Unlike Any Other (Unexpected #1) (15 page)

2015

“I thought my father was going to kill me,” Mason says. “And your father… he wanted to beat my then eight-year-old boyish ass,” Mason laughs with me. “Once my parents explained to me what the big deal was about I wanted to explain to you, but Mom said you weren’t old enough.”

“How is your mom?”

“Mina is on to husband number seven,” Mason responds. “That woman can’t be alone for more than a month. She lives in Toronto now.”

“You moved to Canada?” He lets out a chuckle.

Darn, when is he going to tell me?

“I stopped living with her
long ago
,” emphasizing the last two words. “How’s school, are those young minds learning something from Miss Nine? No wait, aren’t you supposed to be at school? Playing hooky isn’t the best example, Missy.”

“School is fine, we’re on Thanksgiving break.” I plunk myself on the sand and my toes start fidgeting with it. “I think I want to move out of Texas. Perhaps closer to my parents’ home… I don’t know, maybe Portland or Seattle like my brothers. I want to figure out how to use all those degrees that are piling up with dust, so to speak.”

I have a bachelor of music with an emphasis in instrumental. A bachelor of science in applied learning where I majored in early childhood to six-grade education along with a master’s in special education for mild/moderate disabilities. I speak three languages and instead of using my full potential, I teach Kindergarten from eight to twelve, Monday through Friday.

“My life is boring,” I say out loud. “I’m as lame as Gabriel was at my age. I should be drinking and partying it up.”

Letting myself go, I don’t’ say that part out loud.

“Instead, I have no idea what to do.” I point at the house. “They—my parents—let me out of the cage and what did I do? I entered willingly into another one right away.”

Mason joins me on the sand and stares at me instead of the sea.

“I don’t have a home.”

My head automatically springs out of a haze and pays full attention to what he has to say.

“Sometimes I stay at the office where I have a small bedroom with a bed and a closet.”

“Office?” He must own it; I doubt an employer would allow that. “What do you do?”

“Ah, it’s going to be boring not having you guess my activities.”

I lean against his shoulder as he starts telling me that his office is in Seattle.

Finally, a location.

As he reminds me about his kick-ass computer skills, I trace the tattoo on his bicep. A Japanese symbol for strength, he explained to me once. An H-like character and another character next to it that looks like a square hangman to me.

“Dad never approved of me, being smart and not wanting to do any physical activity.”

He looks down at my playful fingers and then our eyes lock. The mystery in those gray-stony eyes beckons to me. For a moment, his clean musk scent and those eyes make me want to jump out of the bunker I hide in and steal a taste of him.

Savor him.

Try a new flavor, let him in and…

No, impossible. He’s Mason.

“Of course you don’t want to do physical activity,” I tell him, breaking the connection that scared the crap out of me. “You’re a couch potato, video gamer extraordinaire.”

Those burning eyes of his suddenly turn flat, unreadable as a stone.

“He didn’t want me to be a ranger like him. He wanted me to be a basketball player, an NFL player, something physical.”

Physical, yes, I can do that. I can do physical as long as I don’t involve my heart. Not that I have one. We could if he wanted to try… no, I couldn’t lose Mase. Anyone, but him.

“Dad had a daily routine for me since I can remember. I took breaks when I visited your family. If not, I had to do them while at home or on the road with him.”

Mason’s stare is set on the horizon, I want him look back at me with that flame. A flame I’ve never seen before. Not the burning kind that kills you, but the one that consumes you slowly and melts your heart, keeping it alive, warm, and safe.

Look at me, Mase.

“By the age of sixteen I knew how to shoot most firearms, handle knives… even use the bow and arrow.” His boyish grin pulls me closer. “Yes, like Green Arrow.”

He’s such an adorable geek.

“Combining my computer skills with the skills Dad drilled on me, I formed a security company. We develop and install personalized security systems for important organizations, and other kinds of consulting all over the world among other things.”

“Like Tony Stark.”

I feed that comic dork in him.

“You’re Iron Man.”

“Yes, but without the billionaire status,” he amends and finally looks at me with those warm, soft eyes I like.

“I stay wherever I’m needed or want to stay. No one has to tell me where to be. The headquarters and a small studio are there, in Seattle. My whereabouts are a personal choice, not a security issue.”

Seattle looks more promising now.

I’ll move closer to my family and friends. Find my passion again, yes, I make music and I teach. Once upon a time, I wanted to combine them and thrive… now, I survive.

Yes, I need to find myself.

“There, I hope I filled that curious bone of yours.” He pushes himself up and offers a hand to help me. “Let’s go grab some food. What’s today’s plan?”

“Pick up Dad?”

“I’ll take you,” he offers. “Unless you have other ideas.”

I have no plans or ideas. JC and I would have to talk about it, as MJ will be asleep until noon if he found a good hideout to avoid us.

“Are you sticking around, Mase?”

He takes my hand and doesn’t respond, our fingers fit perfectly.

No, AJ, don’t do this to yourself. Remember Porter.

2015

A new nurse arrives. One much younger with black hair and purple tips, wearing glasses and a pink neon set of scrubs. Seven in the morning and I feel like shit. They weren’t kidding about waking me up every two hours asking my date of birth, place of birth, college, the last movie I made, first movie, my parent’s names, and so on. My head doesn’t hurt, but I’m in need of a good night’s rest.

“Everything is normal,” the nurse says. “Your breakfast should arrive soon, sir. Call us if you need anything.”

“Thank you,” I respond and before I can ask if any of my children have arrived yet—because I want out—I notice a shadow entering my room.

Salt and pepper hair, green eyes, and the usual t-shirt and jeans.

“So, you’re not dead?” His left brow lifts.

“Dead?”

“That’s what the news was reporting yesterday,” Christian eases himself into the orange plastic chair beside me. “A terminal illness.”

“Is that why you came, to bury my body?”

He shakes his head, crosses one leg on top of the other and crosses his arms.

“No, Ainse called me,” he says, “as the EMT’s arrived to bring you here. Her voice and thoughts were all over the place. Scared, I guess. Later MJ briefed me about the entire ordeal. Pretty dramatic, if I say so myself. But, that’s you, all drama.”

The messed up hair and black circles under his eyes, along with the stubble which is longer than usual makes me wonder where he’s come from.

“Did you just arrive?”

“Nah, I got here around ten last night.” He shakes his head. “I stepped outside while they checked your vitals and all that shit every five freaking minutes.”

A doctor arrives, interrupting the small talk. He also checks my vitals and reads a list of things he recommends I do, since my cholesterol levels are high.

“Exercise, take the prescription I wrote you as indicated.” He signs something on his clipboard and then his gaze is on me again. “The lifestyle changes are on the release forms I’m signing. No smoking or drinking.”

I huff. The guy has no right to judge me based on my career. He doesn’t know me. I go to sleep at a decent time. At least since I became a father and the kids slept through the night. I barely drank…

Yes, I made exceptions while at a movie premier, I nurse a glass of champagne and stay late. However, it’s not the way this doctor makes it sound.

“When can I head home?”

“Whenever. I’ll sign your discharge papers on my way out.” The doctor adjusts his rim glasses and combs his fingers through his dark brown hair. “I recommend you stay on bed rest for the next couple of days—the concussion.” He touches his head. “Take it easy for a couple of weeks and definitely make the diet change soon. If you can, try to start it immediately. I’m sure your people can accommodate you.”

I nod at him.

On his way out, he stops and stares at Christian.

“Aren’t you the singer of that eighties’ group?” he asks. “Drained Souls?”

“Dreadful Souls,” Christian corrects in a monotone tone.

“My dad took me to one of your concerts.” He breaks into a non-professional grin and takes a pen and his prescription pad out of his pocket. “Would you mind signing that for my father? His birthday is coming up soon and this will be the best present.”

Christian never declines an autograph, so he signs it after asking the father’s name. When the doctor leaves, he huffs. Right before he’s about to open his mouth and complain, the nurse who attended to me earlier swooshes inside with a pen in hand and a folder.

“You’re a legend at home,” she tells him. “My father loves you, and so do my uncle, my grandfather, and my boyfriend. We really don’t like your band’s last album—
Abysmal
, but the rest… grand. Would you mind giving me an autograph?”

He does without any complaint, but his teeth are clenched and his eyes hooded. Chris hates to be reminded of that last album.

“Since I’m here and the doctor already signed his discharge,” the nurse pulls a few papers out of the folder Christian signed, “here are the instructions for Mr. Colt’s care. You should visit your medical provider and talk to him about this incident. Some anxiety medication can help along with a healthy diet and exercise.”

She gave the same explanation the doctor did while she unplugged all the cables, needles, and tore off all the stickers attached to my body.

“Ready to head out, Gabriel?” Chris asks as I start dressing. “The car is in the private parking lot. There are a ton of reporters outside the hospital… you should sit with your people and sort out whatever’s going on out there. There are too many rumors—including your impending death due to a terminal illness and the millions your unborn child is about to inherit. That’ll fly great with your grown children. Not the money, but the parade of reporters and issues you’d leave after you die.”

I flinch as the thought of having to face the media circus brings. Thankfully, a wave of ideas on how I’m going to fix everything hits me.

With the tinted windows, we are able to pass through the press without a glitch. Christian doesn’t let me read or listen to any headlines. In fact, he connects his iPod and we ride to the sound of The Beatles the entire way to the Santa Barbara house. My eyes open and close with the shift and swerve of the car on the road.

“Nothing has changed,” I hear Christian’s voice. “You’ve kept it the same all these years.”

“I didn’t see any reason to modify it,” I add. “It’s not like anyone visits the place, I kept it more for… I’m not sure. It’s the first property I owned with an ocean view I’ll never get tired of.”

There are a few reporters outside the gates; fortunately, they can’t trespass or they’ll be electrocuted. The trees block the view to the main house and is too deeply set back inside the gates for them to be able to take any pictures. Christian parks the car inside the garage; we use the back entrance and head to the master bedroom.

“What’s the real story with the girl in the magazines, Gabriel?”

I rub the back of my head and sigh. “She’s Carl’s niece, Carl Winston, the producer,” I fidget with the hospital bracelet. “The girl made a huge mess and he needed a hand to keep the lid on her for a while. I agreed to give her a place to stay and let them run the story about me being the fiancé slash father of the unborn child. Yesterday, I called and told him to search for someone else. I explained to him that I didn’t think about the repercussions to my family when I agreed.”

“Is there a contingency plan, does she know about the trio?”

“She doesn’t know about them,” I clarify. I’d never put my children in that kind of situation. “But I have the usual stock options and some money.” He sighs because that’s the way I fix my shit all the time—keep them quiet, give them money.

“Well, that girl’s going to be trouble if you don’t dispose of her fast,” he says. “We’ll talk in a couple of days when you feel better. Now, why don’t you rest while I fetch some food from downstairs?”

“Coco is around,” I tell him. “Unless AJ and JC are already making breakfast.”

“It’ll be nice to see Ainse,” he narrows his eyes. “How is she? I heard Porter arrived last night. MJ mentioned that him being here wasn’t such a great idea for either one. Know something about that?”

There’s a story.

“Chris, it’s fucked up—they dated for years. My sweet girl is hurting bad.” I clench my jaw. “Ainse hid something huge for the past few years. She’s letting it out slowly. Porter has to go before I fucking kill him.”

Chris stalks away toward the door. He pinches his lips together as he scratches the back of his neck, his eyes turning red but doesn’t say anything.

“I’ll change into a pair of sweats and take yet another nap. How long will you stay?”

Chris doesn’t say a word; my stomach hardens at the lack of response.

“Chris?”

“Not sure.” He doesn’t turn around. “At least until you can fix all the shit that’s going around throughout the media and I make sure you’re alright.”

“Thank you for coming.”

“You doubted I would?” a harsh breath follows his offended tone. “After everything, you’d think I wouldn’t jump on a plane…”