The Long Way

by May Archer

  Skiing? He hadn't been skiing in years, but apparently he needed to cultivate the image of a man who skied. And never mind that Thanksgiving, the general time of family togetherness, was next week.

  "Sure," he said hollowly. "You can tell me all about it."

  Honestly, it might be better than sitting at his parents' DC house, or wherever they planned to spend Thanksgiving. If he had to listen to more conversations like this while trying to cough down dry turkey, he might actually shoot himself.

  The worst part was, he suspected that his mother honestly believed what she was telling him was true - that he’d have a happier life if he cut out any friends who could cause a potential scandal. It was almost amusing, because as far as he knew, he was the greatest potential for scandal in his mother’s life, and rather than cutting him out, she was determined to rein him in.

  He reached out, squeezed her forearms, then stepped away. "Be right back," he told her, and she nodded.

  Even though he knew she was watching again, he practically sprinted from the room.

  ******

  Tonight’s event was held in a large and spacious function hall, one he knew for a fact looked like a thousand other function halls in other cities around the country. A large crystal chandelier that had to weigh a ton dominated the foyer outside, but the furniture was Spartan, probably to discourage parties from spilling out into the lobby. There were a few leather benches off to one side, not far from the hallway to the restrooms… and not far from the main exit.

  One of the two black-suited security guards he’d been introduced to earlier nodded at him from the doorway, watching as he sank down onto the leather bench and shifted forward, cradling his head in his hands.

  God, escape was tempting. What would it be like to walk out the door and just keep on walking?

  But then, of course, there was Jesse.

  Blond-haired, blue eyed, with a cocky smile that had peeked out whenever he’d caught Cain saying something stupid or outrageous, which was pretty regularly, Jesse Porter had been his childhood sweetheart. For one spring, Jesse had been a living, breathing dream - someone who’d only wanted to love Cain, and let Cain love him in return. Someone who’d understood the life Cain led and the restrictions therein.

  Come kiss me, Jesse.

  But… dude, someone’s gonna see.

  Shut up. Everyone’s busy swimming. No one’s gonna notice if we head behind the pool house.

  But, Cain, your parents…

  Are too busy schmoozing with your parents and everyone else to even notice.

  You’re such a child, Cain Edward Shaw.

  See if you can kiss some responsibility into me, then. It’ll be fun.

  And it had been, until Cain’s father had caught them and brought his considerable power to bear, forcing Jesse to choose: Cain, or his scholarship and any hope of a happy future.

  It had broken his heart at the time, but Cain didn’t fault Jesse for walking away from him. Hell, the only guilty parties in this mess were Cain himself, for thinking he’d ever deserve someone like Jesse, and his father, who to this day had kept tabs on every aspect of Jesse’s life and had threatened to take it all away if Cain didn’t toe the line.

  So here sat Cain Shaw, the rich, white, educated son of one of the most powerful men in the country, unable to visit the restroom without permission from his mother.

  Fucking pathetic.

  Shouts at the door caught his attention, and he looked up, expecting to see gatecrashers or (his personal favorite) protesters. At this point, any drama would be a welcome respite from his own.

  Instead, he saw the duo of security guards wrestling a tall man in a black hoodie to the floor - hard.

  "I said I want to see Shaw!” the guy shouted, as one of the guards practically knelt on his back. “He owes me!”

  No shit. Get in line, buddy, Cain thought. But then it struck him that something about the guy seemed weirdly familiar. The voice - gravelly and rough, like he was perpetually angry - made prickles of sensation dance through Cain's chest, and he got to his feet in a second, heading toward the man.

  “Parker, call for backup," the guard holding the man down said to the one still standing. "This guy's drunk and belligerent."

  Cain’s heart beat faster and time seemed to slow down. The broad shoulders and sturdy frame - so proud and powerful - were familiar, but it was the steel-gray hair pulled into a queue at the nape of the man’s neck that was a dead giveaway. It was the very last person he’d expected to see here, despite the fact that the man had been on his mind, directly and indirectly, all night. For one stunned second, Cain wondered if he’d somehow conjured him.

  "I am not drunk," Damon yelled, although the slur in his voice belied his words. "I have a right to be here. To speak to the senator."

  Oh, Damon.

  The security guard called Parker saw Cain approach and took a step forward. "You're gonna wanna stand back, Mr. Shaw," he said, forearm thrust out to block Cain's way.

  Fuck that.

  Cain couldn’t say precisely why he felt compelled to intervene on Damon’s behalf - the guy was drunk off his ass, and had every reason to hate Cain’s guts, so maybe he was a threat. Maybe the guards were right to want to contain him.

  But Cain was so damn tired of being powerless. He’d be damned if he’d let Damon self-destruct this way, getting himself arrested or worse.

  Not if he could help it.

  He drew himself up straight, managing to look down his nose at the guard though the man was a full six inches taller than Cain.

  "I think you are going to want to stand aside," he said haughtily. "I know this man."

  "But Mr. Shaw," Parker said, looking dubiously from Cain to the man on the floor. "He's not on the invitation list, and he doesn't have any identification on him. Says he wants to see Senator Shaw, and he’s three sheets to the wind."

  “He’s a friend of mine, and his pain medication makes him disoriented.”

  Parker seemed unconvinced, looking to the guard on the floor for advice. Damon struggled to break free, and the guard on the floor shook his head. No way are we letting him go.

  "And what is your name?" Cain demanded of the second guard.

  "Rodney."

  "Rodney," Cain said, repeating the name like he was committing it to memory, which he was. "Do you know who I am?”

  The guard was fighting Damon, so he grunted as he replied. “You’re Shaw’s kid.”

  “I’m Cain Edward Shaw, yes. Senator Shaw’s son. And I am telling you right now, you need to let my friend go.”

  On the floor, Damon immediately fell silent and stopped struggling, though he didn’t look up. The guard hesitated, so Cain continued.

  “Is violence generally your way of handling things, Rodney?"

  "Violence?" Rodney looked at the other security guard helplessly.

  "We haven't been violent, Mr. Shaw," Parker interjected.

  "Really? What do you call it when you’ve taken an injured man, who I can state for the record was causing no physical harm to anyone until you jumped him, and forced him down on his already injured leg? Do you understand how liability works in Massachusetts?"

  The guards exchanged looks.

  "We have orders to detain anyone who..." Parker began, but Cain interrupted, dialing his attitude up to stratospheric levels.

  “Parker. That’s your name, isn’t it?”

  “Er. Yes?”

  Cain sighed gustily, just as his father would. "Are you asking me or telling me, Parker?" he demanded. The man was perhaps a foot taller than Cain, and twice as broad, but his eyebrows twitched with discomfort at Cain's tone.

  "Uh. Telling you?"

  "Right. Okay, here’s what we’re going to do, Parker. You’re going to find us a room, a private room where my friend and I can chat until he feels a little better, and then I’m going to make sure he gets home."

  Parker nodded, still throwing a cautious glance at Damon, who hadn't moved nor even rais
ed his head.

  "Now, Parker," Cain said, making a shooing motion with his hands and shaking his head in disbelief.

  "Yes, sir," Parker finally acquiesced.

  Cain took a quick glance around and saw that the foyer was blessedly free of any witnesses. But he knew it wouldn’t stay that way for long.

  "And you, Rodney. Help me get him up," Cain told the other guard, who removed his knee from Damon’s back and stood.

  The minute he moved his knee, Damon pushed himself to his feet. His hair had gotten mussed in the struggle, and he shoved the long iron strands back from the rough perfection of his face.

  "I'm capable of standing on my own."

  Those eyes. God. Green-gold like a cat’s and every bit as wild, they seared into him, focused and clearly sober. Damon was pissed, but despite the slurred words and the acrid smell of alcohol that radiated from him, not nearly as drunk as he seemed.

  Cain swallowed and nodded, robbed of words. Being a condescending asshole to the huge-as-fuck armed guards was one thing. Standing firm in the face of this gorgeous, compelling man was definitely another. He was excited and terrified in equal measure, like he wanted to run away and push his luck at the same time.

  "Manager found you a room with a sofa. This way," Parker informed him proudly, like a child who'd just completed a task and wanted a cookie. “It’s the place where brides get ready when they have weddings here.”

  Cain nodded.

  When Parker turned to show them the way, Cain took a deep breath and slung his arm around Damon’s waist, encouraging the man to lean on him under Rodney’s watchful eyes as they made their way across the lobby to a back hallway.

  “Capable of walking on my own too, kid,” Damon muttered. His voice was pitched low enough that only Cain could hear, and the harsh, breathy rumble once again made Cain shiver with something that wasn’t quite excitement and wasn’t quite fear, but a strange amalgam of the two.

  Cain was annoyed at himself for letting something so trivial affect him so badly. He was also annoyed at Damon, who wasn’t going along with Cain’s rescue.

  “Okay, first off,” Cain retorted in an angry whisper that would have done his mother proud. “Given the fact that you were thirty seconds away from being arrested, how about you wait until later to tell me how capable you are?” He could feel Damon’s muscles stiffen beneath his arm, and he gripped Damon’s waist more tightly, forcing him to lean on Cain even though it clearly wasn’t necessary - the man was carrying his own weight, despite his evident limp. Still, Cain was committed to the story he’d spun for the guards. “Second, you went to a lot of trouble to get drunk - or make yourself seem that way, at least - so for God’s sake just go with it.”

  “Jesus, kid.” Three syllables laced with disgust and frustration.

  At the end of the hall, Parker and a neatly-dressed woman with a name tag stood by an open door.

  “And last but not least, my name is Cain, not kid, because I’m not a kid, and I’m definitely not your kid. Got it?”

  Cain smiled at Parker as he shuffled Damon through the doorway and into the room. Against the back wall stood a purple tufted sofa, and he hobbled toward it, then dropped Damon down with an utter lack of care.

  “Thanks, Parker,” he said, walking back toward the door and ushering the guard and the woman - Amy Patel, Guest Service Specialist, according to her nametag - back into the hall. “I’ll make sure the senator hears about how helpful you’ve both been in taking care of this sensitive situation.”

  Amy beamed, and Parker nodded solemnly. “You need any more help with him, you let me know,” he said. And then he looked at Damon again, a bit awkwardly. “Uh, sorry about before. You, uh… feel better, bro.”

  Cain cleared his throat and shut the door in the man’s face. One problem down, one giant problem to go.

  Chapter 2

  Damon let his head fall back against the ridiculous purple sofa and watched with slitted eyes as Cain turned to face him, his arms crossed over his chest.

  Well, well, well. Seemed the Shaw kid had a pair of balls after all, despite all appearances to the contrary.

  My name is Cain, not kid, because I’m not a kid, and I’m definitely not your kid. Got it?

  Damon got it, alright. Though this was hardly the first time he’d met Cain Shaw - they’d both been present for Jack Peabody’s bombshell confession a few months back, and they’d seen each other a couple of times after that - tonight he couldn’t help but see him with new eyes.

  Right now, Cain definitely wasn’t looking like a kid. His cheeks were flushed, and his blue eyes were dark and stormy with anger.

  It was the kind of look that, in another lifetime, would have set Damon on fire. Even now, he felt a brief, unwanted pull of attraction, before his own anger rose up to quench it. He’d had a perfectly good plan working back there, and the kid had cocked it up completely.

  He brought his aching right leg up onto the sofa and flexed his toes back and forth as much as he could, given the boots on his feet. He wanted to reach down and knead the pain away through his jeans, but he’d be damned if he’d do that while the Shaw kid watched. His life was fucked up enough without showing weakness and, honest to God, if this kid looked at him with pity, that would be the last straw.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Cain demanded, shattering the silence like the words were being pulled from him. He started pacing the floor, hands thrown up in some overdone caricature of frustration.

  Damon opened his eyes fully. The kid was angry at him. Oh, for fuck’s sake.

  “And I know you’re not drunk, Damon, so don’t bother pretending!”

  Interesting.

  “And how the hell would you know that?” Damon demanded. God, he hated the sound of his own voice - the grating noise of a poorly-oiled engine, croaky and out-of-tune from disuse.

  Cain opened his mouth like he was about to speak, then snapped it shut like he’d thought better of it. He shook his head instead. “Irrelevant,” he said, though his cheeks burned even redder. “At least the guards bought it, and I was there in time to save you before they caught on.”

  Damon frowned up at him in blatant disbelief. “Save me?”

  “Uh, yeah. They were two seconds away from calling the police on you.” Cain stopped his pacing a step away from the couch, and folded his arms again to glare down at Damon like he’d been personally offended by Damon’s actions. “Seriously, man, what were you thinking?”

  Damon imagined if he’d ever had a real mother, rather than the lackluster collection of foster parents he’d had forced on him during his tenure in the system, she would have scolded him with the same expression Cain was wearing now - utter disappointment in both his life choices and his lack of gratitude.

  But seeing that expression on the face of a man at least a dozen years younger, several inches shorter, and fifty pounds lighter than Damon, was so entirely incomprehensible that, despite the slow-simmering anger that had been dogging him for weeks and his outrage at the way his plans for tonight had been ruined, he threw his head back and laughed out loud.

  It was such a weird and unexpected sound, more like a deep bark than anything else - God, how long has it been since I laughed, if I don’t even recognize the sound? - that Cain’s face lost its frustrated expression. He uncrossed his arms and looked down at Damon in concern.

  “Are you okay?”

  Which set Damon off again. God, what a fucked-up night. What a fucked-up life.

  He felt the strange pull toward Cain Shaw flare again - found himself looking at Cain’s mouth, the anxious frown that pursed his lips, and wondering what he tasted like. Of all the people in the world, why should this kid - this kid who’d fucked him over and refused to do the right thing - be the one to summon up emotions Damon hadn’t let himself feel in fucking forever? It was ridiculous.

  “Yeah,” he said finally, sitting up and wiping at the tears leaking from his eyes. His stomach felt hollow, like he’d overdone a wor
kout, and he wondered if it was possible to be out-of-shape from lack of laughter. He sucked in a deep breath that was more like a sniff. “Yeah,” he repeated. “I’m good. I’m fine. You caught me off-guard.”

  “Are you sure? Should I call someone? Cort, or…”

  Damon’s laughter fled as quickly as it had appeared. He scrubbed a hand over his eyes.

  ‘Cort, or…’ There wasn’t any or. Damon had no one else to call. God knew, even his own long-lost sister wanted him to stay away from her. Hell, the one and only time he’d tried to call her - the dictionary definition of an awkward call, right from the, “Uh, hi, I’m Damon. I’m your… brother? The media found your name and camped on your doorstep when they thought I was dead?” - she’d hung up on him. She’d refused to open the door when he’d tried to visit, and hadn’t even acknowledged the money he’d had Sebastian Seaver send to her and her little girl, a niece Damon would never know.

  So, no, Damon had no one but Cort. And now Cort had Cam, so Damon needed to extract himself from the equation. He was tired of relying on his little brother, and he wouldn’t drag Cort down with him.

  “Nah. I’m good,” he said belatedly. He adjusted himself more comfortably on the couch, and couldn’t help wincing at the ache in his leg. “Believe it or not, it was going to be even better before you interfered.”

  “How the hell do you figure that?”

  Cain grabbed a chair from in front of the long, mirrored vanity and dragged it over to the sofa. He frowned as he sat down and propped his feet on the edge of the sofa near Damon’s waist with his knees bent and his arms crossed over his chest. His position was half-armadillo, half-bodyguard, like he wasn’t sure whether Damon was going to hit him, or try to escape back to the lobby, but he wasn’t going to let either thing happen. It was infuriating and intriguing, and left Damon wondering whether he’d underestimated the Shaw kid.