“The hell does that mean?!” he demanded furiously.
Marcus sighed, like Abe’s reaction was predictable and juvenile.
“You’d blow up the entire world for Oli—for any of us,” Marcus said, calmly. “You can’t expect everyone to do the same.”
The words sat heavier than the whiskey in his gut. He wanted to vomit them out. Wanted to pretend he’d never heard them.
That Marcus wasn’tright.
He spun his empty shot glass around and decided Marcus deserved an honest response.
“I never asked for a picket fence and a wedding,” Aberlour confessed with a sigh. He turned to face his friend, trying to gauge his expression. “I never wanted anything more than what we had.” He’d never spoken of this before with anyone. It felt strange to acknowledge that therehadbeen something. Something real. True. Something that had spurred them to hold hands while walking along the beach, for fuck’s sake.
“I didn’t ask him to blow his world apart for me—I didn’t even ask him to pretend I was part of his—I just—I just asked him not to fuck anyone else.”
He looked up at Marcus then, aware that he couldn’t conceal the extent of his pain anymore. It was all so raw. The grief, the worry, the anger, it had scraped his skin like sandpaper, leaving it raw, exposed, and bloody.
“You saying I asked for too much?”
Marcus’ puzzled yet tragic expression was hard to look at. His mouth fell open, as if intending to answer, but he shut it and shook his head. He ran a hand over his head. He always kept his hair as short as possible, nearly shaved down to his scalp.
“No, of course not—” Marcus said, swallowing. He shook his head and bit at his bottom lip. “But—maybe—maybe Oli isn’tlikethat? Maybe—maybe you shouldn’t have gone down that road with him. He’s a good southern boy. He loved you, so he followed your lead but—this lifestyle, it isn’t for everyone.”
Aberlour turned to face Marcus, sitting up suddenly in shock. He scoffed, highly amused as he stared at his friend.
“What, you think it was my idea? My move? That IcorruptedOli?” he asked indignantly.
“I never saidcorrupt—” Marcus began, holding one hand up to calm Abe who stood up abruptly, having heard enough.
Aberlour could feel burning rage taking over.
“Why are you here, Marcus? What do you want me to say? You want me to go—crawling back to him because he got shot? How does that changeanything?” he asked, voiced hushed so he wouldn’t scream the way he desperately wanted to.
“No.” Marcus shook his head. “I just—I want my boys back. I want the team to heal and—” he sighed.
Aberlour chuckled, unamused but needing an outlet for his simmering anger. He took a deep breath.
“Heal, huh? Is that why you keep harping at me? He’s the one who broke us up. I’m just trying to fucking move on—forget it fucking happened, but I can’t even get shitfaced without you getting in my face about it!” Aberlour snarled, at his wit’s end. How many times? How much more could he possibly give to this—thing? This wreck that he’d once cherished.
Marcus opened his mouth to reply, taken aback a moment too long by his friend’s sudden vulnerability.
“Fuck this!” Abe growled, shaking his head. “I’m not having this conversation with you.” He reached for his wallet and pulled out more than enough Euros to pay the tab. He threw them on the bar and turned to leave before Marcus could convince him to stay.
Marcus took a step to stop him, and stood in his way for just a second, although Aberlour knew he wouldn’t try to keep him there.
“Then with who?”
Aberlour thought for just a second.
“My fucking grave.”
Chapter 26
September 2014
Aberlour hadn’t bothered to visit Oliver. Or at least, that’s the way he hoped it came across. The truth was that he’d tried several times, but every time his hand had hovered over the door handle of Oliver’s room, he’d heard Abigail’s shrill voice and given up. He couldn’t face him, not when she had her claws so firmly planted in him. It would end one of two ways—with her death or with Abe’s. So, he kept himself busy. He headed off base to check out the surrounding area for hours at a time. He didn’t speak the language, didn’t bother with a map, he just—walked, until he found a place that served beer, and then he lost himself to the night. He’d even managed to get laid once or twice. If Abe had shut his eyes and pretended that she had dirty blond hair and a secretive, sexy smile, no one had to know.
Oliver was alive, and he’d get better. For now, Aberlour was off duty and Oliver was no longer his responsibility.
