Love And The Real Boy - Coming About, Book 2 (11 page)

After they’d both ordered and Patrick was given a forty-five-minute wait time, Patrick suggested they watch a movie. “What kind of films do you like?”

Rich shrugged. “I don’t really watch a lot of movies. I’m always working.”

“I hear that,” Patrick agreed. He stood and walked over to his DVD collection, deciding on the latest
Avengers
movie, because you couldn’t go wrong with action plus man-candy.

When he returned to the couch, he sat a little closer to Rich so that their legs were just barely touching. He’d seen the movie about a hundred times, so Patrick watched Rich instead. He’d hoped the man would eventually relax once his mind was occupied, but that wasn’t the case. Rich sat stiffly on the couch, staring holes in the television but not really
watching
. His hands were fisted, his jaw was clenched tight, and his brow was furrowed.

Enough is bloody well enough
, Patrick thought. Picking up the remote, he paused the movie. Rich looked over at him in surprise. “What’s wrong?”

“Funny, I was getting ready to ask you the same thing. You’re a fuckin’ live wire.”

Rich’s cheeks pinked up, and he looked down at his hands. His thick, long eyelashes fluttered, but he didn’t look back up. “I’m just all over the place, man. I’m worried about Rory and what he thinks about you and me…since you—”

“Yeah, I know,” Patrick said sheepishly, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “I really am sorry about that.”

“It’s all right. I never denied it, because no one ever asked. I think they all knew better than to dig into my personal life. Actually, I did deny it to Justice once—but that was only because he caught me off guard, accusing me of being in love with Rory.”

“But you said you’re not now?”

Rich sighed heavily and stared at his fingernails. “I thought I was once…but like I said, the more I look at it, the more I think it was just codependence. We lived well together, we got along—and anyone can see the man is hot as hell. But he’s straight.

“Sure, I’ve fantasized about the whole straight-guy-is-secretly-gay nonsense, but I’m a realist. After Rory got married, I realized that I was confusing comfort and familiarity—not to mention lust—with love. To tell you the truth, I’m not even sure I’m capable of love.”

Patrick’s heart ached for the man, something he wouldn’t have thought possible a couple of weeks ago. Rich was no longer just the caustic, entitled rich boy Patrick thought he was when they met. He was a man with surprising depth—most of it filled with hidden pain, the source of which Patrick had no idea.

“You loved your brother, didn’t you?”

Rich paled and looked away quickly. “Of course, but that’s different…I don’t want to talk about him. This whole thing with the PI has stirred up all kinds of shit I can’t deal with right now.”

Patrick wasn’t going to let him get away with that this time. Rich had so much pent-up angst inside him, he was liable to detonate at any moment, and Patrick had a feeling when Rich blew his top, it wouldn’t be pretty for anyone. Better to do it here in private, with only Patrick dodging the shrapnel.

“Why can’t you talk about him? He’s your brother, for chrissake…” Patrick knew he was pushing, but he really did want to understand. Coming from a big Irish Catholic brood…well, he was raised to believe that family was everything—life’s only constant.

Rich turned back to him; his expression had hardened, and color suffused his face where the pale had been. “That is none of your fucking business.”

Patrick shrugged, determined to stay impassive. Rich had uttered those words before, but he always talked in the end. “Well, I don’t much care, do I then?”

Glaring daggers, Rich started to stand, but Patrick stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “I’m just trying to understand. You’ve got a long-lost brother you haven’t seen in ages, and he’s looking for you. Why don’t you want to see him? That’s kind of cold, mate.”

Rich began to shiver; Patrick could feel the fine tremors under his hand still on Rich’s shoulder.

“You’d never understand. I couldn’t
make
you understand.”

“Try.” Patrick kept his voice calm and his presence neutral. He didn’t know why he suddenly felt the need to be a safe place for Rich, where he could talk all of this stuff out—but he did. He wanted that very much.

Rich’s muscles tightened all over before his posture visibly deflated on a sigh. It was like the man had just given up control and permitted himself to settle down.

“Our mom was a junkie,” he said, in barely a whisper.

That was probably the last thing Patrick had expected to hear. He realized that they were about to have a very different discussion than what he’d thought. Leaning back into the sofa cushions, he turned his body toward Rich.

Rich stared off into the middle distance, there but not really
present
. “She wasn’t abusive…at least not on purpose. I believe she loved us in whatever way she was capable of, but she was a train wreck. She was more into drugs than alcohol—meth and oxy mainly, but sometimes she’d combine them.”

“Christ,” Patrick hissed under his breath.

Rich nodded absently. “She’d have brief periods of sobriety…but then she had problems staying motivated—keeping it together. We’d end up homeless after a while, living in the van…until we moved in with whatever guy she was fucking, and he’d get her hooked again.”

Patrick could feel his eyes bugging out, but it was a reaction he couldn’t control. Who knew so much had been lurking beneath Rich’s polished veneer. He didn’t want to make a sound, afraid it would stem the flow of words and Rich would shut down again.

“We never had any money. If Mom wanted to keep the lights on and food in our mouths, we pretty much had to do without everything else. I was bullied all the time; we were always dirty…especially when we were homeless. Our clothes were old and ratty…that’s why…” His voice broke. He had to clear his throat before continuing. “That’s why I work so hard to have nice things—the car, the house, the suits…”

“Suits?”

The corner of Rich’s mouth tipped up in an almost-smile, a heartbreaking contrast to his story. “Ah, that’s right. You’ve only seen me out at the marina. I have designer suits custom-tailored for me. I pretty much wear them whenever I leave the house—except of course to work on the boat. I happen to know that Justice, Nic, and the others call me douchey suit guy behind my back.”

Patrick smothered a laugh behind his hand, earning him a glare. He was glad to break the tension a little bit. One thing about the story was still bothering him—something seemed to be missing. “So where was your brother during all of this? And how did you get separated?”

A stricken look crept back onto Rich’s face, and he wrapped his arms around himself as if to ward off a chill. “He was along for the ride. I did the best I could to bear the brunt of the shit—protected him from the bullies, distracted the idiot boyfriends when they got a little too handsy, kept his spirits up when we were living in the van.”

“Handsy…they beat you?”

“Sometimes. Not a lot. That kind of physical evidence made it hard for Mom to lie to herself. Mostly they’d try to…touch us.”

“Are you fecking serious?”

“Unfortunately. I never let them do it, mind, but a few tried. That’s what indirectly led to John-Michael and I being separated.”

“How so?”

“I caught one of the boyfriends trying to force J-M to touch him, so I threatened him with his own shotgun.”

That surprised a bark of laughter out of Patrick. “There’s a lad!”

“It was one of my finer moments, the result of which I’ve never quite forgiven myself for. Mom came out and saw what was happening. She didn’t believe me when I told her what the guy had tried to do…so I said either she had to call the police, or I would.

“J-M and I became wards of the state that very night. Mom and her man went to jail, and DCFS eventually found us a foster home. We got bounced around a lot, but in January of ninety-eight, John-Michael got adopted.”

“That’s great. What about you?”

Rich shook his head sadly. “No one wants a grumpy teenager—too much damn trouble. I kept getting moved when new, younger kids came in…you know, because they needed the TLC more than the older brats. I eventually landed in a group home until I turned eighteen, then a halfway house until I’d earned enough money to get a decent place. And the rest is history,” he said with a sweeping gesture toward himself.

“And you never tried to find him?”

There was a pregnant pause, during which Patrick could hear Rich’s teeth grinding as his jaw clenched and unclenched. He began to think Rich wasn’t going to answer. “You don’t have to—”

“I was afraid.”

“Of what?”

“I was afraid that he ended up with a shitty family and a shitty life, and he’d blame me for getting us taken away from our mother.”

“I’m sure he wouldn’t…”

“You don’t know that. If I found out he hated me, I’d
lose
it. I’ve survived a lot of things, but never that. Besides, I was also afraid he’d had a great life, and he wouldn’t want me around as some reminder of his horrible early childhood.”

“Well, now you know that part’s not true at least. I mean, he’s tryin’ to find you, yeah?”

“I guess. But there’s still the other thing. I just…” He swiped a hand across his face angrily as an errant tear escaped. “I’m just really scared. This is the one thing that could break me—I mean really destroy me. If he’s sought me out just to tell me how I ruined his life…I just can’t.”

Rich buried his face in his hands, and his shoulders shook almost imperceptively. Wanting to give him a minute to pull himself together, Patrick rose and walked into the kitchen. Under the small bar there was a hidden cabinet where he kept his liquor. He opened it and pulled out his best whiskey. If there was ever a time for a seventy-dollar-a-bottle Tyrconnell ten year, it was this moment.

Taking out a couple of crystal low-ball glasses, he poured them each a double and brought the lot of it over to the coffee table. He rubbed a hand over Rich’s hair and down to the back of his neck until Rich looked up. His eyes were a bit red and puffy, but they were dry. Patrick picked up a glass and handed Rich the other one.

“What’s this?” Rich asked.

Patrick had the absurd desire to kiss the line of confusion that formed between his brows. “This, my good man, is one of the finest Irish whiskeys money can buy—or that I can afford, anyway.” He tapped his glass against Rich’s and raised it up. “
Slàinte
.”

He waited until Rich took a dram before he knocked his own back in two swallows. While Patrick relished the burn, Rich came up coughing.

“Christ, what is that, battery acid?”

“You’ll not blaspheme in my home. That there is pure ambrosia, mate. ’ave another dram or two…she’ll start goin’ down smooth.”

Patrick was touched that Rich had chosen to share the story of his tragic childhood with him. He couldn’t fathom a kid surviving so much, basically on his own, while taking care of his little brother.

Once the takeout arrived, Patrick made sure Rich got some food in him, and because the man deserved it, he kept a watchful eye on Rich while getting him completely, blissfully drunk.

When Patrick dropped Rich off at his house the next morning, there was a man sitting on the front steps. His folded arms were resting on his knees cradling his head, so they couldn’t see his face, but even with the crouched posture Patrick could tell the man was huge. And he looked like he’d been there for quite a while.

Rich wasn’t looking—he’d been staring out the window on his side of the truck the whole ride from Blue Ridge to Ballard—so Patrick decided a little good-natured ribbing was in order.

“You didn’t tell me you had a boyfriend. I’m hurt!”

Looking over in surprise, Rich answered automatically. “I don’t…” He trailed off when he saw the man on his stoop. “Who in the hell is that?”

The stranger must have finally noticed the lorry idling on the street, because he looked up. While he had a scruffy two-day-old beard and his expression was haggard, Patrick could see that he was beautiful. Who the fuck was this guy? Not that he was jealous or anything…not at all.

Patrick heard a sharp intake of breath beside him, and he looked over at Rich. His eyes were luminous and wide as saucers, and his face seemed to have lost all pigmentation. He really looked like he’d seen a ghost.

“Jesus Christ,” Rich breathed. “It’s John-Michael.”

“What? That’s
him
? How did you find out where you live?”

“I guess the PI told him…”

“Isn’t that like illegal or unethical, or something?”

“Something…” Rich said absently. “I’ll consult the Better Business Bureau once I’m done picking up the pieces of my life.”

Patrick gave a halfhearted laugh, because he kind of felt like Rich might be serious. But how bad could it really be? Surely they should be happy to see each other after all this time—though maybe it would be hard for Rich, having all his horrible childhood memories thrown back in his face.

“Do you want me to stay or go?” He placed a hand on Rich’s shoulder and gave it a quick squeeze. “Whatever you need.”