“Right. Anyway, the appointment is for Thursday―day after tomorrow.”
“Sweetheart, you don’t need to do this. He’s not going to tell us anything different, and I’ve already had the work-up done. My insurance won’t cover any more.”
“Money is no object.”
“It is to me. I haven’t sold anything in years, Paul. There isn’t much left, even with the residuals of the movie deal.”
“Mick, shut your hole. I will take care of it, please, just let me.”
“Or what?”
“Or I won’t help your boyfriend.”
“Paul, that’s blackmail.”
“So what. Let me do this, or Tono’s on his own.”
“Jesus, Pauly.”
Mick’s use of his childhood nickname threw him back in time so quickly, he felt like he’d been uprooted and dumped into 1999, the year they were at the book release party, drunk out of their minds. Mick was calling him Pauly, trying to shove a Melba toast heaped with caviar down his throat. It had been the last time they were truly happy.
“Don’t call me that!”
“Sorry, sweetheart, it just slipped out. Let’s talk about this when you get here.”
“I’m not arguing in front of Tono. He’s a pain in my ass.”
“I can’t talk anymore. I’ll see you in a few, okay?”
“Sure.” Paul disconnected and pulled his tie off, dumping it on the seat. He glanced out the window and saw a deli up ahead with a flower display on the sidewalk, so he rapped on the privacy glass and asked the driver to stop. He decided to buy another bunch of wildflowers, the kind Mick loved. He didn’t give a shit what Tono would make of the gesture. Mick had been his lover long before Tono was ever a thought, and if he could put up with the Spaniard’s presence, then Tono would have to deal with him as well.
TONO had a beer in his hand and gulped it down in two long pulls, knowing he would need to fortify himself before Paul’s arrival. Their parting this morning hadn’t been on the best of terms, and he acknowledged that they couldn’t keep acting like enraged bulls every time they were in the same room. Eventually, it would blow up, and the one who would be hurt was Mick.
“Is he on his way?”
“Yes.”
“I hope he takes the manuscript home to read in private. I’m not in the mood for his crap.”
“Majo, you’ll have to get used to it if you want his help.”
“Why does he have to be so insulting?”
“I don’t think he does it on purpose. He’s a perfectionist and expects no less from his clients. The carnage along the way is part of his style. I’ve seen writers reduced to blithering idiots because of Paul, but when their books are published, it’s all forgotten.”
“I don’t see the need to be so disrespectful of someone else’s dream.”
“He’s not. He’s making damn sure he gets you to a point where your dream will actually come true.”
The doorbell buzzed at that moment, and Mick pulled open the door. Paul waved the wildflowers at him and grinned. “Honey, I’m home.”
Mick couldn’t help but smile, even though Tono’s disgusted grunt was heard clear across the room.
Chapter 8
THE barbeque had been pleasant so far. The men had their fill of good steaks and baked potatoes with cold beers to wash everything down. The night air was warm and a little muggy, but the sky was filled with bright stars that twinkled down on them. Mick imagined lying on a cotton blanket on the warm sands of La Concha, the beach that surrounded the bay in San Sebastian. His fantasy was interrupted by the persistent hopping and twitching in his left leg, reminding him once again that San Sebastian and his idyllic life were no longer a reality. He kneaded the muscles absently, hoping it would pass quickly and not escalate into the full-blown cramping that would require a pain pill and Tono’s skilled hands.
“¿Qué piensas?”
“I was thinking about San Sebastian and the beach.”
“You miss it?” Paul interrupted.
“Yes. It’s a beautiful part of the world. I hope we can go back some day.”
“Of course we will,” Tono nodded, “as soon as we can travel, we will.”
“How do you figure?” Paul asked. “Aren’t you here for the duration?”
“I came for medical treatment, Paul; however, if there isn’t much they can do, then I’d just as soon die in my own bed.”
Paul jumped up. “You’re not going to fucking die, okay? I don’t want to hear that shit!”
“Sweetheart, please,” Mick said, gently pulling on Paul’s hand. “Sit down.”
Tono shoved his manuscript at Paul. Hearing Mick slip and call Paul sweetheart made him want to break something, preferably Paul’s face. Instead, he took a huge breath and prayed that Paul wouldn’t give him any lip. He was itching for a fight, and this would be the perfect excuse to hurt him without a twinge of regret. “Read this and shut up.”
Paul raised his eyebrows and stared at the Spaniard for the longest time. He saw flashes of emotion warring in the limpid brown eyes. There was anger and jealousy and most of all frustration, which Paul could easily understand. Neither man wanted to be a third wheel.
Paul took the thick sheaf of papers from Tono and the glass of wine Mick handed him and proceeded to read. It was primitive, and errors abounded, distracting him. He looked up and said, “Don’t you have spell check?”
Tono’s cheeks turned dark pink with anger and shame. He snatched the manuscript out of Paul’s hand and stood, towering over him. “You know that English is not my first language. I start out writing in Spanish and translate it as I go along. Sometimes it doesn’t always turn out right.”
“No wonder it’s reading funny. You can’t do that, Tono! Now, lose the drama and hand over the manuscript,” Paul deadpanned.
“¡Cabron!”
“I believe we’ve already established that.” Paul nodded. “Hand it over.”
Tono gave him the manuscript reluctantly.
Paul read and sipped wine, flipping pages little by little. He could feel Tono’s eyes burning into him, and he sensed the waves of anxiety emanating from Mick, but he wasn’t going to let anything intrude on his thoughts as he read. He wanted to give both men as honest an evaluation as possible. This was why they’d come to him in the first place.
After reading for several more minutes, he decided that he’d had enough.
“I can’t help you,” he said.
“Paul!”
“I’m sorry, Mick,” Paul apologized, raising his hands in the universal sign of giving up. “It’s grossly sentimental and reads like a Harlequin romance.”
“It’s a love story,” Tono said indignantly. “Of course it’s sentimental.”
“There’s love and there’s sap, Tono.” Paul’s words cut like a knife. “We’re gay men, not fucking sixteen-year-old schoolgirls. I will not put my name anywhere near this manuscript. Christ, I’d be laughed out of the business.”
“Can you fix it?” Tono asked with much difficulty. He was struggling with his pride, but he managed to keep his emotions in check, even though his skin was mottled and his hands shook when he retrieved the manuscript. Tono’s pain was oozing out of every pore, but he persisted, which raised him in Paul’s estimation.
“I can fix it, but we have to start from scratch. Junk this entire thing.”
“No!”
“Tono, if Paul thinks you can salvage this, then let’s listen, okay?” Mick turned to Paul. “Tell us what we need to do.”
“There is no us. Isn’t this his book?”
“I can help.”
“It’s either you or me, Mick. Too many cooks, and all that shit―”
“I see.”
“Do you? Because if I take this on, and I say if, with a great deal of hesitation, I want complete control.”
“That’s up to Tono,” Mick replied, looking at his partner. “Tono?”
Tono shrugged, threw the manuscript down on the
table, and walked into the house, leaving Paul staring at his backside. “Well, I guess that answers the question.” Paul sneered.
“No. Give him time, Paul. He’s not used to so much criticism, and from you of all people. It’s hard to be second best.”
“What are you talking about, second best? He’s number one in your book, isn’t he?”
“He was,” Mick replied, incinerating Paul with the violet eyes that looked black in the dim light, “until I saw you again. He knows you were my first and my longest relationship. He can’t ignore that or make the connection disappear. We had something special, Paul, and he can feel it.”
“Mick―”
“Don’t move, Paul. Don’t even touch me. He’ll go nuts if he sees you.”
“Are you scared of him?”
“No! I love him and don’t want to see him hurt.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Look, I don’t understand this either. I love Tono passionately. He’s been my world for the last six-and-a-half years, yet seeing you again, and being with you the other night, has made me realize that there’s a part of me that has never stopped loving you.”
“Fuck. I want to kiss you so badly I’m shaking.”
“I know, Paul. The chemistry between us is still there, isn’t it? But I won’t jeopardize what Tono and I have. He means too much to me.”
“I thought you said you loved me?”
“Paul, I guess I’ll always love you. You’re in my blood, but Tono is my soul mate.”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
“It means he’s my emotional equal. You, on the other hand, are everything I’ve always wanted in a man, but you’re unattainable.”
“Mick, I’ve always been there for you.”
“Not when I needed you the most.”
“It wasn’t like that, Mick. I’m sorry about what happened.”
“Why’d you do it?”
“Not now, okay? Maybe we can discuss it sometime in the future.”
“My future is rather limited.”
“Shut up! I can’t take that kind of negativity.”
“I’m sorry, sweetheart, but it is what it is.”
“I’ve got to go, Mick. This conversation is way too Zen for me.”
Mick reached out and held Paul’s hand. “Please, stay.”
“I can’t. Let me know what Tono decides.”
Paul stood and made his way into the house where Tono sat in front of the computer. Tono appraised him silently, frowning when Paul nodded at him and walked out.
PAUL leaned back in the leather seat of the Bentley and ran both hands through his hair, ready to pull it out in tufts. He was still shaking and wound up tight from his conversation with Mick. In his fantasies throughout the years, he’d imagined a million reunion scenes, but none had ever come close to the reality of this situation. He would have given anything to storm back into the small apartment and make love to Mick, but that wasn’t even a remote possibility. He was lucky that Tono was cool about what had happened the other night, but he was pretty sure that he’d rip Paul to pieces if he tried to initiate another scene on his own.
Apart from the unbearable sexual tension between them, there was the underlying fear. Paul couldn’t wrap his head around any of the dire predictions of what was to come until he heard it from Dr. Jordan’s mouth. The clincher, of course, was Mick’s statement that he still loved him, followed by his accusation of Paul’s betrayal. It blew his mind; he’d had no idea that Mick still cared.
“Take me to the club,” he ordered, confident that his driver would know exactly where he wanted to go. He needed some mindless entertainment, and his regular habitat was the perfect venue for what he wanted right now―a random fuck. No need for anything deeper. Tomorrow would bring all the issues back to the forefront, but tonight he planned on shelving his worries and getting laid.
The club was its usual loud and boisterous self. He headed straight to the bar and nodded his thanks as Nick, the regular bartender, handed him his drink of choice: Chivas on ice. He inhaled the first one and slid the glass back down the mahogany top, watching as Nick expertly caught it. He refilled, added ice, and brought drink number two close to Paul’s hand. “Thanks, buddy. Start a tab, will you?”
“Done, Mr. Alcott.”
“Is there anyone worth sweating over tonight?”
Nick grinned. “Depends on what you’re looking for.”
“Hot and horny will do for starters, Nick.”
“The guy over at the far end of the bar seems pretty hot, if you’re into ink.”
“Right now, anything looks good.” Paul put his empty glass down and sauntered over to the brunet. He was leaning over the counter in a cutoff shirt that showed off chiseled arms decorated with an intricate pattern of tattoos, cascading colors down the hard planes like sleeves.
“Hey.” The hottie flashed a grin.
“Hey, yourself,” Paul replied, wishing it were Mick smiling so invitingly.
Chapter 9
IT WAS Thursday, and the three men were sitting in Dr. Jordan’s office waiting to hear his verdict.
Mick had signed consent forms the day after Paul informed him of this appointment, which allowed Dr. Jordan complete access to his records. The neurologist had been able to view every test that had been administered from the onset of Mick’s first symptoms. Now they were about to hear what he had to say.
“Mr. Henley,” Dr. Jordan began, “I wish I had better news.”
“I was pretty sure that you weren’t going to tell me anything new,” Mick replied calmly. “I’m here for Paul’s sake. I know what’s in store for me.”
“Do you, Mr. Alcott?” Dr. Jordan turned to address Paul. “Would you like a recap of the disease?”
“I don’t know much about it,” Paul admitted. He’d been sure Dr. Jordan would repudiate the Spanish doctors’ diagnoses, so his pronouncement was devastating. Paul was bitterly disappointed, and he wanted to rail at the unfairness of it all but held it together for Mick’s sake.
“ALS is short for amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, a neurological disease affecting the motor neurons in the brain and spinal cord, which results in the loss of control of an individual’s voluntary muscles. As motor neurons die, the muscles weaken and atrophy.”
“Which muscles are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about the muscles that control the hands, arms, legs, and eventually the diaphragm, tongue, and throat. As the disease progresses, patients lose the use of their limbs and neck muscles, gradually becoming paralyzed. Speech or swallowing may be lost or become increasingly difficult.”
“Jesus Christ!”
“It’s an unforgiving disease, Mr. Alcott. On the other hand, ALS does not affect a person’s ability to see, smell, taste, hear, or recognize touch. Patients usually maintain control of eye muscles, bladder, bowel, and sexual functions; although, in the later stages of the disease, patients need help getting to and from the bathroom. Most ALS sufferers retain complete control of their mind, so they are aware of their body’s deterioration. This can cause anxiety and depression, which, to my mind, is the worst part of the disease. To be fully functional mentally and watch your body die can be terrifying.”
Paul jumped up from his seat. “Please, stop!”
Mick reached out and took Paul’s hand. “Sweetheart, sit down. I’ve heard this all before.”
Tono wasn’t faring any better. He’d been told what to expect, but hearing it again in such a dispassionate way was making him physically ill. He was pale when he stood, and there were tiny beads of sweat dotting his forehead. He kissed Mick on the cheek. “I’ll be outside, cariño,” he whispered in a husky voice.
Mick nodded.
The men were silent until the door closed, and then Dr. Jordan asked, “Mr. Henley, excuse me for intruding, but is that gentleman your partner?”
“Yes.”
“He should know what to expect.”
“He does,” Mick s
aid sadly, “he just doesn’t want to hear it over and over.”
“I see.”
“I do have a question, Dr. Jordan,” Mick asked. “I’ve done quite a bit of research on ALS, and there have been cases where people live much longer than the predicted three to five years. Can you explain it?” Mick leaned forward, hoping to hear some good news. “What about Stephen Hawking, for instance? That man has had ALS for over thirty-five years.”
“It’s true. He’s one of the longest recorded cases, and clear proof that ALS does not affect the intellect or sexual function. Hawking has fathered three children after his diagnosis and won several awards in his chosen field of physics, but he is an exception to the rule. There have been instances where the progression halts after a certain point or slows down considerably. It usually happens in younger men, such as you. Mr. Hawking was in his twenties when he was first diagnosed. Again, this is not considered the normal pattern for this disease, Mr. Henley. You mustn’t get your hopes up.”
“Without hope, what else do I have, Dr. Jordan?” Mick asked. “Maybe I’ll be one of the lucky ones.”
“Yes, he’s right,” Paul interjected. “Why not hope for the best?”
“Because it’s not realistic,” the neurologist replied. “To expect to be in the five percentile is like hoping you’ll win the lotto―a nice thought, but a fantasy nonetheless.”
“How do you figure?” Mick’s voice rose in anger. “I know I need to make plans for the worst, but what’s wrong with clinging to a tiny bit of hope? I resent your attitude, doctor.”
“I apologize, Mr. Henley. I’m a physician, and I deal in facts. Half of the people with ALS die within three to five years. About twenty percent live beyond five years, and ten percent live for ten years or more. The probability of your case having any similarity to Stephen Hawking is one in a million. I certainly don’t have a crystal ball, and as such cannot predict what your disease will or will not do. But I feel that you should be prepared.”
“For the worst!” Paul accused. “You want him to just give up.”
Loving Edits Page 6