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"Aw geez. I'm feelin' rotten," Riley groaned, from where he leaned against the car's passenger window. "Where're we goin'?" he asked, in a voice free of emotion. After learning of the accident in Germany, and a quick, emotionless, telephone call to his father, Riley retreated into himself. "We're going to my place," Bailey responded, worriedly glancing toward his passenger. 'This reaction just isn't natural,' he thought. 'He and his mother may not have been close, but . . . surely, he feels something.' "I want you to be with me. Now is not the time for you to be alone." "Uh, good . . . I . . . don't want to be . . . alone." Riley reached out and linked fingers with Bailey. "Thanks," he murmured, ". . . for bein' so good to me. Have I ever told you how much I love you?" Bailey swallowed. "Thanks, Handsome. I love you, too." He tightened his fingers. "We'll get through this, y'know." He quickly swiped at his overflowing eyes, momentarily taking a hand away from the car's steering wheel. "You and I are a great team. Together, we can handle anything. You remember that, okay? We're facing this together. You're not alone." The only hint that Riley heard what was said was a slight tightening of his fingers. "Even with . . . what I felt about her, she didn't deserve to die, like that," he said, in a monotone. "None of those folks did." Riley softly snorted. "Y'know, I've been trying to recall one time in which she showed me any love." He sadly shook his head. "I can't think of one. I want to. I just can't. It wasn't only me she treated like that, though; it was everyone. She was just . . . nasty. "From what Father has told me, her folks were the same way. Y'know," Riley continued, "her father, my grandfather, was the governor of Georgia . . . 'til he was impeached for all sorts of wrongdoing. I'm guessing he's still in prison. Mother never mentioned him. It was like he didn't exist. Her mother, my grandmother . . . who knows what happened to her. Even Father doesn't know." He shrugged once again. "Sort'a makes me wonder what she did." He smiled bleakly, never turning toward Bailey. A helpless puff of a laugh escaped his lips. "We need Corey here, don't we? He'd be able to find something funny, or outrageous, in this. It sure would be nice to have something to laugh at." There was a brief pause. "I'm glad Corey found Jonah. For a while, there, I was worrying about him. Still . . . you can tell, just by listenin' to him, that Jonah loves Owen, y'know? I wonder if Corey's heart is big enough to accept that, 'cause I'm thinking Jonah really does love Corey, too . . . in a different way from what he feels about his brother." Bailey shot his passenger a penetrating look, but said nothing. "Y'know, I have to say that I was about as much a son to Mother as she was a mother to me. Maybe if I'd shown her some love, she would have returned it." Riley lapsed into silence, then quietly added. "I doubt it. A person has to have love in 'em before they can show it to someone else. "You're like that, Bailey . . . y'know?" "Oh?" "You're so full of love, you're almost overflowing. You've never thought anyone would want you to love 'em, just like you never thought anyone would want to love you." He tightened his fingers in Bailey's. "You're wrong." He brought Bailey's hand to his mouth for a tender kiss. "I'm so lucky." They drove the remainder of the way home in silence, each lost in his own thoughts. Bailey swiped the water from his eyes with the back of his hand, then sniffed, as he parked in his assigned space in the underground garage. He turned to Riley, who continued to stare ahead in a dry-eyed daze, still leaning against the vehicle's passenger window. "Do you want to go right in, or shall I go first and make sure no one bothers us?" In the same monotone voice, Riley answered. "There's no need for that. I'm just . . . stunned, or something. I can't figure out what I'm feeling, but I don't think I'm gonna break down and weep." He paused, with the passenger door half-open, and turned to Bailey, who was watching him. "That may be my problem. I'm not moved by this enough to weep." He stood, and closed the car door. "I just don't . . . care, and I'm feelin' bad, 'cause I don't." When Bailey rounded the car and joined him, Riley reached out and brought him close, resting his head on Bailey's shoulder. He spoke in a choked voice. "Now . . . if something like this happened to you, the situation would be quite different. I'd be bawling like a baby. In fact, I get choked up just thinking about it." He turned to the man standing close by. "Don't leave me, Bailey. Not ever. From the day I met you, I knew you were important to me. It wasn't until our trip to meet the guys, in Riverton, and now . . . today . . . that I realized how much you mean to me. You've never ridiculed me, or shouted at me. You listen. You're sweet, and gentle. You care about me . . . ME! Not because I can do something for you, or 'cause I have money, but just because I'm Riley . . . nothing more." He embraced Bailey, squeezing tightly, then backed away, and did his best to grin. "As someone we know and love would say . . . truly." Bailey gulped a breath and swiped at his eyes. "Sorry for the watery eyes," he murmured, feeling his cheeks flush. "This thing about having someone actually think that I'm a person worth knowing is still pretty new to me. Sometimes, it's a little overwhelming." He straightened his shoulders and hefted his bag, while Riley did the same. They'd no sooner stepped out of the garage elevator, opening onto the building's spacious lobby, than Mister Witherspoon, the building's concierge and go-to person, for anyone who wanted to know anything about one of the tenants, hustled in their direction. "Ahh, sirs!" He smiled, holding his arms wide. The words, "welcome back," faded into a whisper, as he saw Riley's wooden expression, and Bailey's blotchy face. "Mister Wilkins?" he asked, his eyes flicking from one man to the other. "You and Mister Pruitt are obviously troubled by something. May I be of assistance, in any way?" "Mister Witherspoon," Bailey managed to say. "We're going through a bit of a difficult time, at the moment. We'd like nothing better than to hide away in my apartment for a few days." "Of . . . course, sir. If there's anything I can do, though, please ask." The older man's eyes shifted to Riley, who cleared his throat. "Sir . . . Bailey is doing his best to spare my feelings, but rather than being mysterious, you need to know that my mother . . .," his voice caught. He cleared his throat and stepped closer to Bailey, who put his arm around Riley's waist. "His mother, older brother, his sister, and his brother's wife, all perished in an airplane accident in Berlin," Bailey took over. "Riley, his father, and younger brother are all the family remaining. We've only just learned, ourselves, so we're both having a little difficulty in dealing with everything." Mister Witherspoon's hand covered his mouth, in surprise. "Oh . . . dear. I . . . of course, I have been following the story on the news channels, but . . . I am so sorry to hear of your loss, Mister Pruitt. Please accept my condolences." He briefly shook Riley's hand, then turned toward one of his co-workers, who, at a hand signal, hustled over. After a brief conversation, the worker nodded once and turned away. "I've just told my associate that I'm escorting you to your floor . . . to prevent anyone from bothering either of you along the way," the older man said, as he gathered both Bailey and Riley with an extended arm, and guided them to the bank of elevators leading to the apartments. He slipped a key into the elevator's control panel, and the three men ascended in silence. When the doors silently opened, at Bailey's floor, the concierge finally spoke. "If either of you need anything, do not hesitate to let me know. I'm serious, Mister Wilkins, Mister Pruitt. You both tend to your hurts, and let us . . . your friends . . . run your errands, or whatever. Now . . . I'll leave you alone." He jerked a single nod, then allowed the elevator doors to slide shut, leaving Riley and Bailey in the plush lobby of the floor with Bailey's apartment. "A good man," Riley murmured, as they turned toward the apartment. "I shouldn't have teased him so much in the past." Riley stopped half-way into the apartment, his eyes wide. "Nathan! I have to pick up my brother!" He wiped his hands over his face. "Geez, he doesn't know, and I'm in no shape . . ." "Relax," Bailey murmured, as they entered the apartment. "I'll pick him up." Riley seemed to deflate. "Thanks, Gen'rl. I'm so tuckered out it's gonna take everything I've got, to climb those stairs and get into bed." * * * 'I'm a mess!' Jonah thought, as he stared at the ceiling of the darkened apartment, thinking of the two men who slept, one on either side of him. On his left, his brother, the man he'd loved since his earliest recollection, lay softly snoring, the full length of his naked body pressed close, in the over-full bed. On his right, was Corey, teasing Jonah's skin with each breath he took. 'How can he be so accepting, about me bein' in bed with Owen n'Sam?' He thought for a moment. 'What's going on . . . with me? When I was with Sam, I wasn't happy, 'cause he wasn't Owen. Now, I'm with Corey, and I'm happier than I've ever been, yet . . . he isn't Owen. When I'm with Owen, it's like . . . I don't know . . . the world is . . . perfect. Yet, Owen isn't Corey, the man I love, and who loves me, and who tells me he understands my need to be with my brother.' Jonah sighed. 'What did I do to deserve to be surrounded by such wonderful men? And . . . how will I ever be able to keep from hurting someone, including me?' He closed his eyes and bit a lip, as a thought occurred to him. 'Could it be that I'll never be happy with anyone other than Owen? Do I want to turn back the clock to a time when none of these other men were in our life? Is that the problem? Do I want Owen for myself, like when we were kids? 'What's gonna happen next? Will the first guy who comes along catch my eye, and I'll want him, too? Am I a slut? Should I never have gotten into a relationship with Corey? Will my feelings ruin Owen's relationship with Sam and Lucas, or . . . my own? Surely, Corey's understanding can only go so far. What would I do if I was in Corey's place? 'The trouble is, I'm horny . . . constantly, but that doesn't make me a slut . . . does it? I want to have sex with lots of guys . . . not all at the same time . . . necessarily.' The twitch of his penis gave lie to the statement. At his side, Corey shifted position. "No worries, lover," he murmured, close to Jonah's ear. "Rest easy. Owen and I are with you." * * * Nathan Pruitt ground his teeth together in frustration and anger. 'It'd be just like Mother to plan a crime, then leave the scene. It's possible for her to have prepared for Riley n'me to meet our maker while she's in Germany. All she would have had to do was call . . . whomever she had hired to . . . do it.' Nathan gulped a swallow. 'She'd have the perfect alibi.' He shook his head. "It doesn't make sense, though. We were supposed to be with her. Does Dad know something he's not telling me, since he hustled me out of town so quickly?' The plane shook, breaking him out of his contemplation. In the distance, the clouds flickered with lightning, while, nearby, the person who was snoring was momentarily awakened. The man sputtered, muttered something, then slipped back into sleep. 'And here I am, on a plane headed to someplace I've never been, with the expectation that Riley and I will be safe 'cause Mother doesn't know where he lives. How could she? Dad doesn't even know. He told me he and Riley have had some sort of understanding, ever since Riley left for college. Well, now I know where he lives . . . at least in which city.' He sighed. 'And all this makes me wonder, though, what Riley knows about Mother that would cause him to go into hiding . . . four years ago . . . with Dad's blessing, no less! This whole thing is just too weird. Besides . . . if they both knew about something awful enough for Riley to go into hiding, four years ago, why didn't anyone warn me?' Nathan rubbed his eyes. 'Funny thing. Running away from Atlanta doesn't make me feel any more safe than if I were standing at Dad's side. At least there, I might be of some use. How're things gonna be any better with me hanging around Riley?' He softly snorted. 'Will I really be safer than if I'd stayed in Atlanta?' He thought a moment, contemplating everything which had happened since he'd created a scene in the foyer of the family home, resulting in his mother storming off, to meet her fate, taking Kirby, Lisa, and Wanda with her. 'So . . . here I'll be with Riley, hiding out. I seriously doubt hanging around him will increase either my safety, or the chances of me meeting the person of my dreams.' He yawned. 'How could it, when even I don't have a clue what that person might be like?' * * * Riley crossed the living room, in silence, and flopped onto one of the sofas, slouching down and stretching his legs out in front of himself. Close by, a wall of two-story windows looked out onto the nearby tall buildings. 'There's a story behind each of those bright lights,' he mused. 'Folks are laughing behind some of 'em, while behind others, they're crying, or making love. All of those folks are feeling something. Me? I'm feeling . . . nothing.' "I'm sorry for being such a pain in the ass," he grinned crookedly, as Bailey lowered the lights, then rested an arm on his shoulders, snuggling close. "I really don't know why I'm reacting this way," Riley explained. He tiredly rubbed his hands over his face, and leaned into Bailey's warmth. "I guess I'm feeling guilty, as if I should have been on that plane, too," he murmured, in a haunted voice. He leaned back and stared at the ceiling. "Geez, y'know . . . I would have been," he said, in sudden realization. "If Mother had had her way, I'd be nothing more than another statistic . . . as would Father and Nathan. The whole family . . . wiped out . . . just like that." Bailey snuggled closer. "Well . . . I may be behaving selfishly, but I am glad you were not on that plane. I'm sorry some of your family was, but I'm pleased that you were not." "That's the problem, Gen'rl," Riley sighed, resting his head on Bailey's shoulder. "I am bothered because I am not sorry that they were on that particular plane. Oh, I'm feelin' bad, because of all those other folks, but not for Mother n'all." He turned to look at Bailey. "It's like . . . my life just got so much more simple. I'm not having to wonder when she'll show up. I'm not going to have to continue hiding out, always thinking that she's watching me. That's awful, isn't it . . . feelin' the way I do?" Riley heaved himself to his feet. "I need to lie down," he mumbled. "Is that okay? All that traveling . . . now this. I'm worn out." Bailey followed up the stairway and into the bedroom overlooking the living room. When Riley appeared ready to climb into bed fully clothed, Bailey touched his shoulder. "You'll rest better if you're not wearing so many clothes." A ghost of a grin flitted across Riley's face, momentarily returning him to the laughing man Bailey knew so well. "You just wanna get me nekkid, so you can have your way with me. I know you," he said. Then, as he slid his jeans and underwear down his legs, his smile faded. "Thanks, Bailey," he murmured, as he climbed onto the bed and curled up beneath the sheets. Suddenly, his eyes opened, and he twisted into a sitting position, tugging at the sheets. "Nathan! I've gotta go get Nathan!" "Shhhh," Bailey murmured, as he sat on the edge of the bed. "We've already settled that. I'm going to the airport. You can stay here and get some rest," he said, as he brushed the hair away from Riley's forehead. "You'll be okay, with me gone for a bit? "Oh . . . yeah, I'll be okay. You drive carefully, y'hear? No bat-out-of-hell, speed demon stuff." Bailey's lips twisted into a crooked grin. "I thought I was the one to give orders. After all, I'm the general." "Yeah, my general," Riley said, tenderly touching his lover's cheek. "C'mon," Bailey urged, as Riley reluctantly lay back down. "I've got to tend to a couple things, then we can cuddle." Riley smiled, as he closed his eyes. "Love you," he murmured, then, between one breath and the next, was asleep. When Bailey was halfway down the stairs, the doorbell rang. 'Damn, no one's supposed to be able to get past those folks in the lobby,' he grumbled. He rushed to the door, hoping he got there before they rang the bell a second time. He flung the door open, not knowing whom to expect. It was Mister Witherspoon, the concierge, bearing a huge bouquet. "Compliments of the staff," he said, stepping past an astonished Bailey, to place the arrangement on a nearby table. "Wish Mister Pruitt the best, from all of us." A second person bustled in, loaded down with bags of food. Bailey watched as the stout woman stood in front of the refrigerator with her hands on her hips, and shook her head. "What do you boys eat?" she asked, turning to him, wearing a look of dismay. "Your refrigerator is empty!" "Alice," Mister Witherspoon chided. "They've just returned from vacation. Besides, we're not here to discuss the state of Mister Wilkins' refrigerator." The woman waved her hand, airily dismissing his comment, one of the few people Bailey had ever seen behave in such a manner, with the imposing gentleman. "Well . . . at least there's plenty of room for all this," she added, as she filled the fridge with containers, each carefully labeled. "Make sure both you and Mister Pruitt eat," she said, looking over her shoulder as she transferred items from the bags to the refrigerator. "This stuff is already prepared, so all you need do is pop it in the microwave and you'll have some good meals." She pushed the refrigerator door closed, with her hip, and gave him a motherly hug. "If you or Mister Pruitt, need anything, anything whatsoever, please give us a call. There's no need for you to go out on any errand. We'll do it for you. Take care of him for us, will you?" she asked. "I've grown accustomed to his smiling face, and hate to think of the pain he must be in." She kissed Bailey's cheek, then followed Mister Witherspoon into the corridor and closed the door. 'These are the same people who used to barely tolerate me,' Bailey thought, in wonder. As always, when he saw people reacting to him in new ways, he silently thanked Owen. Bailey bowed his head. 'His father needs to know how Riley's holding up. I'm sure Nathan will call him when he gets in, but that's not for a couple hours yet. I'm sure Mister Pruitt will be worried if he doesn't hear something.' Bailey quietly walked into the bedroom and removed Riley's cellphone from the nightstand. When he'd returned to the living room, he swiped a finger across the glass surface, activating the screen, pleased to see there had been no more text messages. He scrolled through the phone's address book, then dialed the number listed as Franklin Pruitt's private number. "Hello, Mister Pruitt?" he asked. "This is Bailey Wilkins, George Wilkins' son, and Riley's friend." He paused a moment, his eyes widening at the alarmed voice and flood of questions. "No, no, nothing's happened! Riley's fine . . . well, he's as okay as can be expected. That's what I'm calling for . . . to let you know how he's holding up. Right now, he's upstairs, lying down. He's in shock, I think, but I wanted to let you know that he's in good hands, both mine, and the folks in my building. They've been very kind, delivering ready-made meals for us, along with their good wishes, and a huge bouquet of flowers. Riley's pretty popular with everyone here." Bailey paused, wondering if he should express his concerns. "I understand his brother is on his way, and I was wondering if you'd be able to break the news to him? Riley's in no shape to do that. I will, if necessary, but I think your son'd rather hear the news from you than from a stranger. I will, though, be at the airport to pick him up. Don't worry about either of your sons, Mister Pruitt. You deal with whatever you're facing on that end. Let me take care of Riley and Nathan?" * * * "You must see reason, Mister Pruitt," Gustav Winton whined. "Agents from the FBI are here . . . in my office! They've . . . they've taken over! If you'd only come to us before bringing a bunch of strangers onboard, we could have assuaged any of your concerns. We've worked very closely with your wife, for many years. I cannot understand who might have suggested that we've been anything but honorable in any of the decisions Mrs. Pruitt had instructed us to make." "So, you're telling me that anything you've done is my wife's fault?" "No! I did not say fault. We are employed by you and her, and she, as your agent, gave us instructions on how she wanted things done. We followed her instructions, and advised her about the legal ramifications of each of her decisions." "So you are blameless?" "Blameless?" Gustav Winton's voice rose. "Of course! Of what have we been accused? I simply do not understand why this new group of so-called attorneys has seen fit to involve the Federal Bureau of Investigation in what is merely an internal affair, between our office and yours." "My new attorneys did not involve the FBI, Mister Winton," Franklin responded, in an icy tone. "The private investigator, who has been looking into things, is the person who . . ." "What?! Investigator?" "Indeed. He is the one responsible for their involvement." "But . . . but . . . you can't replace us. Many things are at a sensitive situation. We . . . I . . . won't allow it. Elizabeth won't allow it! As soon as she lands in Germany, I'll notify her of what you've done, and she'll take charge. She is the person we deal with. She is the person who makes the decisions for Pruitt Builders. It has always been so. You are a figurehead, nothing more. You must see reason." "You fail to grasp the situation, Gustav," Franklin Pruitt chuckled, using the man's first name. "I am not a figurehead. I have taken over, and am making all the decisions regarding Pruitt Builders. One of those decisions, made months ago, for your information, was to replace you, your accounting firm, and everyone in your law firm. There is no need to get my wife's approval, or to wait until she returns from Germany to get her input. There is no need for me to be reasonable, or to think things over. What's done is done, and there is nothing you or my EX-wife can do to change it. "I have irresponsibly allowed you and Elizabeth to handle things, when I should have been the only person you dealt with. Well, that has ended. I have every reason to believe that you and Elizabeth have been working for yourselves, not for Pruitt Builders. Now that the FBI has seen fit to become involved, my suspicions have been confirmed. If you were indeed blameless, there would be no reason for them to show any interest in your firm. "Oh, and one other thing, since you continue to prattle on about, 'seeing what Elizabeth will say about this.' Apparently you are not aware that my wife, my oldest son, his wife, and my daughter have all perished in an airplane accident. You may have seen it on the news stations. So, you see, Elizabeth will not be storming into my office demanding that I do things as she and . . . you . . . wish. And . . . she will not be coming to your rescue." "Well, if she's dead, you must be responsible for her demise," Gustav Winton huffed. "What sort of person are you, to arrange your own wife's death? All this imagined authority has gone to your head. As Elizabeth has always said, you have absolutely no business sense. You're nothing but a pretty face, with fog for brains. And . . . how dare you instruct these . . . strangers to ransack my office!" the attorney concluded. "They are nothing but vandals, wearing badges!" Gustav Winton sputtered a few more curses, then slammed the telephone receiver onto the phone. "Elizabeth . . . dead," he murmured. Gustav Winton spun around as Bryant Mitchell, his second-in-command, spoke. "Mrs. Pruitt's dead? What are we going to do about . . . ," he hesitated, "the boys?" "I couldn't care a flying fuck about . . . the boys, and neither should you. That plan has gone out the window. We should be more concerned with saving our own skins." "Then, that means . . ." Gustav Winton nodded. "We're on our own." * * * "Mister Bailey Wilkins," the voice on the airport's public address system interrupted the bland music. "Mister Bailey Wilkins. Please proceed to the airport information center to meet your party." The announcement repeated. After following instructions, taking a wrong turn, then backtracking, and finally locating someone who actually knew where the information center was located, Bailey identified himself to one of the people behind the desk. He was escorted to a room, whose sign on the door, labeled it as an employee lounge. "Your young friend is inside, sir," the airport security man said, then knocked once, and held the door open for Bailey to enter. A person, looking very much like a younger version of Riley, turned. The clothes set off his lean good looks; pale skin, dark brows, short dark brown hair, held stiff with gel. His eyes, an electric brown that seemed to assess Bailey in one quick glance, catching every detail. "Nathan?" Bailey asked. "Yes?" "My name is Bailey Wilkins, your brother and I are good friends. He's not doing too well right now, so I'm here to meet you." Nathan smiled, and spoke in a mellow voice, made even more captivating by his accent. "It's a pleasure, Bailey. Riley has spoken of you. And, you and he are much more than . . . friends." He grasped Bailey's hand in a firm handshake. "Please, don't look so worried," Nathan continued. "I have already been given the news. The moment I turned my phone on, after leaving the airplane, Father was calling. He told me what has happened." Nathan's smile faltered. "He also told me you would be picking me up. "I hate flying." He looked up, wearing a trace of a grin. "If humans had been meant to fly, we would'a been given aluminum skin." He waved aside any need for comment. "Sorry, I'm guessin' this whole thing is going to take a while to . . . to sink in." He raised a long-fingered hand to brush through his dark hair, hesitated, when he realized how stiff the hair was, then rubbed his forehead instead. "How's Riley?" he asked, speaking around a suddenly tight throat. "He's in shock," Bailey answered. "He doesn't seem to have any idea what he actually feels. We got in a few hours ago. He talked for a while, then went to bed. That's where I left him." Nathan nodded, as if his expectations had been confirmed. "That's like him. Mother hated him, you know?" he said, offhandedly. Bailey hesitated. "No . . . I didn't know. I was aware they were not fond of one another but . . . hate? He never said . . . he . . . he's a pretty private person. He never speaks much about anyone in the family, other than you and your father." "She hated me, too," Nathan added, as a matter-of-fact. "Both Riley and I are rebels. In other words, Mother was never able to force either of us to do precisely as she . . . ordered. She hated anything or anyone she could not control. I'm not talking about intense dislike. I'm talking about hate. That's what she felt for the both of us. I do believe that she would have been very . . . very . . . happy, if one, or better yet, both of us were dead." He snorted a laugh. "Now . . . it's her who's dead, and Riley and me who are living. Dad, too, of course. She got what she wanted from him . . . money, status, a place in society, so, he was useful to her. Riley n'me . . ." Nathan shook his head, making a throw away gesture with a hand. He turned his back and paced to the far side of the small room. "Damn it, Bailey!" he cried, slamming a fist at the wall. "She hated Riley. She hated me, and we never did anything to justify it! She, on the other hand, would have been easy to hate, but, neither Riley nor I did. She was driving me to it, but," he bowed his head, lowering his voice, "I didn't hate her. She was a product of her upbringing, just as I am of mine. She, on the other hand, had an overinflated view of her place in the world. I'd like to think that neither Riley nor I have the same affliction." He grinned, crookedly. "If either of us show those symptoms, you are free to slap us up side of the head." He turned back and swung at the wall, hitting it a second time, with a resounding thud. "I hate this!" he shouted. He would have hit the wall again, if Bailey hadn't hurried across the room and grabbed his arm before the next strike. "Easy, easy," Bailey said, trying to be soothing. "Tearing down airport walls, singlehandedly, is not going to hurt the airport, and will only make a mess of your hand." He was surprised when Nathan turned, embraced him, and began crying on his shoulder. A few minutes later, when the crying had lessened, Nathan backed away, swiping at his eyes. "Why is it," he asked, after a sniff, "that, whenever one person is trying to comfort someone by hugging them, they always pat the person on the back?" He choked back a laugh. "I've always wondered about that." He squeezed Bailey's arm in silent thanks, then backed away. "Did Riley cry . . . any?" he murmured, wiping his eyes on a handkerchief, then blowing his nose. "I'd bet not." "You know him well." Both men turned as someone diffidently knocked on the door. A security man stepped into the room, and handed each of them a steaming cup of coffee. "Hope this bucks you boys up," he smiled. "You take as long as you want, and if you need something, just ask for Sal, that's me. I'll help out. My condolences, son," he murmured, catching Nathan's eye. He nodded once at Bailey, then silently closed the door as he left the room. "He needs to, you know," Nathan said, almost conversationally, as he sipped from the cup, resuming the conversation, "cry, I mean. Mother hated him liking guys. Trust me Bailey, you would never have wanted to be introduced to her. She would have done her best to take you apart." "Such an introduction might have been amusing. She would have found that I am not easily . . . disassembled," Bailey chuckled. "She would have hated that, too, and probably would have told you exactly what she thought of you for thwarting her efforts." "Perhaps," Bailey grinned. "However, I have, on occasions too numerous to count, been told by almost everyone, how disappointing I am. She would not have been able to come up with any original ideas to belittle me, I assure you." Nathan bowed his head. "We don't have to worry about her little antics now, do we?" "No," Bailey agreed. "Though it might have been fun to see who would have won." His mischievous grin brought a bark of laughter from the younger man. "I believe I'm going to like you, Bailey," Nathan said, a sparkle returning to his eyes. "I would like that," Bailey responded. "I must warn you, though," he added, in an offhand manner, as he collected Nathan's empty coffee cup and disposed of it, along with his own, in the room's trash container. "No matter how much you might like me, I am already taken. Your brother got to me first." "Uuuuu," Nathan laughed. "Now . . . I know I'm gonna like you!" His smile faltered. "Thank you for takin' care of Riley, and for holding me when I needed to be held. I can see why Riley cares for you. It's easy to tell you're a special person." As Bailey followed Riley's brother out of the room, he silently thought to himself. 'Thank you, Owen.' * * * Owen wildly thrashed and called out, his voice sounding as if it had been ripped directly from his soul. He shouted again, an incoherent sound of terror, as he tried to escape from the tangled sheets and the three men with whom he was sharing the bed. He twisted free of Sam's grasp, then wildly yelled as Jonah grabbed him. "Yeow!" Jonah howled, as he and his brother slid off the foot of the bed, still entangled in the bed sheets, only to land on the floor, one on top of the other, with a dull thud. "Huh?" Owen groaned, as he shook his head, breathing hard. "Why are we on the floor?" he asked, looking up to Corey and Sam, who were kneeling at the foot of the bed, looking down at him and Jonah. Owen silently bowed his head. "I've done it again, haven't I?" "Again?" Corey asked, wide-eyed, and speaking for the first time. He flopped backward, and glanced at Sam, who was wearing a grim expression. "What's he mean, again? Is this a regular occurrence?" "Geez, I hope not," Jonah mumbled, as he freed himself from the tangle of fabric, and accepted his brother's helping hand, to stand. "I had a nightmare," Owen murmured, climbing back onto the bed and sitting between Sam's outstretched legs. He tilted his head back and sighed, welcoming the soothing massage of his tight shoulder muscles. "Must'a been some nightmare," Jonah mumbled, as he followed his brother onto the bed and sat cross-legged in front of Owen, reaching for his brother's hands. "What were you dreaming about?" Corey asked, sitting close to Jonah. "I don't remember. I never can remember anything about the dreams. They just . . . happen, then pfft, they're gone, and I've ruined everyone's night." "You didn't have nightmares when you were living at home," Jonah said, releasing his brother's hands to begin tenderly running his hands up and down his brother's legs. "Yeah, well," Owen shrugged. "I have 'em now. If I had some idea what they were about, I might be able to figure them out, but I don't, so I can't." "D'you think you need to talk to someone . . . a professional?" Corey suggested. "You're always helping everyone else. Who helps Owen?" Owen raked his fingers through his tousled hair. "Geez, Corey, I don't know. I don't want my entire life taken apart and have to relive it all, just so a . . . professional . . . can try and figure out what's bothering me. I already know what that is . . . Pops." "How he treated you?" Corey asked. Owen shook his head. "No . . . not how he treated me then, but how he's treating me today. How I'm allowing him to treat me, every waking moment." Owen spoke in a voice rough with emotion. "He's with me, guys . . . It's like he's right in front of me." "Hey!" Jonah said, in mock outrage, from where he sat, in front of his brother. "How many times did Pops sit in front of you, naked, feeling-up your legs?" Owen looked up and grinned. "Not you . . . him. He's always nearby, breathing down my back, lookin' over my shoulder, tryin' to influence what I do, how I behave." Owen's voice had become hypnotic, as he stared, unseeing across the room. Sam caught Jonah's alarmed expression, as well as Corey's. 'This is new to both of 'em,' he thought. 'Until tonight, this is a side of Owen only Lucas and I have seen. Now . . .' He shook his head, as he continued to knead the muscles of Owen's shoulders. "Right now, he's calling me a weakling, to go crying to my friends. 'You never could do anything on your own. Good for nothing. That's you.' I can feel his breath on my neck, and smell him, like after he spent a hot day in the fields. I can feel his calloused hands wrap around my wrist and jerk me to my feet . . ." "OWEN!" Jonah barked. "Stop it! NOW! Pops is not here! He is not breathing down your back!" Owen, blinked, calling himself back from wherever he'd been heading. He took a stuttering breath and visibly willed himself to relax. Sam spoke in a soft voice. "Did something happen today to bring this on? It's worse than usual." Owen bowed his head. "Yeah, sort'a." When the moment of expectant silence stretched, Sam finally asked, "Tell us." "Maxine." "Well, shit," Corey hissed, punching a pillow. Owen patted Corey on the leg. "It's okay." Corey stiffened. "It is not okay! And don't tell me to not get my drawers in a wad! I am pissed! That woman . . ." He shuddered, shaking his head. "I mean, we all know she's got an axe t'grind. But, none of us had anything to do with her bein' the way she is." He leaned toward Jonah, and spoke conspiratorily. "Y'know, when she was born, the doctor took one look at her, then slapped her mama." He nodded, knowingly, ignoring his lover's expression of long-suffering endurance. "Y'know how you were talkin' about me needing to see a professional . . . someone I could feel comfortable with, and talk to?" Owen continued, as if he'd not heard Corey's attempt to lighten the mood. "You added a few things to what I suggested, but yeah . . . ," Corey said. "I remember. It was only a few minutes ago." "Well, I had the best professional around help me out today. Guys, Nicky came into the library, and basically chased Maxine off by askin' if she wanted to hang around and listen to him read. There's more to that boy than he or his folks know. He held my hand, and got me to talk about Pops. Because it was him, and he never knew Pops, I somehow felt free to talk. I . . . I felt . . . safe, sort'a, and 'cause of that, I was able to talk." Owen softly snorted, and shook his head. "What is he . . . five . . . six? "Guys, I told him about things I've never told anyone else. I didn't tell him what Pops actually did to me. I just talked about how I feel . . . today, thinkin' about what I lived through. And, you know what? He understood! He didn't judge me, or try to give me advice, or tell me things would be okay, or anything else. When I wound down, he'd ask a couple questions, and got me talkin' again, never lettin' go of my hand. "Then, when his father showed up, Nicky, pretty-as-you-please, tells his father the reason I'm all teary-eyed, is 'cause I was thinkin' about Pops, and then . . . you know what he said?" Sam shook his head. "He hugged me and told me that sometimes . . . even big boys need to cry," Owen managed to say, around a tightening throat. "Smart boy," Sam murmured, stepping in when it appeared Owen was too choked up to continue. "Now, are you gonna listen to him? I mean, are you gonna think about the things he told you, and try to do something about this ghost you're carrying around?" "It's not only Owen, who has Pops' ghost hanging around, talkin' t'him," Jonah murmured, drawing Corey's wide-eyed attention. "All us kids do; it's just that none of us suffered as much as Owen. He . . . deflected . . . Pops' attention from us. I mean . . . once Pops was finished with Owen, he didn't have enough energy for me, or Abigail, or Opie. As far as I know, he never hit them, but I'd be willing to bet they still feel his presence, whether they talk about it or not." "There are other kinds of abuse than being hit," Corey murmured, linking fingers with Jonah. "Yeah, and, Owen suffered through all of 'em, both when Pops was living, and even today, when he's dead-and-gone." "What did you tell Nicky, Owen?" Sam asked. "About what's going on . . . what you're feeling?" "I told him that Pops is still beating me . . . up here," Owen said, pointing to his forehead. "I told him that the hurt I felt at the time he beat me, was nothing compared to the hurt I feel today. "Y'know . . ." Owen said, then paused. "Nicky asked if Pops had ever told me he was sorry." Jonah's fingers, which had been massaging Owen's legs, stilled. "I told him, that yeah, he tried t'say he was sorry, just before he died." "And?" Sam prompted. Owen sniffed, and spoke in an emotion-laden voice. "Nicky asked why I didn't . . . believe him." Owen pulled free of the three men and scooted to the edge of the bed, then stood and began to pace. "Guys, I don't know why I'm not forgiving him! I've tried. I really have, yet I still have these nightmares, where he's laughing at me, telling me that . . . someday . . . I'm gonna be just like him." He held up a hand, asking that the guys not interrupt. All three settled back, with varying degrees of reluctance. "Pops wasn't always a bad guy. If he had been, Mama wouldn't have married him. Something . . . triggered . . . whatever happened t'him. What if the same thing happens to me, and I end up just like him? What if it's already hiding in me? In here?" he asked, placing a hand on his head. "Today, when Maxine was telling me what she thought of me n'all, I knew I could be just like Pops. It would have been easy. I could have broken Maxine, like a stick. I'm a strong guy. Pops wasn't that big, and look at the damage he caused! But, because I'm strong, I feel even more responsibility to watch what I do. I was afraid if I said, or did, anything, I wouldn't be able to stop, and I'd take out all my anger on her. I mean all of it . . . even for things she had no part in. I'd use all my strength, and ol' Maxine would suffer 'cause of what I did. "Guys . . . I could have hurt her bad. For a few seconds, I wanted to. Pops was cheerin' me on, yellin' at me to, 'kill the bitch. That's what I'd do,'" he said. "When I heard that, I sort'a gave up. I did nothing, and, by doin' nothing, I gave ol' Maxine a victory, which will only encourage her to try out the same stuff on one of you guys, or someone else. I don't know what she'll do next, or who she'll attack, but she's one of those people who lives to cause other folks trouble." "The ol' woman has an insecurity complex," Corey mumbled, "And not a very good one. On top of that, she's a bully." He ignored Jonah's snort. "I hope I'm around on the day she gets her just rewards, straight to hell . . . fire n'brimstone, n'all that stuff." * * * "Baby!" Daniel shouted, as he held his wife at arms' length. "You're having a baby?" Bea held up two fingers. "Twins. I didn't want to say anything until I was sure. I didn't want you to get your hopes up." "TWO?! At once?" "No, silly. One right after the other." Bea could barely control her amusement. "Didn't they teach you anything in Medical School?" Daniel flopped back onto the sofa, staring off into the distance. "I'm gonna be a father. Twins?"he asked, just to make sure he hadn't misunderstood. Bea nodded. "A boy and a girl. You can change the diapers. I hate diapers."
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