“He’smine.”
“Down boy,” Tony laughs, flicking Nicholas’s chest. “Andrew King is a stronger man than me. See you later, Nicholas. Don’t forget—answer your fucking phone.”
With that, he departs, leaving Nicholas free to do exactly what he wants—go home.
* * *
Nicholas’sgood mood lasts until he’s getting in his car to drive home and notices a missed call. It’s from an unfamiliar number, and Nicholas quickly taps play in case it’s from Charlie or Eden, but the voice is neither, and Nicholas almost wishes it was.
“Forced to leave a voicemail for my own son, really, Nicholas. I can’t believe none of the expensive boarding schools and nannies we paid for managed to instill an ounce of manners in that obstinate head of yours.”
“I was fucking playing which you’d know if you gave a shit about me,” Nicholas snarks, halfway to hitting delete on the message when he realizes what this message is about.
“The party has been moved to next weekend, something you’d know if you had any investment in the wellbeing of the family name. There was a mixup in the mayor’s schedule, and he would have been unable to attend. I have a private deal I’m working on and I need him there. I don’t want to hear any excuses about games either. Family is more important than hockey. You can miss one game. I need you there, not making a scene. I know that’s difficult for you, but my assistant tells me you’re dating someone which I had to learn about secondhand. I trust you’ll ensure you bring them, and you both behave in an appropriate manner to ensure nothing compromises my business dealings or the Whitmore name.”
Without warning the line goes dead. Not an accidental hang up. No goodbye. Just his father done with him, the same as always. Nicholas suddenly changes his mind about the rage room. He wants to punch something.
Somehow, he makes it home, though how he does that with the haze of anger and frustration rolling through him, he hardly knows. The longer he goes without speaking to his parents, the easier it is to forget they exist, that nothing they do can hurt him, but that’s not true.
The idea of taking Andrew into that sordid, power hungry world his parents live in makes Nicholas’s hands clench the steering wheel tightly. Andrew would hate the social games, the lies and half-truths. The only thing keeping Nicholas from flat out screaming is knowing that Andrew can handle himself, even if he’d dislike it. He’s fucking smart and handsome, and good at putting people in their place. In fact, Nicholas’s father will probably hate him the same way he hates Nicholas because Andrew doesn’t cower to people.
It’s selfish to want Andrew to come with him knowing he’ll hate it, but Nicholas needs this. He needs to show his father that someone cares about him, and then—then fuck him. Justthe party. His parents can meet Andrew once, get a glimpse of what a real man looks like, one who actually gives a shit about Nicholas, and then he can go back to ignoring them like he does three hundred and sixty-four days of the year.
On autopilot, Nicholas drives down his palm tree lined street, turning into his driveway and parking near the front. Charlie’s hideous yellow car is there too, and while Nicholas is no fucking mood to deal with him or Eden, he’s grateful they’re here still because that means Andrew isn’t alone.
Attempting to reel his emotions in, he heads inside, anger simmering just below the surface, no matter how hard he tries to shove it down.
All the lights on the bottom floor are off, the only glow in the room coming from the television, illuminating Charlie’s face where he sits, alone, on the couch. His princess is nowhere to be found.
“Where’s Andrew?” Nicholas demands.
“I’m right here,” Charlie replies.
“Fuck off, you don’t look anything like him,” Nicholas snaps, not at all in the mood to deal with Charlie after that voicemail.
Charlie rises from the couch, head cocked to the side in the same way Andrew does when he’s studying something. He looks so much like his Andrew yet nothing like him too, their mannerisms and the way they hold themselves worlds apart.
“You really believe that, don’t you?”
“I have fucking eyes.”
“Not just the clothes,” Charlie says, putting himself into Nicholas's personal space in a way only Andrew is welcome. “You don’t see us as interchangeable.”
“The fuck would I think that? You’re like an annoying carbon copy of his perfection.”
Rather than be offended or annoyed, Charlie barks out a laugh.
“I was ready to hate you, but—you like him. More than you like me.”
“Of course I like him more than you,” Nicholas says, so fucking confused by what’s happening.
“Most people don’t. They think he’s—well, I’m not going to say it out loud because it pisses me off, but Andrew’s spent a lot of time not being appreciated or seen. I thought maybe you were the same, but?—”
“Anyone who doesn’t like Andrew can fuck off.”
“Oh, I like you,” Charlie grins, throwing his arms around Nicholas.
“Fuck off, Charlie.”
