by Jay Hogan
The real reason was my piece-of-shit older brother, currently sprawled drunk on my sofa. My father had bought the garage and a couple of shops next door when he sold the farm after I’d signed with the Chiefs. He had tenants in the shops, and as Craig had a gift for servicing and restoring classic motorbikes but couldn’t add two and two to save his life, Dad paid the bills to keep him in the garage and under his thumb. To nail that coffin shut, he added a townhouse in Mangere where he lived, not far from Craig. All the better to fuck with his oldest son’s life.
My brother actually had some impressive skills when it came to motorbikes. He’d been messing with them on the farm since he was a teenager and owned a Harley that he’d rebuilt from scratch. There was definitely a market for what he did, so yeah, the business should’ve been lucrative. But Craig struggled to commit to anything above his next meal, and the garage was just another casualty of his lazy, fuck-it attitude.
Half a dozen beer bottles littered the floor, most having already leaked their remaining contents onto my shitty carpet, and the television blared some mindless reality show. Craig snored away, his lanky six-foot-two frame taking up most of the couch, while a trail of drool ran from his mouth and collected in those soft brown curls my mother had always been so fond of when she was alive. He’d been a cute-as-shit child, apparently—not that I saw any indication of that these days. Pale complexioned from not enough outdoor time, the odd spider vein already visible in his cheeks from years of binge drinking, he looked to be in his late thirties—not the twenty-seven he actually was.
I blew out a sigh. He was completely oblivious to my presence but at least he wasn’t in my fucking bed. It wouldn’t have been the first time. My eyes searched the room for what really mattered and I found him on the floor at the far end of the couch. A small bundle of four-year-old flesh, all but hidden under the weight of his father’s bulky leather jacket, which the kid had hauled over his cold little body to keep warm. The remote hung out of the wee fellow’s hand, an obvious indication that Craig had likely passed out first, leaving his son to surf God knew what late night television until he too fell asleep. Goddammit, Craig.
I crossed to my nephew, turned the television off, and scooped him up gently in my arms. His eyes went wide with fright before recognition set in. He squirmed, and I steeled myself for the ear-piercing whine that usually accompanied any unexpected touch, but tonight it didn’t eventuate. Instead I got a hand to my cheek and a whispered “Ruby” before his eyes closed once again. My heart stuttered, and I held him close. He usually didn’t allow much affection, so I took advantage with a long hug. Christ. I could fucking kill my brother sometimes.
I walked Cory to my bed, stripped him of his shorts, but left his T-shirt in place. Then I slipped him under my duvet and tucked him in with a kiss. After returning to the lounge, I threw a blanket over my brother, making sure to leave his head hanging at an awkward angle; the fucker deserved a stiff neck at the very least. I cleaned my teeth and crawled into bed alongside Cory, watching his chest rise and fall for a minute or so before letting sleep take me too. My last thought was about how much of an idiot I was, imagining my life had anything to offer the likes of Cameron Wano. Any man with a lick of sense would run screaming. Funny that.
Chapter Three
Cam
IF I handed the laser-tag guns to our LGBT youth centre kids with a little more force than was entirely warranted, who could blame me? A week after the wedding and I was still ticked off at the turn of events that saw Reuben Taylor now playing for the damn Blues. The universe was clearly spitting in my face.
For all of my whingeing about redneck, testosterone-fuelled sports, I loved watching my brother play and enjoyed the team events far more than I was prepared to let on. I didn’t want anything fucking with that. An evening surrounded by all that muscle and alpha-male shit—hey, what’s there not to love? It just didn’t need to include one particularly enticing, blond-haired, closet-bound beauty, whose proximity to me would now need close monitoring. Not so I was safe from him, but so I didn’t drag his cute muscled butt under the grandstand and have my debauched way with him. Goddamn.
“Um, ow?” the boy in front of me squeaked as the laser gun slammed into his hand.
Shit. Linc was only sixteen—red-haired, thin as a reed, and shy as a mouse. It had taken three months for him to even approach me at the centre. The shy ones were usually a bit leery, often gravitating to the more straight-looking volunteers first. I represented what most tried so hard not to look like in order to protect themselves. Maybe it was the guyliner, maybe the sass, but I was an acquired taste. Eventually, however, they all came around. It helped that I knew more about homophobic bullshit firsthand than the guys who passed without a second look.
“Damn. Sorry, Linc,” I flustered. And about that. What parent worth their salt names their son Lincoln? Add red hair and a gay arse to that name, and yeah, the kid was in deep trouble. That said, we shortened it to Linc the first time we met him, and the kid had beamed ever since. No point in making shit even more difficult.
He looked concerned. “You okay, Mr Wano?”
“Cam, please. Mr Wano crimps my panties.” I threw him a wink.
Beside me, Lachlan Smith snorted loudly as he handed out the other box. Linc blushed, and I noted for the first time the black pencil line creasing his upper lids. Huh. The kid was stepping out a bit. Not exactly a straight line but a good effort.
I caught his eye and nodded. “It’s a nice look on you.” And it was. Gave him an edge he didn’t have but needed and might well grow into. “You need any tips, you let me know. You might wanna try a dark green. It’d go great with your eyes.”
“Really?” His expression brightened. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. Now head on out before you cause a pile-up behind you.”
“Yeah, move it, kid,” the lanky teen next in line grumbled unconvincingly. “And cover that hair if you’re on our team. It’s a damn beacon out there.” The older boy ruffled Linc’s soft red curls fondly and nudged him along.
I sent the newcomer a knowing smile. “Well, well, if it isn’t Mr Hamilton.” I chuckled. “Wanna be careful, someone might think you actually like our resident cutie.”
Terry Hamilton’s eyes flew wide, and he turned a deep shade of red you didn’t see very often. A tough-as-nails seventeen-year-old street brawler, he’d found his way to the drop-in centre via one too many visits to the police station. Six months later he was a valued junior member of our team, and a huge help with the other kids. More recently I’d begun to notice the way his eyes lit up every time Linc walked into the room, and that the interest appeared to be returned.
He regarded me through lowered lashes. “You won’t say anything, will you?” He took the tag gun I offered with a quick glance behind. “He’s just… sweet, you know? Doesn’t mean anything.”
I held his gaze steadily. “You’re right,” I said. “He is sweet. And he’s only sixteen. That might be legal age in New Zealand, but you still need to take it slow. He’s never had a boyfriend, and he’s just starting to believe in himself. He needs a friend first, so be that and see what happens from there. Let him set the pace.”
Terry nodded. “Yeah, okay. I’m not really in his league anyway. Probably won’t say anything.”
I lifted his chin so he looked me in the eye. “You are so in his league, Terry. Truth is, you might be exactly what he needs. Just take it slow. We’re here if you need us.”
He nodded. “Okay.”
When he’d gone, Lachlan cleared his throat. “Nicely done, Dear Abby.”
I punched his arm. “Just because no one would dream of coming to you for advice.”
Lachlan snorted. “Damn right. I’d fuck it up nine ways from Sunday. I can barely hold on to a man myself for more than a month or two before they kick my miserable arse to the kerb.”
I laughed. Lachlan had one of the saddest dating histories of any man I knew. “Might help if you didn’t pick t
hem from Grindr for a start,” I said. “And maybe answered their texts once in a while. Radio silence is not an effective dating strategy.”
“You have a point.” He grinned. “But when they want out of the sack and into the brunch thing, it scares the living shit out of me. Besides, I’m waiting for you to come to your senses and finally seduce me.”
I almost choked on my tongue till I caught his wink. “Fuck that,” I ribbed. “There’s no way I could live with your abysmal lack of dress sense. Besides, you clash with my guyliner. And then there’s the fact you can’t dance for shit.”
His eyes narrowed. “Bitch.”
“Fucker.”
“Race you to the viewing gallery.”
“You’re on.”
THE LASER tag was a good distraction, and Lachlan and I even joined in on the last round, becoming the focused target for every kid out there and losing abysmally as a result. Still, aside from ripping my favourite pair of Diesel jeans in a failed attempt to throw myself out of range of Linc’s gun, I’d had a lot of fun. And to be honest, a tear just below my left buttcheek wasn’t entirely without dance floor potential, so I wasn’t about to throw them out yet. And for an entire four hours, I hadn’t thought about Reuben Taylor once. That made a total of four hours since I’d seen him last weekend. Shit.
I headed home, hoping against hope that my crazy and pathologically straight flatmate and cousin, Jake, was off with his nice but overly chatty girlfriend somewhere else—anywhere else. Most weekends they didn’t make it out of his bedroom unless it was to eat, or spend their intermission between rounds on my PS4, something we needed to have a chat about. I’d recently found a missing controller looking slightly the worse for wear under his bed, and an inexplicable glitch in my favourite World of Warcraft game. And no, I didn’t really want to go there.
As charge nurse in the ER at Auckland Med I got most weekends off, something I relished after ten years of mind-numbing shift work. So I wasn’t keen on having that precious time interrupted by loud, straight sex. But since my own less-than-vanilla bedroom encounters probably had Jake running for antacids and a set of earplugs on more than one occasion, I was loath to bring it up.
Jake got the gay, with no dumb questions, no prying curiosity. He even got the makeup and the sass and the odd silky undergarment… well, maybe not entirely the latter, but his cheeky grin said he didn’t need to get it to be okay with it, and that meant a lot. Actually, it meant everything. Sharing my home and feeling safe in it was no small thing in my world.
As I turned into my street, my phone went off, and I blue-toothed the less-than-dulcet tones of my younger brother straight to my BMW. Wonderful, I get to hear him in stereo.
“Hey, bro.”
I leapt to drop the volume. “Jeez, Mathew, dial it down a bit.”
“Sorry. You in the car?”
“Give the man a cigar.”
“Cool. I need a big favour.”
My antenna went up. “Is this like the time you asked me to break up with that girl for you, the one from Dunedin? The one who’d flown up to Auckland to watch you play, thinking you actually meant every sappy thing you’d said in the sack?”
“Low blow, darling brother. To be fair, how was I to know she’d fly here without even asking? And I like to say nice things to the girls I fuck—so sue me. I don’t expect them to take it as a goddamn marriage proposal.”
“Mmm-hmm. So what about the guy I had to drive home from your apartment half-naked and in tears?”
“Now that one’s on you. Strutting your fairy arse on that dance floor and dragging me up to join you. He thought I was gay—as if I’d have your nelly queen bits anywhere near me if I were.”
“Watch it,” I growled.
He chuckled. “And how was I to know he’d follow me home, all moony-eyed? So I had to be discreet. And while we’re on the subject, you really have to quit doing that shit to me. I’m done with gay bars.”
“You love it.”
“Shut up. I can’t help if my hotness answers to no gender boundaries, but one flaming queen derriere in the family is more than enough, thank you… pretty as it is.”
“Good save.”
“You liked that? I thought so.”
“What do you want?”
“An easy favour.”
“Still listening.”
“I need a lift to pick up my bike. It’s finally ready. I’d ask Jasmine, but she’s got some gnarly court case tomorrow. Besides, you owe me big time for getting you into the Blues’ locker room last year and providing you with enough alpha jerk-off material to last a lifetime.”
“Fair call. Be ready in ten.”
“You’re a star.”
“And the rest.”
“SO, HOW’D you find this mechanic genius anyway?” I cast a sideways glance at my brother lounging in the passenger seat, drumming his fingers on the armrest.
“He’s the brother of a teammate. Can we change this music, by the way? I don’t know why your ears don’t wither up and drop off with all this fucking crap you listen to.”
I batted his hand from the station selector. “Jake Bugg is not crap.”
“Aren’t you lot supposed to have it hot for Adele or Beyoncé or some shit?”
“No. That would be you, idiot. And your stereotypes are leaking all over my car.”
He dipped his sunglasses and rolled his eyes at me. “You defy all stereotypes, Cam. Name me one other of your posse who can drop a man twice his size to the floor while wearing engineer boots and lace panties.”
“Satin panties. Lace is so last year.”
“I think you just made my point for me.”
I grinned. “I live to serve. The mechanic is that good, then? You’ve been angsting over this fucking engine refit for over a year.”
“He is. Logan had the guy do his 1984 Harley last spring. Said it now purrs like a well-fucked lion.”
“That boy needs to get his similes in order.”
“Yeah, I’ll let you tell him that. He’s a prop, remember? Damn near one hundred twenty kilograms of muscle, of which not an insignificant portion lies within his skull—but don’t tell him I said that.” He sat up. “Slow down, this is it.”
I threw on my indicator light and pulled off the road in front of a three-bay garage sporting a half-dozen iconic motorbikes in various states of disassembly. Plus one black beauty parked out front, gleaming and seemingly roadworthy. I caught my brother’s eye, and the grin plastered across his face said it all.
He grabbed my hand and squeezed. “Fuck, look at her,” he spoke reverently.
I ignored the urge to poke fun at him. Mathew had never been one for spending money on himself. He was steady and determined when it came to the practicalities of life, knowing only too well that his rugby career could be over tomorrow if he so much as fell the wrong way. Rugby was a full-contact sport—no padding, no protection other than rules, and minimal use of substitution. Once subbed off, a player couldn’t return. Rugby was hard on the body and took no prisoners.
To that end, Mathew lived at home in a studio flat at the back of our parents’ house and saved every scrap of money he earned. The bike was the first real indulgence he’d allowed himself since getting signed three years before, and I wasn’t about to give him any shit about it.
He turned and grinned with only a hint of nerves. “Follow me home?”
I cocked a brow.
He blushed. “Just in case.”
I nodded. “Sure.”
He exited the car and headed for a tall, curly-haired man in mechanic’s overalls. The guy wiped his hands down the front of his thighs and strode over to meet Mathew, who ignored the proffered hand and wrapped the startled dude in a hug. Yeah, a bit touchy-feely, my family. The two started yammering away, and I could see this was gonna take a while, so I got out to stretch my legs.
As I leaned with my back against the car, the sound of running feet came from behind and I turned just in time, to see a child of no more
than four or five years skirt the side of the garage at a run, and head for the road. Instinct kicked in, and I rushed over, throwing myself between him and the traffic. He slammed to a halt, took one look at me, plonked himself on the sidewalk with his hands over his head and started to scream.
What the hell? I crouched in front of him—close enough to stop the boy making another beeline for the road but hopefully far enough away to avoid scaring him further. “Shh,” I soothed to little effect. “It’s okay.” Jesus, what was with this kid?
I looked around, slightly panicked, and noticed the mechanic staring right at me, a strange look on his face. God, I hoped he didn’t think I’d done anything to hurt the kid. Heavier footsteps approached at a run from behind, and I spun, fully expecting to find a panicked parent.
It wasn’t—at least I didn’t think it was—but for a second, I was wholly disoriented. With his gaze laser-focused on the boy as he pulled him into his arms, it took Reuben a few seconds to glance my way, seconds I used to try to digest all the “how in the fuck” and “where in the hell” universe-screwing-with-me coincidences that roared through my head.
With his face pressed into Reuben’s chest—yep, not going there—the boy’s cries settled into muffled sobs as the man himself stared at me with equal shock and confusion.
We spoke at the same time.
“What are you…?”
“He’s yours?”
We stared at each other, and I shook my head. “Never mind. He was nearly at the road. I stepped in front and must’ve given him a fright.” Reuben Taylor had a kid?
A small hand raised itself to cup the big man’s cheek. “Scared,” the tiny voice said, and my heart broke in two. A flush of guilt washed through Reuben’s eyes, and just like that I was gone again, supressing an urge to kiss the guilt away… amongst other things.
We continued to stare at each other in shocked silence, Reuben rocking the boy in his arms as I tried to summon enough brain cells to work my tongue. “Close call, huh?”