Love And The Real Boy - Coming About, Book 2 (4 page)

“Still don’t want to go slave away on some goddamn boat,” he muttered to the empty room. Oh well, he figured he’d wasted as much time as he could get away with. After dressing in his oldest clothes and scowling at his reflection, Rich headed for the door, only to be startled by a knock.

Rich winced, because he so wasn’t up for dealing with humans. But he really didn’t have a choice, since he was on his way out anyway. Hesitantly, he opened up the door, wondering if it was Girl Scout cookie season already. The door swung open to reveal a rather handsome but innocuous looking man in steel gray trousers and a purple button-down. The man had salt-and-pepper hair and friendly blue eyes. He was older than Rich—early forties, maybe—and he didn’t look like any of Rory’s friends.

Rich narrowed his eyes at the stranger. “If you’re looking for Rory, he doesn’t live here anymore. I can give you his forwarding.” It might have been bitchy, but he couldn’t stomach any more reminders of the fact that Rory was gone for good, at least from their shared house. They’d picked it out together after a couple of years sharing the apartment. Rich had bought it and Rory paid rent, but it had always seemed like
their
house.
Not anymore
, Rich thought.

The man’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Actually, I’m looking for a Mr. Richard Lee Langston. Does he still live here?”

Rich tensed at the use of his full name. No one called him Richard—no one good, anyway. He could barely think over the pounding of his heart. “It’s Rich. That’s me. Who are you?” He didn’t bother to try to keep the suspicion from his tone.

The man tried for a guileless smile and handed Rich a card, which Rich didn’t look at. He just cocked an eyebrow and waited.

“My name is Emory Scott. I’m a private investigator.” He paused to let that information sink in.

Rich felt nauseated. God only knew who was looking for him and why. He had no idea if his mother or—God help him—his absentee father had any family. Now that Rich had made it up the ranks at InVentiv and was making a name for himself, it was possible that the creepers were starting to come out of the woodwork.

“What do you want with me? I can tell you right now, I’m not giving any money to any distant relatives.” He crossed his arms and scowled at Mr. Scott.

The PI held out his hands in a placating gesture. “Mr. Langston, I’m not here about money. I’ve been hired to find you by Mr. John-Michael Carrington né Dalton. Your brother.”

Rich reared back like he’d been slapped, and he fought the urge to empty his stomach right there on the front porch. He didn’t want to know this. He
couldn’t
know this. In his wild imagination, he could only think of one reason J-M would look for him; that he had a shit life and wanted to have it out with Rich for getting them taken away from their mom. Rich knew it would do him in to see hatred in his little brother’s face, even while he ached to see the kid again.

“Well, you’ve found me,” he said with his best snotty, uptown attitude. “Now what do you want?”

Emory Scott definitely lost some of his bluster when faced with Rich Langston at full shields. He swallowed convulsively and pushed his card at Rich again. “I thought it’d take longer to find you, honestly, so I’m not entirely sure of John-Michael’s plan, but I know he wants to see you. He lives just north of Seattle, in Sammamish.”

Rich took the card, not really seeing it. J-M had been this close all along? He almost collapsed under the weight of the realization. Emory stared at Rich like he was afraid he might bolt, or pass out. He gave a sympathetic smile, but it just came off on the wrong side of smarmy.

“Just think it over,” he said. “I’ll talk to Mr. Carrington about how he wants to proceed, and I’ll be in touch.”

Rich vaguely remembered nodding and closing the door. Once safely ensconced inside his little house, he pressed his back against the door and slid to the floor. Stunned. Shell-shocked and distraught, he stared at the business card until the words blurred, and let the tears come.

* * * *

Rich was still reeling from his encounter with the investigator when he pulled his Camaro into the marina. On the other hand, he was feeling much better about the idea of boat restoring. Mindless physical labor was just what he needed to take his mind off John-Michael. Like everything else in his life, Rich had meticulously honed his body to perfection, so he knew that physically, he could handle anything they threw at him.

As he climbed out of the car, he saw Rory, Justice, and Nic’s best friend Samara in conference with a tall older man he didn’t recognize. When Justice caught sight of Rich, he gave him the hairy eyeball; Rich couldn’t really blame the guy, but he also couldn’t help his returning sneer. He was working on it, damn it! Rory noticed the exchange, and he shook his head in disappointment before tuning back into the conversation.

Rich hung his head as he walked over, but he still noticed the older man watching everything with sharp, blue-gray eyes. He was a head taller than everyone but Rory, and had the hard-muscled build of a working man—typical Seattle boatman. He had short, thick auburn hair—not quite red or brown—pale skin and a dusting of freckles across his nose. Those freckles continued across his shoulders, noticeably revealed by his sleeveless tee.

The man nodded politely and held out a hand when Rich joined the group. “Patrick O’Dowd. Thanks for comin’ out to help.”

Christ, that accent
. It was Scottish, or maybe Irish…Rich wasn’t sure. All he knew was that accents did melty things to his insides. Patrick’s hard, callused grip went even further to setting his stomach fluttering in a way that only Rory had before. It scared Rich, and he reacted with the only defense he had—contempt.

He jerked his hand away and frowned. “Rich Langston,” he said when Rory discreetly kicked him.

“Rich is my former roommate,” Rory explained.

Rich gulped and fought the urge to shed a tear or two.
Former roommate
, he’d said. At least he hadn’t said former friend. Things were strained between the two of them, but Rich knew he could still count on Rory when it mattered.

Patrick started going on about his plan for the restoration, but it was all over Rich’s head. He checked out and looked around at the group they’d assembled. In addition to Rory, Justice, and Samara, there was also Lara—a college friend of Rory’s, and a few friends that Rich didn’t recognize. Hell, even a couple of the Harbor Patrol officers who’d been involved with Nic’s rescue had shown up to help. Rich couldn’t imagine being the kind of person who inspired people to rally around like that.

By the time Rich tuned back into the discussion, all of the jobs had been divvied up and everyone had their assignments. Someone thrust a hand sander at Rich and set him up with a nice patch of deck. He turned it on and got busy, hoping no one would figure out that he hadn’t a clue what he was doing. How hard could it be?

* * * *

Patrick squinted against the sun and surveyed his impromptu crew. Plenty of fine strong lads had shown up to help rebuild the
Galeocerdo
, and a couple of hearty females as well. It wasn’t as good as having the rest of the brothers O’Dowd on deck, but it’d do in a pinch.

He did have concerns about the roommate—ex, whatever—Rich. He looked like a bit of a dandy; he certainly didn’t know his way around a power tool. Patrick coughed to unsuccessfully cover up a chuckle as he watched the guy embarrass the hell out of a hand sander. Rich’s shoulders tensed, but he didn’t look up.

Sure, the guy was attractive, but in a primped and plucked kind of way that Patrick wasn’t sure he liked. But when Rich looked up from his work and pierced him with warm, whiskey-colored eyes, he felt an ache in his chest—and his cock. It irritated him, being attracted to the pretty-boy, so he struck out at him.

“Oi there, Sally, pick up the pace a wee bit. Need to be finished with this before the second coming! Put some elbow grease into it, yeah?” And damn, if looks could kill, Patrick would be a steaming pile of ash about then. Rich growled and got to sanding furiously.

Christ, if a bit of ribbing got him that worked up, then he was in for it if the rest of the O’Dowd clan came down to help. Rushing the gun a bit, Patrick finished stringing the rigging he’d been working on and strolled over to Rich’s crouching form.

“What’s the matter, boyo? Didn’t your daddy ever teach you how to work a sander, then?”

Rich looked up at him again, eyes wide and haunted. “Barely knew the bastard.”

Patrick winced, but by then the moment had passed. Rich’s face hardened before his eyes, as if that vulnerability had never existed.
There’s a story there, right enough
, Patrick thought.

“I’m just here as a favor to Rory…” Rich started. “I kind of owe him one. Feel free to reassign me if I’m not up to your lofty standards,” he said with enough ice in his voice to freeze Lake Washington.

Patrick also didn’t miss the look he threw Rory’s way when he said his name—all longing and unrequited nonsense. He almost felt sorry for the guy. Almost. When Patrick looked over at Rory too, he could feel Rich’s eyes on him as keen as a touch. He sighed and turned back to Rich, kneeling down next to him.

“Relax, mate. I’ll show you. Just needs the proper technique is all.” He gently took the sander from Rich’s hand. “First off, let’s put some bloody safety goggles on,” he said, handing Rich a pair. The other man took them with a shrug and put them on.

It wasn’t necessary, but Patrick wrapped his arms around Rich and placed his hands over Rich’s on the sander. “You’ve got to go with the grain, you see? Long strokes, even pressure throughout.” He murmured it close to Rich’s ear, not being deliberately provocative, but enjoying the small shiver he was sure he felt, nonetheless.

Rich shook him off and glared. “Think I got it,
mate
.”

“Right, then. Yell if you need help.” Patrick went back to puzzling over what he was going to do about the broken mast, but against his will and better judgment, his thoughts kept straying back to Rich. The guy came off like a spoiled rich kid, or some trust fund brat, but that comment about his dad…Well, Patrick O’Dowd never could resist a goddamn mystery.

Chapter Six

It had been three long, hellish days of labor on the boat. Well, hellish might have been too strong a word, but it felt that way to Rich. He ached all over, despite being used to daily gym workouts. But he worked hard and learned quickly, mastering the sander, a power drill, and he was going to learn the miter saw soon. Unlike a lot of the other workers, Rich had the freedom to make his own hours at work, so he was putting in more effort than most. It felt good—strong.

Much of his time was spent working side by side with Patrick. The man knew his stuff, and Rich couldn’t help but notice his strong, sweaty form when the heat forced him to remove his shirt. It was as if, after years of suppression, his crush on Rory had opened the floodgates of his sexuality and now everything was getting through. The man was undeniably sexy in a gruff, rugged, salt-of-the-earth kind of way, but Rich still believed giving into his homosexuality—at least when it came to an ongoing relationship—was a bad idea all around.

He watched Patrick straighten up from the saw table and wipe his brow. Beads of sweat dotted his solid shoulders, and Rich imagined tracing them with his tongue. “Christ, get a grip,” he mumbled to himself. At least he seemed to be getting over his hopeless, one-true-love crush on Rory. Maybe they could get back to just being friends—brothers, even—with nothing in between them.

“You say somethin’?”

Patrick’s lyrical voice startled Rich, and he jumped. “Nothing, sorry,” he said, his cheeks heating with embarrassment.

“Well, looks like it’s quittin’ time. You’d better get on the road.”

Rich looked around in confusion, realizing that half the crew had left and the rest were packing up. “Oh, uh, I wasn’t paying attention, I guess.”
Jesus, now he was losing time drooling over some guy?
“Yeah, looks like. I’ll just pack up, then.”

Rich gathered up his lunch bag and the various clothing items he’d discarded as the heat climbed just as the sun was sinking below the horizon. He started to head to his Camaro but was distracted by his phone ringing.

Checking the display, he saw that it was a restricted number, so he let it go to voicemail, then immediately listened to it while standing on the dock. He stiffened when he heard a familiar voice.

“Mr. Langston, this is Emory Scott, the PI representing your brother. I spoke with Mr. Carrington, and he is very anxious to set up a meeting with you. Please give me a call as soon as possible if that is something you’d be interested in.”

Rich stood gaping at his phone while Mr. Scott rattled off his contact info. What the hell was he supposed to do with that? He wasn’t sure he could open that can of worms and survive it—being hated by his brother was quite possibly the only thing that could break him. But god, missing John-Michael was like a physical ache—always present and worse on the gloomy days. He decided, though, that it would be best to sleep on it a night or two.

“Seriously, mate, are you sure you’re all right?”

Patrick’s voice once again startled Rich, and he dropped his lunch bag. Keeping careful eyes on Patrick the whole time, he bent and picked it up. He ran a hand through his hair and grimaced when he felt the gel that had loosened and dried from the hours of sweat and sun. If he wasn’t careful, the man would think him mentally challenged and he’d be demoted to water-boy on the boat.