After a few seconds of fidgeting, Paul leaned in, resting his head on the offered shoulder. “Thanks,” he mumbled. Within minutes he’d fallen asleep.
Alex shifted in his chair to relieve his straining cock, pressed painfully against the front of his slacks, wondering why he hadn’t lost interest, as he normally did after taking someone to bed. Perhaps the pull amounted to more than the sex. Whatever possessed him, it seemed to be what he’d needed all this time.
Relaxing as much as possible into the uncomfortable chair, he replayed the morning’s confusing conversation with his uncle, unable to understand why the man thought Paul needed taking care of. Paul Sinclair was definitely a force to be reckoned with. Hell, he could probably best any who stood up to him—if he’d a mind to. Why did he choose to serve rather than lead most of the time and give his trust to the wrong people?
Alex had lost track of time—enough passed for his arm to fall asleep—when the doctor finally entered the waiting room. The expectant eyes of roughly a dozen people latched onto the man in surgical scrubs. He nodded politely and made his way directly to Alex, who gently shook Paul awake.
“Mr. Martin?” the doctor inquired.
“That’s me,” Alex replied, standing with an arm still wrapped around a disoriented Paul.
“Hello, Paul,” the doctor said, nodding curtly to Paul before turning his attention back to Alex.
The doctor explained the procedure and the prognosis without actually telling Alex anything, the brevity of the answer revealing far more than the words did. Basically, that there were things being kept from him by Alfred’s decision. He let the omission slide for now, accepting the news at face value. Later, he intended to get the full story. “When will we be able to see him?” he asked, filing away questions for another time, knowing the doctor wouldn’t disclose anything his patient instructed him not to.
“He’ll remain in recovery for an hour of observation, and then be moved to a private room. You’ll be able to visit once he’s settled, but only for a few minutes. He needs his rest. If everything goes well, he’ll be discharged the day after tomorrow.”
Alex had serious doubts after witnessing his uncle’s frail condition that morning and accepted whatever good news came his way, turning to hug Paul, who hesitated briefly before joining in the embrace.
“HEY, babe.”
“Did you say something, Mr. Anderson?” the pretty blonde nurse asked as she wrapped a pressure cuff around Alfred’s arm and began inflating the band.
Still groggy from sedation, Alfred waved a hand vaguely behind her. “I was talking to Byron.”
Following the direction of his eyes, the nurse scowled. “There’s no one there, sir.”
Alfred studied the spot where his lover had been sitting only moments earlier. “He was right there a moment ago.” Alfred searched the room, confused.
Smiling indulgently, the young woman patted his arm as she gathered her stethoscope and wrist cuff. “It’s the anesthesia. It’s only temporary.”
“Damn, I was afraid of that,” Alfred groused. For a moment, a young and healthy Byron had sat by his bedside, holding his hand and telling him everything was going to be all right. And for a moment, Alfred believed him.
11
ONCEthey’d settled his uncle into a room, Alex planned to spend his evening exploring the city’s night life. When the moment arrived, however, he found he’d no desire for some nameless stranger. There’d be no repeat of last night with Paul, leaving him unaccountably saddened. More and more he questioned his previous beliefs, unable to reconcile that someone caring and thoughtful, someone who’d once been hurt by a fortune hunter, might possibly turn out to be one himself.
His previous plans for the evening now in shambles, Alex wandered into his uncle’s office in search of booze and answers. Settling into his uncle’s chair, he noticed that the picture of Paul on the desk had been joined by two more: one of himself, taken a few years ago, and another of Alfred and Byron. Thinking back, he remembered those pictures being on the desk during his last visit, and the image of the laughing, dark-haired man was why Paul had seemed familiar. Alex hadn’t thought twice about it at the time.
He’d been taught not to snoop, but for the past few weeks he’d become enmeshed in his family’s finances. Telling himself he merely wished to learn more about his uncle’s businesses and investments, he opened the top drawer of the desk and peered inside.
At the front lay a stack of well-worn photographs, dog-eared from frequent handling. He picked them up and thumbed through them. Most of the later pictures were of Alfred and Byron, and Alex’s eyes filled with tears at how ravaged Byron’s formerly healthy body had become by the disease that ultimately claimed his life. Those photos he placed aside, unable to bear looking at them.
Next, he found a stack of older pictures featuring the two men and either himself or a dark-haired boy he assumed to be Paul. For a moment he wondered at never having met Byron’s nephew growing up, before remembering why. For some reason, unfathomable now, he’d been jealous of the other child who’d shared his uncle’s love. It wasn’t that he lacked the old man’s affection; he’d had Alfred’s love in abundance. No, the problem was, after the death of his mother, Alex wanted someone to be his alone—sharing wasn’t an option. Besides, Paul hadn’t needed Alfred. Even after the death of his father, Paul had two uncles and a mother. All Alex had, besides his mother’s brother, were obscure relatives and two elderly grandparents whose idea of proper parenting equated to sending him to boarding school and shuttling him off to some tropical paradise during holiday breaks—in the company of anyone but themselves. They took the concept of “hands-off parenting” to new heights.
His vacations had always included Alfred and Byron, the only bright spot in an otherwise lonely life. Alex smiled and leafed through the pictures, remembering the good times they’d shared.
He came across an old, grainy photograph. A young boy, perhaps nine years old, appeared lost and forlorn, dressed in a suit. At first, Alex thought the sad-looking youngster was himself at his mother’s funeral. Upon closer inspection, he realized the boy was much smaller and sported a mop of unruly dark hair and glasses. As he studied the photo, drawn to the desolate image, it occurred to him that he and Paul had been around the same age when they each lost a parent.
Flipping through the rest of the stack, he found snapshots of a full life spent together by Alfred and Byron, and once again envied his uncle’s partnership. Christmases, Easters, vacations, and time spent at home, captured for posterity. At the absolute bottom of the stack were two additional photos, obviously handled more than the others, judging from their disintegrating margins. The first depicted two men on a sailboat, one young, with flame-red hair, the other somewhat older, with blond hair beginning to gray. They gazed adoringly at each other, their love unmistakable.
Placing the picture face up on the desk, Alex removed the last photo. Without looking he knew who he’d find. There, before cancer disfigured her beauty, was Victoria Anderson Martin, the stunning blonde he remembered from his youth. Lovingly, he ran his fingers across the faded image, his heart constricting at memories of the vivacious woman who’d been his entire world. In the image she radiated happiness, smiling and playing with his six-year-old self at their summer cottage on Rhode Island.
He placed the picture next to the one of his uncles. They deserved to be framed and displayed. Further digging produced a stack of letters. Alex recognized his own nearly illegible scrawl immediately, and found other letters in the stack bearing writing he didn’t recognize. He chose one at random to read.
Dear Uncles,
Thanks for your gift, but I can’t accept it. You know I love you both, and I know you have only the best of intentions for me. But if I’m to succeed in life, I have to do it on my own. I hope you understand.
