d learned their lessons well, even if they had yet to realize they’d been taught those roles almost from birth.
They both hugged Alfred and wished him well. An orderly wheeled him into the elevator on his way to surgery, and he smiled encouragement until the doors closed. It won’t be long now, my love, he thought.
IN THE waiting room, Alex broke the silence first. “About last night….”
“It won’t happen again.” Paul snapped the words out from between clenched teeth.
“Why not?” Alex asked, surprised and disappointed even though he knew, for his uncle’s sake, he couldn’t continue an affair. Guilt hung like a heavy weight around his neck already. Nevertheless, it would be nice to be given a choice and not have Paul decide the matter for him.
Paul hissed, “Because I’m not one of your play toys! I’m not some fan boy to fall down and worship the great Alex Martin!”
This wasn’t the way Alex envisioned the conversation taking place. “You were willing enough last night.”
“You may have had my body, but you’ll never have me!” Paul countered, eyes darting away.
Why won’t he even look at me? “Listen….” Alex’s words died when an elderly woman entered the room. He lowered his voice. “What makes you think I want you?”
Paul’s mouth dropped open. “You mean you’ll keep your promise not to bother me again?”
Alex sighed, visions of tossing Paul out on his ass replaced by visions of an eager lover lying tangled in turquoise sheets. “If that’s what you want. Regardless of what you might think, I’m a man of my word.”
A moment of silence was broken by a quietly murmured, “Thank you.”
They settled in to wait, forced to sit next to each other in the crowded room. Visitors came and went, the clock ticking off the hours. Paul’s head nodded despite the harsh fluorescent lighting. When Alex placed an arm around his shoulders, Paul jumped, shooting an accusing glare.
“Truce, okay?” Alex held up a defensive hand. “You can lay your head on me if you want. I promise I won’t bite.” The innocently spoken words conjured reminders of the marks Paul left on his body, causing an immediate reaction—one he was determined not to show. No matter how badly he wanted a repeat of last night, he’d given his word and intended to keep it.
After a few seconds of fidgeting, Paul leaned in, resting his head on the offered shoulder. �
�Thanks,” he mumbled. Within minutes he’d fallen asleep.
Alex shifted in his chair to relieve his straining cock, pressed painfully against the front of his slacks, wondering why he hadn’t lost interest, as he normally did after taking someone to bed. Perhaps the pull amounted to more than the sex. Whatever possessed him, it seemed to be what he’d needed all this time.
Relaxing as much as possible into the uncomfortable chair, he replayed the morning’s confusing conversation with his uncle, unable to understand why the man thought Paul needed taking care of. Paul Sinclair was definitely a force to be reckoned with. Hell, he could probably best any who stood up to him—if he’d a mind to. Why did he choose to serve rather than lead most of the time and give his trust to the wrong people?
Alex had lost track of time—enough passed for his arm to fall asleep—when the doctor finally entered the waiting room. The expectant eyes of roughly a dozen people latched onto the man in surgical scrubs. He nodded politely and made his way directly to Alex, who gently shook Paul awake.
“Mr. Martin?” the doctor inquired.
“That’s me,” Alex replied, standing with an arm still wrapped around a disoriented Paul.
“Hello, Paul,” the doctor said, nodding curtly to Paul before turning his attention back to Alex.
The doctor explained the procedure and the prognosis without actually telling Alex anything, the brevity of the answer revealing far more than the words did. Basically, that there were things being kept from him by Alfred’s decision. He let the omission slide for now, accepting the news at face value. Later, he intended to get the full story. “When will we be able to see him?” he asked, filing away questions for another time, knowing the doctor wouldn’t disclose anything his patient instructed him not to.
“He’ll remain in recovery for an hour of observation, and then be moved to a private room. You’ll be able to visit once he’s settled, but only for a few minutes. He needs his rest. If everything goes well, he’ll be discharged the day after tomorrow.”
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