Six Ways from Sunday (9 page)

“One last question, Bo, if you don’t mind.”

“Sure, it’s not like you didn’t get me to bare my damned soul as it was, may as well go for my throat.” He couldn’t think where she might go next and she paused long enough that he started to sweat.

“Do you remember those old breaks right after the Super Bowl when some reporter shoves a microphone in front of the quarterback’s face and asks him what he’s going to do now that he’s won the big game?”

“Yeah, I think so. It was usually a Disney commercial moment, right?”

“That would be the one.” She paused for effect. “So now that you’ve won your second Super Bowl, Bowen Murphy, what are you going to do now?”

He knew she was waiting for some dumb answer. Some trite commercial moment. He also knew more than she did. “I’m going to fly to DC in about an hour and I’m going to bring Dylan Sunday home.”

* * * * *

He sat unmoving in the chair. Almost as if he wasn’t really alive. Bo had to stop in the doorway to catch his breath. He held on to the frame until his knees stopped shaking. Two months ago, they'd received word that Dylan had been found. Alive. But it was bad. Bo had flown Janine to the military hospital in Germany as soon as he’d been transferred. She’d been with him ever since. Calling Bo every morning to keep him up to date. Dylan had yet to speak. He was alive and breathing on his own but that’s about as good as it got.

For months after the Killed in Action news came, they’d waited for a body. For months, Janine tried to get information. She just wanted to bring him home. But red tape was tying everything up and she was getting transferred from one department to another until the people she spoke to didn’t even know who she was talking about. Finally, in November she got one of Dylan’s commanders on the phone. She didn’t even know how  it happened. And the news was horrifying. Dylan wasn’t killed. But he was missing. He’d been part of a protection detail for some CIA agent and they’d been attacked. Dylan, the agent, and another Marine had survived, but were missing. And no one thought to make sure the family had correct data. The commander apologized. Profusely. And in December, they'd stumbled upon him and one of the other prisoners while on patrol. That same commander called Janine personally.

He’d been starved and tortured for five months. And this was what was left of the man Bo loved. This husk. This unmoving shell. Dead eyes staring out the window. He blinked every few seconds but that’s all he did.

Janine sat in a chair by his bed. She looked almost as haggard as her son. Almost. She laid her e-reader on the bedside table and came to wrap her arms around his neck. “So proud of you. And so happy you’re here.”

That’s more than he got from his parents that morning. Of course, he would have had to have taken his dad’s call to know why he’d contacted him. Proud that he won another Super Bowl. Proud that he’d scored five touchdowns instead of four from the previous year. Proud that he didn’t break down on national television. What the fuck ever.

“How is he?” He couldn’t take his eyes off the man in the wheelchair. He had hair now. It was a mess, unruly, looking more like someone had taken a set of rusty sheers to his head than anything else. But it was hair.

“The same. Today’s a good day. He slept last night. Or at least he didn’t scream.” She patted his cheek, there were tears in her eyes. And Bo knew that she thought Dylan was better off dead. She’d told him as much in the early days. Before he began to heal. Before he could sit up on his own. Just before. “I’m going to go get some breakfast. And walk around. I’ll be back in an hour.” She stopped just outside the door. “I watched you on TV last night. It was a good interview. He would be proud of you. I’m sure he’s proud of you.”

Bo just nodded. He didn’t know what to say. Or if the words would come out without tears. So many times he’d cried on her shoulder. She held him up. When he should have been the one holding her up. She nodded back and walked past the nurse’s station, calling the nurses by name as she passed.

He stood for another moment before going inside. This was Dylan. Broken Dylan but still Dylan and he would do everything he could, spend every penny he had and beg borrow or steal what he didn’t have to fix him. He dropped to his knees beside the chair. The hand on the armrest seemed skeletal. Bo touched him anyway. Taking the hand and linking their fingers. He was so cold. “I’m sorry it took so long to get here. I wanted to come as soon as I knew. I couldn’t get away. Your mom, man, she just took over, and she kept me from walking away from it all. Even when you were found. She made me finish the job. I wanted to be here. I wanted to be with you.”

A blink answered him. Blue eyes stared at the cold winter sky outside the window. He didn’t squeeze Bo’s hand. “One year ago this week, we were together. Do you remember? Seems so long ago. Like decades really. But it was just a year. I love you so damned much, Dyl. I’m going to do everything I can to fix this. All of my money. All of it. I’ll give it all up. Football. Everything to make you well again.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the ring. Gold with black and white diamonds in a fleur de lis pattern and a bunch of roman numerals sparkled in the light. “This one is from last year. I won another one last night. That one is yours. It was for you. But for right now I want you to have this one.” He slipped the ring on Dylan’s hand noticing how loose the ring fit him. “And as soon as the doctors say we can, I’m going to take you home. To Florida, if that’s where you want to go. Or to New Orleans. Wherever you want to be.”

He couldn’t take the stillness. He couldn’t look into the perfect face of his love and not see any recognition at all. He laid his head on Dylan’s lap. Just for a moment. Trying to keep the tears from coming. He pretended not to see the one empty footrest on the wheelchair. He just needed a minute. He stopped breathing when shaking fingers wound through his hair. He didn’t dare move.

“Don’t cut it. I won’t give you permission. Not even for charity.” The words were shaky and not much above a whisper. When Bo glanced up, he saw tears streaming down his lover’s face.

He took the hand from his hair and held it tight. “I won’t. I swore I wouldn’t. I promised. Not until you come home for good.”

He caught Dylan when he pitched forward. His body so thin beneath the heavy robe. Two thin arms wrapped around him, skeletal fingers digging into his back. “I want to go home. So much. I don’t remember home.”

The words were choked with tears and his body shook as he sobbed. “I’ll remind you. I’ll tell you stories that will make your hair curl. Okay, curl more than it is now.”

Bo saw the nurse in the doorway. He shook his head when she started for them. She stopped, her hand going to her mouth but she didn’t leave. “Sounds so good. You sound so good.”

Bo didn’t care if it was against hospital rules. He didn’t care who saw. He reached beneath Dylan’s legs and pulled him out of the chair. One foot bumped against his thigh as he turned to sit on the bed. Dylan no more than a lapful now. He held him as close and as tight as he dared for fear of breaking him. “You’re alive. That’s all that matters. We can fix all the rest. We will fix all the rest. Love you so damned much.”

Dylan cried harder. His arms like iron bands around Bo’s shoulders. “I’m not breakable. You won’t hurt me. Just take me home.”

Bo saw another figure enter the room in his peripheral. He turned his head slightly to see Janine standing there. Her eyes round and glassy. The nurse cried silent tears, her hand over her mouth. Janine did the same. The line so fine. They all knew it. Even Bo knew this could be temporary. Only time would tell if Dylan stayed with them. Or if he would return to the hell that trapped him inside his mind.

“Yeah, Sunday, we’re going to go home.” He pressed a kiss to Dylan’s forehead. “Maybe get married and adopt a couple of kids, or dogs. I’m probably better with dogs. We’re going to do it right this time. Walk the same path for a while.” He didn’t flinch from the words. Dylan was missing a leg. He wasn’t paralyzed. This could be fixed. “We will walk the path together, right?”

Dylan sat up, his eyes clear, his hands still shook, but he seemed more like himself. His voice stronger when he spoke this time. “Hurricane Bowen. Yeah, I can do that. You might have to carry me for a while.”

“No, man, that’s not how this works. You’re going to carry yourself. You’re going to get your ass up and brush off the grass and the chalk and you’re going carry your ass across that goal line. You got me across it enough times. This time, I’m going to be the one pushing you. We’re just going to walk this one off, and play through the pain. Okay? Just me and you. Okay, just me and you.”

But Dylan didn’t answer. His eyes were closed. He breathed. He was alive. A smile played across his lips. Bo held him tight, finally letting go all of the fear and pain he’d carried since August. He cried it all out. Sitting there holding his lover while he slept. Dylan Sunday, the larger than life force of nature that thought he was a hurricane. Bo knew the truth. Dylan Sunday was the calm, his center, the eye of his storm and he could no more live without him than he could live without breathing. And now it was his turn to be that for Dylan. His center. They’d get through this. Just like they always had. Together. Because that’s the only path left. The one they’d walk together.

Epilogue

July

Two years later

“What do you mean I’ve got to beat a gimp to win a spot? What kind of fucked up test is that?”

The new receivers were entitled little assholes. Bo heard everything, his hackles up, ready to knock heads. The new QB put his hand on Bo’s shoulder and shook his head. They had work to do learning the new playbook. Then he laughed because the look on Dylan’s face at the comment was priceless. The kid didn’t know what Dylan Sunday could do with just one leg.

“That gimp is a US Marine who lost his leg so your sorry ass could have this chance to be on one of the best teams in the NFL.” Dale Shannon shouted over the chatter. “And you will say 'yes, Sir' when he tells you to run. When he tells you to run or to jump you say 'Sir Yes Sir.' And you better outrun him and out-jump him. Or you will not have a position on this team. You will be cut and sent home crying to your mama.”

Dylan took off and the rest of the pack was left in the dust. He looked good. Healthy. Shannon bringing him in as an assistant coach was probably the one thing that pushed him back into the world.

“It’s a pity they won’t let him try out. He’d make one hell of a quarterback,” the new kid said as they watched Dylan come in a close third out of ten.

“That’s your job you’re giving away if the commissioner ever let him have a chance.” Bo reminded him.

“Yeah, well, I might have been born at night but it wasn’t last night. I know talent when I see it. And he’s got it,” the rookie said almost in awe.

“He walked a different path. He has no regrets.” Dylan caught his eye and winked. Bo felt his face grow hot. “Besides he’s a masochist. He likes inflicting pain. He’d have been a drill sergeant if he’d stayed in. I’m sure of it.”

* * * * *

Dylan watched Bo flush with anger from across the field. He could feel his eyes on him all afternoon. At first the attention bothered him, but as the day wore on he realized it was comforting. Having Bo ready to take on his whole team for him, well, it made Dylan feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

He’d lost that ability to feel anything for a long time. Bo made him feel. Bo made him live. And he got up every morning put the damned blade on and he ran; well, first he walked. He walked the path around the property that they made together several times a day. When he could run without pain, he ran. And his mind started to work again. Loving Bo again took time. Letting him touch him sometimes was the hardest, and Bo gave him the space he needed. He knew that every time he rejected him that Bo hurt. But he gave him time. Nearly a year. God, it was a horrible year. Everything went wrong in that year. The team went to hell. Bo’s dad died of a heart attack while they were still estranged. Just…that was what did it for him. Being there for Bo after that. Letting Bo touch him without flinching.

This was a piece of cake. Making a bunch of spoiled college brats coming in with egos bigger than the Super Dome eat dust. Yeah, this was easy. He could do this all day long. As long as he got to go home with the star of the team when it was all said and done.

And Bo was the star. The quarterback whose arm gave out last season and cost them the season was gone. As was most of the team. Management let the gay business rest after his second Super Bowl win. Gay or not, the man sold tickets and won games. And that was the hard line decision. Money over politics. Money always won when it came down to it.

These kids made comments because they were stupid. Comments that were shut down real fast. “I was special forces. I lost my leg because a bunch of assholes thought it would be funny to torture me and kill my friends. I lived and they didn’t,” Dylan said softly. “My name is Dylan Sunday, if you didn’t know, and I have a reputation to uphold. Cross me and I’ll fuck you up six ways from Sunday.”

After that, Dylan didn’t hear a peep. He smiled as his lover flew across the field, his hair whipping behind him as he jumped to catch the impossible throw from the new quarterback. Hurricane Bowen was on the loose and Dylan’s heart flew with him with every step he took. Oh yeah, this year was going to be a great year. He could feel it in his bones. They were together now and the world had no idea what the two of them were capable of. But they were going to find out. Every Sunday from now until the day Bowen decided he was ready to walk another path. And Dylan would be right there by his side.

The End

About the Author:

Born and raised in the wilds of north west Florida, I currently make my home in Mobile, Alabama where I attended the University of South Alabama. My interests are as diverse as the topics about which I write. I love to quilt, cook, and troll resale stores for bargains. Being a good southern girl I love football and fried food. I write southern themed spicy romance of the het and gay variety. Because love doesn’t care who you are.