Shame be to him who thinks evil of it?Well, now, what a shocker. Apparently, boy toy learned a little French somewhere down the line—or read a book or two.
When Bernard left, Alfred, oblivious to the byplay, indicated the chair to his right, directly across from Alex’s nemesis. “Sit down, Alex. You’re in for a real treat tonight.” He gave an indulgent smile. “Paul prepared beef brisket with all the trimmings—my favorite!” With a crafty gaze, he added, “I believe it’s one of your favorites as well, isn’t it?”
Alex wouldn’t give the man the satisfaction of the correct answer, which would have been “yes!” Instead he feigned indifference. “What happened to Martha?” He silently fought the urge to grind his teeth in frustration over the fact that whatever “Paul” offered, his uncle seemed to be buying.
“Martha? Oh, we gave her the night off, didn’t we, Paul?” The affectionate overtones turned on the handyman/cook/fuck toy made Alex’s stomach churn. “Oh, forgive me,” Alfred said. “You have met Paul, haven’t you?”
“We’ve met,” Alex confirmed, barely restraining an impulse to punch something.
Clearly mistaking Alex’s meaning, Alfred beamed. “Oh, good. You know, I’m amazed the two of you never crossed paths before. Not once in all these years.”
Years?“Years, Uncle? Exactly how long have you knownPaul?” Alex spit the name like something vile.
His uncle appeared confused. “How long? Well, his whole life, naturally. He was born a few years after Byron and I built this house. Don’t you remember? I’m sure I sent Victoria pictures.”
“Pictures?” Alex’s harsh gaze cut over to the subject of those pictures, who defiantly ignored him by serving Alfred from the numerous bowls on the table.
Suddenly, he recalled his mother showing him pictures of a chubby, bald baby before she died. “Paul Sinclair? P.J.?”
“The one and only,” his adversary retorted from across the table. “Only no one’s called me P.J. since I was twelve.”
Alex searched for signs of his adversary’s having won the first round. Instead of gloating, Paul appeared tired as he placed a filled plate before Alfred. Then the stress momentarily lifted from his features, replaced by a fond smile. “I hope it’s as good as you’ve been building it up to be.” Paul loaded his own plate and sat quietly, eyes downcast.
Realizing with a start that they were waiting for him to begin, and seeing no graceful way out, Alex ladled small amounts from each bowl onto his plate before serving himself a modest portion of brisket, fully expecting a barely palatable meal. In his experience, beautiful men belonged in the bedroom, not the kitchen. That was what cooks were for.
He reluctantly sampled everything, pleasantly surprised to discover the meal was, in fact, delicious. So the mystery man was Byron’s nephew. You couldn’t tell it by looking at him; the man bore no resemblance to any Sinclairs he’d ever met, which was why he hadn’t recognized the guy. Didn’t all Sinclairs have flaming red hair and milk-white skin? And being Byron’s kin didn’t prove Paul wasn’t after Alfred’s money. Byron and Alfred had never married, even during the brief period of legal gay marriage in California, but they’d been together a very long time. Perhaps Paul expected a share of the Anderson inheritance?He’ll get it over my dead body.
Dinner proved a quiet affair, with Paul and Alex answering Alfred’s questions while never speaking directly to each other. If the old man noticed their suspicious glances, he gave no indication. After a dessert of fresh fruit, Alfred made his apologies and retired for the evening, leaving “you young folk” alone to get better acquainted. Alex silently glared at Paul for a full minute before pushing his chair back and stalking from the room without a backward glance.
He knew his uncle wouldn’t mind him borrowing the BMW, and even if Paul’s suggestion had been made facetiously, Alex took advantage of the information and drove to the first club to catch his eye, searching for a distraction. He ordered his usual martini and leaned against the bar, already drawing curious glances from the sparse early-evening crowd.
If he were being honest with himself, he wasn’t really in the mood for playing; he merely needed a release for his pent-up frustration. P.J. Sinclair. How Alex had tried to forget the name over the years, envying Paul a living mother and a father with the decency to die instead of walking away, never to look back except in a feeble attempt to make a profit from his late wife’s death.
Through an endless stream of lawyers and deliberations, Alex’s poor excuse for a father never once asked to see him, even while seeking full custody—primarily for the money to be gained for Alex’s upbringing. Alfred fought tooth and nail, and in the end, the courts awarded Alex to his maternal grandparents. He knew Alfred cared for him, and he’d seen his uncle regularly, but usually when Alfred visited Boston or they vacationed together. His grandparents discouraged visits to the West Coast for fear Alex would be corrupted by “those Hollywood types” and his uncle’s sexuality, and when old enough to do as he pleased, his visits were brief and infrequent, at best.
His thoughts were interrupted by a lean club boy in too tight jeans and a mesh shirt that revealed barbell-impaled nipples. He winked and sauntered over to pose provocatively against the bar. “Hey, handsome. I haven’t seen you in here before. New in town?”
The guy was unoriginal and flaming, which wasn’t Alex’s type. In his favor, he was available and passably attractive—particularly as, with pale skin and bleached-blond hair, he bore no resemblance whatsoever to the olive-skinned, dark-haired nuisance back at Uncle Alfred’s.
With a pronounced sway to his hips, the man drew closer, licking glossed lips and trailing his fingertips along the edge of the bar. Batting his lashes and grinning wickedly, he ran his eyes suggestively up and down Alex’s body. “I’d be happy to show you… around.”
Well, things couldn’t get any less complicated. “Let’s go,” Alex replied.
JUSTa little more…. After hours of intense concentration, Byron finally managed to move the book resting on the nightstand. Slowly and surely, he worked the heavy, leather-bound volume to the edge, waiting for the right moment, and once more….
The book fell to the floor with a resounding thud. Byron smiled and counted the seconds until he heard hurried footsteps and the opening and closing of doors. Alfred, who slept like the dead, didn’t even flinch.
“Alfred? Are you all right?” Paul hissed into the darkened room. Light spilled through the door from the well-lit hallway.
Though he knew he couldn’t be viewed by human eyes, Byron instinctively pulled back into the shadows. With a relieved-sounding sigh, his nephew retrieved and returned the book to the nightstand. He paused for a moment, gazing down at the old man lying cocooned in blankets and pillows. Alfred settled himself more comfortably into his soft nest with a satisfied sigh.
Placing a kiss on a crown of silvery hair, Paul whispered, “Good night, Alfred, sleep well.”
A gentle smile played upon Alfred’s lips, and Byron watched his nephew’s mouth turn up in response. Apparently assured everything was fine, Paul turned and left the bedroom, easing the door closed behind him.
The poor child. He’d lost his father and his uncle, the only two family members who truly understood him. His strict, Catholic mother cared for him in her own way, never quite grasping the significance of her son’s sexual orientation and choosing denial over attempting to fully accept her firstborn. Douglas, while he loved Paul, was married to his job. When Alfred passed, the boy would be very much alone.
On several occasions Paul had brought home someone reasonably suitable. Unfortunately, most of his lovers quickly grew bored with his quiet lifestyle and unassuming ways. Then he’d met a colossal failure named Jordan, a highly unstable individual who’d ultimately broken Paul’s heart. Since their breakup, Byron knew his own illness had kept his nephew from pursuing an active social life, and Paul spent any free time in an effort to ease a dying man’s suffering and comfort a grieving Alfred.
