His heart was another story altogether. He’d fucked up badly.
“Jordy?” Drew placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, but Jordan shifted away. Drew meant well, but Jordan couldn’t stand any gestures of comfort and well-meaning sympathy.
Drew dropped his hand but didn’t walk away. “Are you okay? Can we get you anything?”
For a brief moment, Jordan wanted that bag of pills. The entire lot of them. What would be so wrong? He could swallow them all and slip away, no longer a burden to his family or friends. Be at peace finally. And Keith, who’d never judged him, would be there, waiting. It was all so tempting. But so wrong. The past few months that he and Lucas spent together had brought him to dizzying heights of passion that reawakened his lust for life. Jordan craved a return to the normal existence he’d once had, but he didn’t know how to push his body up past that last rung of the ladder to finish his climb out of hell. The flames had already consumed his life by taking Keith, and now his addiction was on the verge of destroying him.
Addiction.
The ground dropped from beneath his feet as his admission shattered the protective shell around him. He was an addict. Lucas had been right all along.
Jordan couldn’t stand to think of the pitying glances thrown his way. He drew himself up, stiff and straight. There were still many people about, and if he didn’t play host and seek out each of them, it would be doing a disservice to Keith’s memory. The control he was famous for kicked in, and drawing on some remaining vestige of strength, he addressed his friends over his shoulder, avoiding eye contact with any of them. “I need to get back inside to the guests. I’ve got to speak to the commanding officer of the precinct and then some of the politicians who also showed up.” He attempted a smile, but it barely registered on his frozen lips.
Ignoring the cold rush of anxiety that swept through him, Jordan smoothed down his suit jacket and strode back inside. If he dwelled on what had happened before with Lucas, he’d crumble into dust. More than anything else, he wanted a pill to steady the noise in his head and the uneven pounding of his heart, but gathering whatever shreds of dignity he had left, Jordan reined in his craving. The past few weeks had seen him cut back his pill usage dramatically. Many times when it had been only Lucas and him together, Jordan had thought about telling him the truth about his continuing anxiety and the pills.
But then Lucas would say how proud he was of Jordan, how strong Jordan was to kick the habit. He’d tell stories of people he’d seen become victims to drugs and how he refused to fall into its deadly trap.
“I’m so proud of you, Prep School. You’re not another pretty face. You’re strong.”
And sick to his stomach with guilt and disgust over his own weakness, Jordan would only nod and fall into Lucas’s kiss.
Lucas had finally told Jordan a bit about his past, how Ash had lied and abandoned him. How then could Jordan let him down and admit he’d been lying to Lucas from the start? The fragile trust Lucas had given by exposing parts of himself Jordan knew Lucas had never told anyone would have been dashed to pieces, splintered beyond repair.
Jordan had gambled on time, but time had run out, and he’d lost.
As Jordan continued to mingle with the people in the room, speaking the rote words of thanks and pleasantries, his mind calculated how long he’d have to give Lucas to calm down before seeing him again. Tonight was done. He knew Lucas well enough now to understand the man’s need for space and time away to think. Tomorrow, Jordan decided. Perhaps in the light of day, Lucas would understand Jordan hadn’t meant to hold back the truth, but rather didn’t want to suffer the sting of humiliation by admitting his addiction, his ultimate weakness.
“Dr. Peterson?” A hesitant female voice broke into his self-torment. He blinked and stared for a moment at the young woman in front of him. “It’s Valerie, from Mr. Conover’s office?” Concern creased her brow. “Is everything all right?”
He swallowed, the acrid taste in his mouth burning a path down his throat. “I recognize you. Yes, yes, of course I’m fine. I’m so glad you could come.” A tall man hovered by her side, a serious expression on his pleasant, tired face. Her husband, Jordan surmised. The overhead lights picked out threads of silver in his light brown hair, although Jordan didn’t think the man was any older than his early to midthirties.
A relieved look crossed her eyes. “This is my brother, Dr. Sebastian Weber. Tash, this is Dr. Peterson, the president of the foundation that is running this center.”
“Dr. Weber, thank you for coming.” Jordan shook Dr. Weber’s hand, surprised at the strength of the man’s grip. “What do you practice?”
The force of Dr. Weber’s intent stare set Jordan back a step or two, as if he’d been physically slapped. “I’m a psychiatrist.”
Wise hazel eyes stared back at him from behind tortoise-rimmed glasses. “I have patients from all walks of life, fighting demons and battles they never dreamed they’d have to face.”
Jordan shifted with uncomfortable awareness, as if Dr. Weber saw behind the mask he offered up to everyone. Pressure built in Jordan’s chest as their gazes locked. In Weber’s eyes, Jordan viewed sympathy and an uncanny knowledge of Jordan’s own internal struggle. For the first time since he began abusing the pills, a flutter of hope, faint yet definite, sank deep into his bones and blood, that maybe he could break free and take back his life.
In a practiced move, Weber pushed his glasses up the bridge of his straight, strong nose. It made him look younger, somewhat sweeter and more vulnerable. His silver-flecked hair and serene smile seemed at odds with his youthful, gangly body.
“Dr. Weber?” An idea came to him, and Jordan knew it was his answer, quite possibly his salvation.
“Please call me Tash.”
“Very well. I’m Jordan.” Jordan took a deep breath. “Can we talk? Maybe have coffee tomorrow? I have a problem, and I believe you can help me.”
* * * *
Jordan sat by the window in his favorite coffee shop on Ninth Avenue, sipping a latte. Inexplicably nervous, he tapped the tabletop with the wooden stirrer, wondering why he’d thought meeting Tash was a good idea. Last night had been horrible—the worst night of his life other than Keith’s death. Lucas’s face rose before his eyes, shock leading to pain, anger, and finally betrayal. Despite his friends’ fury over Lucas abandoning him, Jordan understood why. Why Lucas chose not to stay and talk, but ran instead. For the first night in weeks, Lucas hadn’t spent the night. Jordan didn’t expect to hear from the man. He’d yet to face Neil’s angry questions.
It was the one thing Lucas had always impressed on Jordan: the absolute need for trust between the two of them. Lucas assumed Jordan had quit his habit during the time he’d been away in Europe, and Jordan did nothing to prevent him from continuing that assumption. Jordan knew his lie of omission was no different than if he’d spoken it outright to Lucas’s face. He’d so easily broken that bond of trust they’d woven tightly around each other.
Spying Tash entering the coffeehouse, Jordan waved him over to the secluded corner he’d chosen for them to sit in. He’d picked that spot so no one would be able to hear their conversation or intrude. “Come. I have a table. Get your coffee so we can talk.” Tash smiled and ordered his cappuccino, making friendly conversation with the barista as he waited for her to make his order.
Jordan eyed Tash’s full mouth, thick brown hair gilded with those silvery flecks, and strong, capable hands, all of which added up to an extremely appealing man—but not for Jordan. His lean runner’s body, encased in faded jeans and a soft green sweater, wasn’t broad and muscular like Lucas’s. Jordan recalled the flex and play of Lucas’s body beneath his hands the last time they made love. A quiver of desire shot through him. His hand tightened around his cup of coffee, and Jordan wondered if he’d ever again hear the tenderness in Lucas’s whispered words of passion.
