When Will I See You Again (37 page)

He clenched his fists to keep from doing anything else stupid— such as punching out the bathroom mirror—threw back his pounding head and howled in frustration.

*

“Somewhere else, I guess. Don’t worry about it.” Alexx wasn’t upset with the fact that the dinner had been scorched beyond recognition, resembling something you might find at the scene of a horrific fire, more than any variety of edible food. Normally he
cooked every night for the two of them, his way of thanking his friend for allowing him to stay in his apartment after he’d moved out of the boarding house. But Miller had insisted that he wanted to cook tonight, and that hadn’t turned out very well at all. No, what upset Alexx was the idea of actually leaving the apartment, something he’d not done since he’d arrived.

The reason behind that was obvious. He didn’t want to chance running into his now ex. He wasn’t sure he was strong enough to take it. He didn’t know if he ever would be, truth be told, but right now he was simply too fragile and he knew it. But he was also firmly resolved to stand strong, and his stubbornness waged an internal battle with his desire to cave in and crawl back to Raoul and the former was currently winning.

What was he so upset about? Chances were if they stayed far from Charisma they’d never cross Raoul’s path. He was probably there now. Drinking and dancing. Scoping out the other men that came there to party, picking out a new partner for the night. Or at least to fuck for a while. Back to the way he was before Alexx dared to intrude upon his life. No doubt happier now that he wasn’t in it, and he could keep the memories of Jamie intact and inviolate and all to himself.

His heart tried to protest that assessment, insisting that was not who Raoul was, not anymore. But his head found it easier to presume he’d returned to his old ways, as justification for not seeing him anymore. Which was right? He just didn’t know, and the not knowing—and the not seeing, touching, holding, loving Raoul—was killing him.

His guts were in such inner turmoil that he didn’t really care if he ate. Only Miller’s insistence that they go out for a quick bite, and his desire not to rain on his friend’s parade, brought him into
reluctant agreement with his plan when he’d have much rather ordered in.

They were sitting in a small sandwich shop that lay off the beaten path, and therefore not filled with tourists, for which Alexx was grateful. At least Miller hadn’t suggested the Moonbeam Café.

Although he liked the place a great deal, and its warm and friendly owner, Nadine, the memories of Raoul were too strong. Besides, he couldn’t very well tell Nadine to keep his being there a secret from her cousin, and he was afraid his presence would attract Raoul. Again, something he wasn’t ready for.

They’d gotten their sandwiches and drinks and found a table in the corner. But Miller couldn’t seem to sit still. He kept hopping up from his seat, running after different things. First it was salt for his French fries. Then it was mustard for his sandwich, although there was a squeeze container of the stuff on their table. Alexx was just about to ask him what he was so jumpy about when Miller announced he was going to the men’s room and disappeared in that direction.

Oh well. He couldn’t very well yell at Alexx for not eating if he wasn’t there. Maybe he could ditch the food before Miller returned, make it appear to have been eaten. Although he hated to waste good food that way, just because he had no appetite.

Sighing, he pushed a potato wedge about his tray in aimless circles, his mind wandering to thoughts of Raoul.

“Good evening, Alexx.”

Alexx glanced up with a start to find a man standing over him.

His mouth opened in surprise as he recognized Philippe Marchand.

Raoul’s father pulled up a chair from an adjoining table and sat.

“How did… I mean…” Alexx stammered, his cheeks warming in embarrassment. He didn’t know what the hell he really meant to
say. His chagrin was only enhanced by the sudden realization that Miller had set this up. Everything made sense now. From the burned dinner to his insistence on going out to eat. And his fortuitous slipping away from the scene before the arrival of Philippe Marchand. He glanced about them apprehensively.

“He isn’t here,” Philippe assured him. “I promise you. I would not ambush you in that way.”

Alexx believed him, despite the pounding of his heart that wished otherwise. He was at a momentary loss for words. He could think of no safe topic of discussion, nothing that wouldn’t lead back to Raoul.
But then, why else is his father here, if not to talk
about his son?

“Is he well?” he asked in spite of himself, hating himself for asking.

“No, not really. Any more than I wager you are.”

Alexx didn’t know what to respond to that astute observation.

Luckily, Philippe didn’t wait for a response.

“Alexx, I understand what you’re going through.”

Alexx raised skeptical eyes to the other man.

“I know, I know,” Philippe interjected, before Alexx could comment. “It’s a very unique situation. And a difficult one. For both of you.”

Alexx mutely nodded, not trusting his voice. He gave up any pretense of being interested in the food on his tray and pushed it to the side, uneaten.

“I thought you should know that Foster’s father intends to have him declared incompetent, and therefore not responsible for his actions. Despite being told not to, he’s apparently made a full confession to everything. Shall I go on?”

Again, Alexx nodded, his eyes focused on the table. Foster
Levine was a slightly safer subject, but barely.

“Apparently he saw something on the night of the full moon and he didn’t like what he saw. He called up the younger brother of an old school friend and inveigled him into setting you up to be killed by…by Raoul. I guess he wasn’t thinking clearly, or he was hoping that Raoul’s instincts would give way before the lure of…

Well, your blood. When that didn’t work out, Foster was angry, and that’s when he just happened to run into the poor man Raoul had…been with…and took out his rage on him. Then he tried to make it look like Raoul had done it.”

“But why, if he wanted him? That doesn’t make sense.”

“No, not really. His convoluted logic was that he’d use his family’s money to clear Raoul of the charges, make him indebted to him. Make him love him.” Philippe shrugged. “That was never going to happen, but Foster isn’t quite right. I think he stands a fair chance of being locked up for a good long time, to be honest, considering he also confessed to a twenty-year-old murder, too.”

“I guess that’s a good thing, but why are you telling me all this? It has nothing to do with me. Not anymore.”

“Alexx, he still loves you. I know he does. And I know you love him.”

Alexx darted a glance up, looked into Philippe’s eyes, so like Raoul’s, a resemblance that only made the ache stronger.

“Not me,” he murmured. “Jamie. Jamie’s always been the one.

I’m just the guy who seems to have been born with his soul or something.”

“At one time, yes,” Philippe conceded. “Yes, he was the one. I won’t lie to you about that. They were as close as two people can be without being one. Jamie’s death shook Raoul, so much that I wasn’t sure he’d survive it, to be honest. Afterward, he changed.
The Raoul you know now is my old Raoul, come back again.

Because of you. You brought him back, Alexx, no one else.”

“Because he thinks I’m Jamie.”

“Maybe. I can understand how he might think so. What about you? How do you feel about it? About Raoul and everything?”

Philippe’s gaze was relentless, holding Alexx’s. He dared not look away, concentrating on the older man’s words.

How could he explain how he felt, when he didn’t even know himself? What about the things he knew that had no explanation, feelings for Raoul that he knew were older than their short acquaintance. His knowing where to find Raoul when he ran out of the restaurant. No one had told him—he’d just known. Could he be Jamie McKenna reborn? Did he want to be? What if by doing so, he was ensured of Raoul’s love forever? Was that such a high price to pay? The questions crowded into his brain, too fast and furious.

“I just want to be loved for me,” he finally blurted out.

“I can understand that.” Philippe nodded, even as he reached inside the breast pocket of his jacket and produced an envelope. He laid it on the table. It bore Alexx’s name in a well-formed script.

“What’s that?”

“Tomorrow night is the Lupercalia Ball, as you might have heard.”

“Yes, I know.”

“That’s your ticket to get in.”

“My what?”

“Ticket of admission. Your name’s on the list. All you have to do is show up.”

“But why? I don’t understand.” In his confusion, Alexx reached for the envelope, pulled his hand back before making contact. No, no, no. The Lupercalia Ball had been a dream, one
that he’d shared with Raoul, of their going together. That couldn’t happen now. Besides…

“I’m sure Raoul has another date by now anyway.”

Even as the words left his mouth, Philippe shook his head. “If you honestly believe that, you don’t know my son. He’s come to the ball every year, yes, but he’s never had a date, never asked anyone. Until you.”

Alexx felt hot tears forming. He hastily blinked them back. He wasn’t about to give in, no matter what his heart was telling him to do. It wasn’t going to happen, end of story.

“Are you so sure he’s going?” Why was he even asking, what did it matter? But somehow it did.

“No, I’m not sure,” Philippe admitted. “He’s being very stubborn himself.” He reached out and laid his hand over Alexx’s.

“Alexx, he’s in pain, too. And I’ll tell you something I bet you don’t know…”

Alexx’s eyes asked the question his lips refused to acknowledge.

“He’s not drunk, not even drinking. Not doing any of his usual activities. At the least the usual ones before he met you.”

Alexx’s heart couldn’t help but soar at the knowledge that Raoul wasn’t with anyone else, but fell in the next moment. What did that matter? It changed nothing between them.

“I can’t force you to come, Alexx, and I know it. I wouldn’t if I could, any more than I’d want you to force him to do anything he didn’t want to do. But, Alexx, I’ll be honest, it’s killing me to see him in such pain, and to see you suffer too, when the answer seems so simple—” He broke off abruptly, patted Alexx’s hand. “Forgive a foolish father who loves his only son more than he ever realized and who would do anything for him.” He pushed back his chair
and rose. “I understand your reasons, Alexx, and I won’t fight you.

I wish you well in the future, and please, if you ever need anything, do not hesitate to call on me.”

He turned and strode out of the sandwich shop before Alexx could even think what to say. It wasn’t until Miller peeped around the corner, as if looking for a sign that all was well and safe for him to return to the table, that he realized that the envelope still sat before him. The one with the ticket to the Lupercalia Ball.

Maybe he could give it to Miller?

He hadn’t intended to go to the ball, despite his father’s best efforts at making him feel guilty on his mother’s behalf—to what purpose? Alexx wouldn’t be there. He’d never bought him a ticket, nor placed him on the guest list, even if he had intended to, changing the rules in anticipation of his attendance. So why was he placing a call to Mr. Kyle on the morning of the ball, asking his personal tailor if he could whip him up a new tux before nightfall?

Hell if he knew.

He might just as well have saved his breath. His usually generous and talented tailor said he couldn’t possibly oblige Raoul’s request, albeit his refusal to do so was peppered with profuse apologies, but something urgent had come up. Only half listening, Raoul growled that he didn’t care and to hell with it
anyway before he broke the connection, stopping short at throwing his new phone against the wall as well, to join the hapless paperweight.

He knew he couldn’t use a lack of wardrobe as an excuse for not going, because he did own other tuxes. Pulling open the mirrored door, he entered his walk-in closet and flicked the switch, illuminating his wardrobe. Clothing for all occasions and all moods. He found where he’d hung his tuxes and began to sort through them. Black, black, black…midnight blue? He didn’t remember this one. Maybe he’d bought it and never worn it? He shrugged. What difference did it make, as long as he could wear it now?

Assuming he was going. Which he still hadn’t decided. While debating the matter with himself, he paced the floor in his office, weighing the pros and cons. From habit, he found himself near the liquor bottles that sat on the sideboard and reached for one before pulling his hand back. No, he would not give in to the temptation.

He didn’t
need
a drink. Maybe later, if he wanted one, he could have one. But moderation would be his new watchword, nothing less.

How could he expect Alexx to respect him if he couldn’t even respect himself enough to not fall apart and use alcohol as a crutch? He couldn’t. And even if Alexx couldn’t see him, or know he’d done it, Raoul would know, and that made all the difference in the world.