Growing Pains

by Cass Lennox

  She frowned at Brock’s dad, but said, “Thank you.”

  Brock made a strange noise in his throat. “We talk outside or not at all.”

  He couldn’t. Gigi grabbed his hand and glared at him. You cannot. You absolutely must not, you hear me?

  Telepathy clearly wasn’t one of Brock’s strengths; he didn’t even look at Gigi.

  Pete held up his hands. “Okay, okay! Sheesh.” He grinned at Gigi’s dad. “Kids, eh?”

  Dad’s mouth had gone into a hard line. “Wouldn’t be without them.”

  Pete nodded at Sophie and stepped through the front door.

  Gigi immediately grabbed Brock’s arm. “You’re not going anywhere near him.”

  “Don’t tell me what to do,” Brock hissed.

  “Don’t do stupid things, and then I won’t have to tell you what to do!”

  “Sorry to interrupt, boys, but he said he wasn’t going to move until he spoke to Brock.” Dad looked worried.

  Sophie was peering through the front door. “Is that his car parked in front of our driveway?”

  He’d blocked them in?

  Gigi let go of Brock and went down the rest of the stairs so he could look through the front door and past the figure of Pete Stubbs, who stood by the steps up to the door.

  On the driveway were three cars: the Rosenbergs’ Jeep, Gigi and Brock’s rental, and a limousine rented for the wedding. Parked directly in front of the driveway, blocking the other cars, was a huge tank of a truck, like a Jeep on freaking steroids. Yup, he’d blocked them in.

  “Is he trespassing?” Sophie asked in a whisper. “Because we can call the police if he is.”

  “He’s not,” Dad said, voice low. “He’s on the road. But it’s a parking violation—we could definitely get the police in for that.”

  “Calling the police will take time.” Brock’s voice had gone raspy. He’d come up behind Gigi to take a look too. “You’ll be late for your wedding. He’s got friends there anyway.”

  “That’s news to me,” Dad said.

  Brock’s dad paced by the front steps. Gigi got bad vibes just looking at him.

  Gigi spun to Brock. “Don’t go out there.”

  Brock was staring at his dad, his face pale. His throat worked. “I think it’ll be okay if you’re all watching.”

  “No!”

  “I can speak to him,” Dad said, and Gigi could’ve hugged him.

  “No. It’s fine.” Brock took a deep breath. “I don’t think he’ll try anything.”

  He couldn’t know that. “Don’t you dare go down there.”

  Brock glared at him. “I know what I’m talking about and you don’t. I’ll be fine. And stay here, or I swear to God I will actually break up with you.” Then he went out the front door and down the steps to his father.

  What the fuck was he thinking? Gigi took a step to go after him, but his dad and sister grabbed his arms and stopped him.

  “Let me go!”

  “I don’t want two guys with messed-up faces at my wedding,” Sophie hissed at him.

  “You’re not going to get either of us if you don’t let me help him.”

  “Think, Toby.” His dad’s voice was urgent. “How are you going to help him? What are you going to do?”

  The thing was, he had no idea. Ugh, this brought his old self back out, the inept, avoidant, scared Toby, which was awful because that wasn’t who he needed to be right now. It reminded him of how he’d had to deal with shit like this back then. But his bullies had never followed him home. He’d usually managed to run away or hide, and the few times he’d fought back, he’d barely landed a punch. Jesus. What had he been thinking of doing—singing at the guy? He might be able to execute a high kick, maybe, but that was about as physical as he got. Toby had no clue how to fight, and he could’ve wept at how fucking helpless that made him feel.

  But he couldn’t just stand back and let Brock go to his dad like it was nothing. Brock was Toby’s. His dad had hurt him. Hadn’t Toby seen the scars already? What other shit had this asshole put Brock through? What if he took a swing at Brock right now? In front of all of them? What if he had a weapon hidden on him?

  Toby didn’t know what to do except watch and listen, and maybe record the interaction—but his fucking phone was upstairs. Fuck.

  Brock stood a few feet away from his dad. “What are you doing?”

  “Making sure I have your attention. We need to have a little chat.”

  “About what? Everything was said yesterday.”

  They were strange mirror images of each other, shoulders back and glaring at each other. Brock was taller than his dad, which was a good thing, right? Or maybe not. Shit. Toby knew a lower centre of gravity was better for dancing—probably for fighting too. Omigod omigod.

  Fuck it. Even if Toby couldn’t fight, he’d be in there if Brock’s dad so much as burped on him.

  “You need another chair to the face, Dad?” Brock asked. “Because I can arrange that for you.”

  Brock’s father smiled, a greasy, victorious thing that made Toby’s skin crawl. “No need for threats.” He did take a step back though. “All I want is a calm, rational discussion between adults.” He gestured at Toby and his family. “I’m sure we’re taking up very precious time for these nice people. Come home, and we’ll take things from there. Let that pretty girl get to the church on time, as they say.”

  Suddenly Toby couldn’t see much likeness between them at all. Sophie was muttering darkly under her breath.

  “I know what you’re doing.” Brock didn’t sound scared at all. Toby felt a rush of pride. “If you think pulling me out of the wedding will ruin the Rosenbergs’ day, or change anything between us, you’re totally wrong. I wasn’t going anyway. So fine. Have it your way.”

  Oh, fuck this shit. “Brock, no!”

  Brock and his dad turned to look at him.

  Toby knew he was shaking, but he refused to look away or acknowledge the warning noises from his family. He pointed at Mr. Stubbs, making sure he was staring him straight in the eye. “If you touch him, I’ll end you!”

  Mr. Stubbs sneered, then turned around and walked to his oversized, totally compensatory car.

  “It’s okay, Gi!” Brock said before following him.

  Toby watched in numbed shock as his boyfriend got into the steroid Jeep and was driven away.

  It wasn’t okay. It really fucking wasn’t. What would happen now? More chairs? Knives? Guns? No way. Nope. This wasn’t something Brock should have to do. Why was he doing this? Didn’t he know there were other ways they could kick Mr. Stubbs out of the freaking driveway? Being late to a wedding wasn’t the end of the world.

  Worse, he was totally cutting Toby out, like he had all freaking weekend. Didn’t he trust him and his family to help out?

  Well.

  Actually.

  Maybe not.

  Maybe if he’d grown up in the kind of family that gave scars like the ones Toby had been wondering over for the past year, he wasn’t going to be open about difficult things, or to expect other people to help him.

  Okay. So, yes, Brock had been stupid and hadn’t told Toby about his family issues or why he didn’t want to come back here or about all his hang-ups over their past. The thing was, Toby hadn’t exactly made it easy for him. What was it Brock had said about feeling judged all the time and second chances? Ugh.

  Also, this weekend had actually been pretty okay for Toby, all things considered. He was standing there on his family porch, with his family around him (and probably watching everything through the windows and door behind him), his face was completely unmarked by anyone’s fists, and he’d only had to deal with one major asshole.

  But who did Brock have around him?

  Because Toby had a suspicion his family had been nicer to Brock than he had this weekend, and the shame of that made him want to cry. Shit.

  Yeah, this weekend had been sucky. But not for Toby—for Brock. It had just gotten a ton worse, and who was it
who’d said they were in this together? Who was it who’d said things would be better if they were together?

  Time to fucking be together.

  And time to get his man back where he belonged.

  Deciding that felt good, like he’d snapped back into reality.

  Someone was speaking to him.

  He blinked. His dad and Sophie were staring at him. “What?”

  “Are you okay?” Sophie asked. “I thought you were going into shock.”

  “I’m not going into shock. I’m going after him.”

  He made for the rental, but his dad stopped him. “Toby, stop. You don’t have shoes on.”

  Ah. Great point. He turned around and made for the stairs. Okay, shoes. Shoes and car keys. And his phone.

  His dad blocked him again. “I’m sure Brock will be fine.”

  “No, he won’t.”

  “If Pete Stubbs knows we’re looking out for him, he won’t hurt him.”

  Gigi threw his arms up. “You don’t know that, Dad!”

  His dad gazed at him with a worry that made him look years older. “Toby. Son. You think I want you to go into their house? Uninvited? After what they did to Brock yesterday?”

  “No. But I have to do this, and you’re not stopping me. I’m going to get him, and we’ll be at the wedding. He’s family too, now.”

  His dad sighed and dragged one hand through his hair. “Do you need me as backup?”

  Oh man, his dad was the best. “No.”

  “At least take your phone and record everything.”

  “I have a hockey stick you could borrow,” Sophie said.

  Omigod, best sister ever. He didn’t want her wedding wrecked by their drama, not really, but there was no helping this. “It’s okay, Sophie. I’m sorry, but we might be late. You can start without us.”

  She gave him a fond but exasperated look. “I think you have time if you hustle. And I mean it about that hockey stick.”

  He kissed her cheek, then ran up the stairs. He finished pulling on his wedding outfit, grabbed his cell, then hunted for the car keys and found them in Brock’s coat, which still hung from the hook in the hallway. Then he got into the car, backed out, and drove to the Stubbses’ place as though he had an army of pissed-off drag queens running after him. There was certainly one inside him who was sharpening her nails at the thought of ripping Mr. Stubbs’s face off for hurting Brock. He tried to focus on that, rather than on the fear bubbling underneath the furious queen.

  When he pulled up outside the Stubbses’ house, he didn’t give himself time to think about what he was going to do or say. He’d wing it, like he winged everything, or LaMore would step back in if needed. Gigi strode up to the front door and banged on it with his fist.

  Brock wasn’t sure why he’d felt okay about coming back, but his dad had been . . . different. Nervous. Not quite meeting his eye. Had barely said a word or looked at him at all once they got in the car, actually.

  Crazy what a chair to the face could do.

  That said, Brock was on edge the entire trip to the house. The worst thing was the uncertainty. Like, what the hell could his dad have to say to him? Hadn’t he got what he wanted? But Pete was acting weird—showing up at the Rosenbergs’ place was not something he’d’ve done back in the day—and seeing as Pete wasn’t yelling at him, Brock was kind of curious about what his dad wanted. Beyond attempting to interrupt the wedding, which . . . nah. Not on Brock’s watch.

  Not that he cared much about going to it himself, but he didn’t want it wrecked. Getting his dad out of the Rosenbergs’ way was a big plus for the inconvenience of having to come back here.

  Inconvenience. Ha. But what the hell could his dad do to him now? Seriously? Things were different now. Brock wasn’t even sure how to explain it. Pete’s silence didn’t feel like any of the silences Brock could remember. He wasn’t in trouble. It was like . . . Was his dad trying to get things back to the way they’d been? If so, tough. Things couldn’t ever be that way again. If Pete tried to get physical, Brock would get physical back, and if he wanted to yell at him, then Brock could simply walk away. There was nothing his dad had on him to keep him there.

  Whatever was going on here, Pete definitely wanted something.

  So, Brock had geared himself up to expect pretty much anything as he and Pete arrived at the house: shouting, more fighting, or maybe his mom in a bad state—something like that.

  He hadn’t expected paperwork.

  Once they’d gone in, Pete had directed him to the table and then said some crap about the family taking him back if he dropped the being-gay thing—which hadn’t worked. Obviously.

  So then he’d shoved a copy of his will in front of Brock and said that this would be the consequences of his actions. It was difficult reading legalese while keeping an eye on his dad—who so far hadn’t touched him at all—but Brock suspected he was getting to the interesting part where his father bequeathed his estate.

  God, the sooner he made his point and got out of here, the better.

  Okay. Distribution of property blah, blah. Brock’s name wasn’t listed at all as a beneficiary. All his dad’s estate, which included a house, several investments, a side business, some expensive junk he owned, was down to go to Brock’s mom, cousin, or his dad’s friends.

  “You were going to receive the house and some of the funds,” his dad said smugly. “They’re worth over two hundred K each, you know that?”

  Brock was so fucking tired.

  He slapped the paper down. “Cool.” He stood.

  Pete stood too, but didn’t move towards him. “I haven’t signed it yet. You can still make this good, Brock. This cannot be taken back, do you understand? You will receive nothing from me or your mother. You will never receive anything from us. You won’t be acknowledged by us or anyone else in our family. You’ll be alone for the rest of your life.”

  Fucking bring it on. “Go to hell.”

  Brock turned and started towards the door.

  “You’re making a big mistake, son. Huge. No coming back from this one.”

  He’d heard that before. Brock just stepped up the pace. Don’t turn around. That’s what he wants you to do. Just walk. Don’t—

  Pete’s chair screeched backward, and Brock flinched.

  Thump-thump-thump.

  Someone was at the front door.

  Brock paused, then cast a glance back at his father. Pete was closer than he’d expected, definitely heading for him. There was a flashlight in his hand, one of the heavy-duty ones that needed a large battery and a strong grip but was compact enough to be hidden under a table or down the back of a shirt.

  They froze, staring at each other.

  “The fuck you planning to do with that?” Brock asked him softly.

  Pete blinked in surprise, then scowled. But he didn’t move.

  The banging stopped as the front door was opened. “Who are you?” Brock heard his mom ask.

  “Hi-eeee Mrs. Stubbs! I’m Toby Rosenberg, and I’m here to pick up my boyfriend!”

  Brock felt his blood chill. Gigi? Here? Ohshitnonononononono—

  “Hey, you can’t just—”

  “This is a charming place you have here, Mrs. Stubbs. Very, um, atmospheric.” Gigi walked into the living room where Brock was still frozen. Gigi wore a black suit, white shirt, and a red bow tie that matched his dyed-red hair. Red sparkled in his earlobes. He’d shown up here in his wedding clothes. And he looked so damn handsome, Brock wasn’t sure whether to cry or laugh.

  Gigi took in the scene, and if he was taken aback or scared at all, he didn’t show it. In fact, he grinned. “There you are.” He held out his hand. “You done here, babe?”

  Brock had been done years ago.

  “Who the fuck is this?” Pete growled behind Brock.

  “Now, Mr. Stubbs”—and Gigi actually put one hand on his hip—“that’s not very nice. But you have a point. We weren’t introduced. I’m Toby, and I’m here to pick up my boyfriend. Wh
o happens to be your son. Your very gay son.”

  Brock kept one eye on his dad and took a few steps towards Gigi.

  “I warned you about consequences, Brock.” His dad moved after him.

  Gigi cleared his throat. “I wouldn’t, you know. There are chairs all over this place.” Glancing at him, Brock realized he’d whipped out his phone and was filming them. “Granted, I’m not as big and rugged as my baby, but I can definitely swing a chair. And what in the hell are you carrying? Is that a flashlight? You do realize it’s broad freaking daylight? I know we’re in the ass crack of the Canadian wilderness but it’s not that dark here.” He scanned the room. “Though, this place is kind of gloomy. What gives? Your curtains aren’t nice enough to be kept closed all day.”

  Pete made the strangest noise. Brock would’ve bet all his savings that no one had ever spoken to him like that before.

  Gigi chattered on, phone held blithely up. “Like, honestly, Mr. Stubbs, is that the best you got? A freaking flashlight? I’ve crapped out bigger things than that. Hell, I’ve fucked bigger things than that. What were you gonna do, make shadow puppets? Swing it around near him? I promise, he’s seen bigger.”

  Holy shit. LaMore was coming through, and she wasn’t taking any prisoners. Not that Brock would want her to.

  Safe under the watchful lens of his boyfriend’s phone—and the steely glint in his eyes—he walked up to Gigi and took his outstretched hand. Gigi’s hand was clammy, but clenched his with all the strength of fear and dancer-toned muscle.

  “Brock. Not one more step. Last chance, boy.” Pete still hadn’t moved though.

  Brock met Gigi’s eyes and smiled, warmth welling through him. Gi had come after him. Stupid on his part, but Brock had to admit, it felt so good to have someone on his side in this place.

  He turned, making sure he stared his old man right in the eye. “You take one step after us, and I will kill you.” It was a promise. “Drop it.”

  Pete sagged slightly, then set the flashlight down.

  “Well,” Gigi exclaimed, “this has been lovely, but frankly, we have better places to be.” He tugged Brock’s hand and dragged him to the front door, phone aloft the entire way. Brock’s mom waited by the door, her mouth in a hard, sad line. She stepped forward, so Brock slowed, forcing Gigi to stop in the doorway.