Chapter 3

Angelo didn't intend on crashing dinner at the Jaynestown house that night. In fact, he made it a priority not to drop in unannounced on Russell, since Russell was a legal tenant with a lease, and as his landlord, Angelo wanted to respect his privacy. Mostly. As Russell's best friend, sometimes Angelo let the landlord label go and just did what felt right.

In that moment, he wanted to talk to Russell, and he didn't care who else was home.

Okay, so he did kind of care, since he needed to speak to Bryan about the little white lie he'd begun telling at Darrow's office that afternoon. Explain and hope he didn't get sucker-punched by Bryan again. This time, though, he'd deserve it because he'd created this lie while stone-cold sober, instead of making a pass at Russell while upset and drunk.

Tonight, he was definitely upset, but he arrived with the bottle of Maker's Mark in a paper bag, instead of half the bourbon already in his stomach, and it was mostly a gesture anyway. The fridge was already full of the six-packs Angelo was notorious for bringing and leaving, and Russell wasn't much for getting drunk on a school night now that he was practically a step-parent to young Robbie the Frog.

He was a little surprised to only see Russell's car in the home's circular driveway. It was almost six, and school let out at, like, three o'clock, didn't it? Unless Patrick had a tutoring student tonight. Angelo didn't keep track of the guy's schedule; that was Russell's job. Angelo tucked the paper bag under one arm, grabbed the box of personal effects Darrow had given him, and he hauled both things up onto the wide front porch. Since his hands were full, Angelo used his elbow to ring the bell.

Russell pulled open the front door, his bushy red eyebrows dipping, then rising in surprise. A barrel of a man with thick auburn hair and big hands he put to use making art, Russell still looked every bit the former college football player he was—and he'd never been good at hiding his tells, not from his teammates or his friends.

"What's wrong?" Russell asked. "You look like you just ripped up old carpet and found more old carpet underneath."

While Angelo had encountered that particular nightmare a few times over the years, he didn't have the mental energy to praise his best friend's assessment skills. "Joe died last night. I found out this afternoon."

"Holy crap." Russell tugged him forward by the elbow, eased both box and bag out of his grasp, and then tucked Angelo into a warm, familiar hug. "I'm so sorry, friend. I mean it."

"Thanks." He stood there for a minute, soaking in the comfort and genuine affection. He and Russell had met in college and been friends for more than twenty years. They'd witnessed each other's high-highs (mostly Angelo's) and their low-lows (mostly Russell's), and they always managed to get through things with patience and love. Angelo would be lost in life without Russell, whose heart he now shared with Patrick and Frog.

Angelo pulled back first and didn't object when Russell kept a loose hold on his left hand. "How did it happen?" Russell asked.

"They say it was a major heart attack. His lawyer insisted on an official autopsy to be sure but that's the story."

"Do you think it's true?"

"Probably. Considering the stress he was under as a non-violent offender in a max-security prison, and the amount of coke he used to snort before he was arrested? A weak heart wouldn't surprise me at all." Joe's coke use was a well-known, but unspoken secret among his closest friends. Angelo had done a few lines once, and he never cared to repeat the experience of spending five hours positive his heart was going to explode right out of his chest and cover his newest renovation in bloody gore.

"Weak heart or not, it's still a kick in the nuts to hear about."

"Yeah. My head's been spinning for hours, ever since his lawyer called me. And Joe's death isn't even the craziest part."

Russell eyeballed the box and bag he'd put down. "That why you brought booze?"

"Yep. Care to share?"

"I haven't even had dinner yet."

"Why not? Where's your other half, anyway?"

"Should be home any minute. He went to pick up Bryan at the DMV, and then they stopped by Byler's to order a birthday cake for Frog."

"Let me guess. Frog-shaped cake?"

"It's kind of an obvious guess. You wanna stick around for dinner? We're doing a fridge clean-out, so it's kind of a pick-your-poison meal."

"Maybe. Let's see what my options are." Angelo kept his tone light, despite his stomach still being a bit tight and upset after his earlier bout of vomiting. He really should eat before he busted out the bourbon, or he'd end up a grumpy, sloppy drunk prone to bad decisions. No sense in teaching little Frog bad habits so young. Uncle Angelo would wait until the kid was at least twelve before he started corrupting him—assuming Patrick and Russell were still together in four years.

He hoped they were. For as jealous as he got sometimes, Angelo was also thrilled to see Russell so happy and settled. Two things Angelo wanted for himself more and more, and now he had to find it if he ever hoped to get access to Joe's mysterious, off-shore account.

Ever the gracious host, Russell picked up the box and led the way into the best kitchen Angelo had ever designed (if he did say so himself). It was an entertainer's kitchen, with a wide marble-top island, plenty of cabinet space, a huge pantry, and large windows that looked out over the backyard patio.

Russell deposited the box and bagged bottle on the breakfast nook table, then turned and headed for the cabinets. "You want the bourbon now or can I get you sweet tea?"

"I'll start with a tea, thanks."

"Good choice."

"So where's the ankle biter?"

"Upstairs doing his homework. Book report."

"Poor kid." Angelo had loved books when he was a young child, but the jarring transition from growing up reading and speaking Italian, to having to learn English very fast, had ruined that love before he hit middle school. But he'd worked his ass off through high school and earned his college scholarships.

"Don't feel too sorry for him. He reads the book out loud to Bruno and makes a game out of it." Russell pulled a pitcher of sweet tea out of the refrigerator and began to fill glasses. At almost the same time, the alarm system chirped the familiar tone of someone opening the front door. Angelo had installed the system when he finished the house, but Russell hadn't actually used all the bells and whistles until Patrick and Frog moved in.

Safety first and all that family crap.

No, not crap. A happy (even if temporary) relationship was Life Goals right now.

He still had no idea why he'd given Darrow Bryan's name. With Angelo's luck right now, Bryan was probably not only as straight as straight could be, but quite possibly militantly anti-gay. He was definitely violent, as Angelo's jaw could attest.

No, the anti-gay thing was stupid. Every single time Angelo had seen Bryan and Patrick together, their complete devotion to each other shined through, and Bryan seemed to have zero problems with Patrick and Russell's relationship.

Be positive about this, you idiot.

Absolute positivity wasn't exactly his default mode.

Creaking floorboards announced Patrick and Bryan before they ambled into the kitchen, each man clutching a plastic grocery bag. Patrick's bulged with items while Bryan's hung kind of limply from his thumb and forefinger. Patrick walked straight to Russell and leaned up on his tip-toes to kiss Russell on the mouth.

"Cake taken care of?" Russell asked.

"Yup, and I think Frog is going to love it," Patrick replied, his attention so full of Russell that he didn't seem to notice Angelo—unlike Bryan, who'd paused near the island to stare at him with silent curiosity. "Bryan liked the market, too. He came home with two surprises."

"Surprises, huh?" Angelo cut in. "The kind you brag to friends about, or the kind you get a shot of penicillin for? Or both?"

Patrick let out a goofy yelp of surprise when he realized it wasn't just the three of them. Bryan blinked once at Angelo, one corner of his mouth slightly twisted upward.

"I didn't know you were coming over for dinner, Angelo." Patrick sounded more confused than annoyed.

"Cue more surprises."

"Angelo got some bad news today and needed to vent," Russell said. He met Angelo's gaze and raised an eyebrow. Angelo shook his head, not really interested in sharing his bad news with the entire house just yet.

"Oh, damn, I'm sorry to hear that," Patrick said to Angelo. "Can I do anything?"

"Distract me," Angelo replied. "Tell me more about Bryan's marketplace surprises."

"Nothing that exciting happened." Bryan spoke up for the first time, and Angelo disliked the way his calm, almost aww-shucks accent made his skin buzz with awareness. Bryan was the ruggedly-handsome to Patrick's boyish-cuteness—taller, broader, more muscular in just the right ways without looking like a guy who'd spent the last five years pumping iron in the prison yard. He had no right to be so fucking sexy.

Angelo cocked one hip slightly. "Well, it is a glorified grocery store, so unless you started deep-throating a cucumber, or pulled an American Pie in the bakery area, you're right. I doubt much of anything exciting happened."

Bryan's lip twisted up higher. "I'm not much for apple pie. I like creamier desserts." Before Angelo's brain could take that to dirtier heights, Bryan pulled a plastic container out of his bag and put it on the island. "Peanut butter cream pie, for example."

"They definitely have a good selection of pie down there."

"Yes, they do. The creamier the better." Bryan stared at him with that enticing lip-twist, and Angelo couldn't blink. Was he…what was Bryan doing? This was the least direct conversation they'd ever had, in private or in front of witnesses, and Angelo wasn't quite sure what to make of the whole thing, especially when his normally sharp mind was discombobulated by Joe's unexpected death.

"Wait," Patrick said in a harsh, faux-whisper. "Are they flirting with each other?"

Russell snorted. "Flirting is Angelo's default setting when he's upset and trying to deflect his feelings."

Angelo stuck his tongue out at Russell, but didn't deny it because Russell hadn't lied. It also broke the weird spell between Angelo and Bryan, whose expression had flattened into the familiar disinterest he usually wore around Angelo. And for the first time, it genuinely irritated him. "Maybe I should go. I feel as if I've interrupted family time or something."

"You ain't gotta go," Russell replied immediately. Almost out of habit.

The newly acquired habit of a man freshly in love and with a new family in his life. "Yeah, I think I do, Big Bear. You keep the bourbon, I'll take the box. Thanks for the tea." He hadn't touched it but southern politeness required he give thanks anyway.

"No, really, Angelo, stay," Patrick said. "Bryan and Frog and me can eat in the dining room if you and Russ need to talk."

"No, it's fine." Good old Italian stubbornness and temper were overtaking Angelo's good sense. His entire day had been one long stumble through piles of flaming shit, so why should things end on any better of a note? "I'll call you later, Russell." He collected the bankers box and cut through the formal dining room on his way to the foyer.

A shriek stopped him cold in the foyer, and he snapped his head toward the master staircase, unsure what had made the noise. For a few seconds, he was sure someone had stepped on a cat's tail, but Russell didn't have a cat. Feet thundered in his direction, and Angelo's stuttering brain didn't connect the sound with Robbie the Frog until Patrick, then Russell, and then Bryan all trampled their way upstairs, one after the other.

Angelo put his box down on a bench and reached for his cell phone, perfectly befuddled by what was happening, and wondering if the police should be involved. There were a lot of reasons for a little boy to scream, anything from stubbing his toe to being snatched by a burglar, and after Angelo's own dramatic day, he couldn't get his brain to choose a non-emergent reason for the scream. He took a few steps toward the stairs, listening to the rumble of voices and creak of floorboards above. None of the adults sounded panicked, and he didn't hear Patrick screeching for 911, so maybe it was just a badly stubbed toe? Or a feral house cat no one knew about got its tail stepped on?

As much as this was a family issue that did not involve him—especially since Angelo had already dramatically flounced for the evening—he couldn't make himself leave. Not until he knew what was going on. He tried to tell himself it was simply a landlord's concern for his tenants' welfare, but he was also being nosy and needed someone else's drama to focus on right now.

A few long minutes passed, and Angelo's impatience grew. He nearly started pacing just to burn off some nervous energy. Then a parade of footsteps began descending the stairs, along with Patrick and Russell talking over each other. Russell came down first with Frog in his arms, the little boy cradled like an infant. A reddening towel was wrapped around Frog's left hand, which he clutched close to his chin, above his heart. Patrick was right behind them, his face bright red and panicked.

"Jesus, what happened?" Angelo asked.

"I cut my hand," Frog replied matter-of-factly. His cheeks had dried tear streaks, but he seemed to be the most composed person of their quartet. Even Bryan, once again in the rear, looked like he expected Frog's arm to fall off if Russell jostled him too hard.

"Cut it pretty deep, too," Russell replied. "Might need stitches, so we're gonna take him to the emergency room."

"What did he cut it on?" Angelo asked. "I thought you guys kept the knives downstairs."

Frog tucked his chin down against his chest. "I needed scissors and couldn't find mine. I went into Big Bear's workshop without asking."

"Ah ha. I bet you learned your lesson, huh?"

"Yeah."

"We'll do the punishment talk later, okay?" Patrick nearly snapped. He'd put on his own coat and was trying to get Russell into one while he still had Frog in his arms. Angelo wanted to tell Russell to just put the kid down, his legs weren't broken, but he had a feeling this was Russell's first real Dad Emergency, and his critical thinking skills weren't firing on all cylinders.

After a bit of struggling, Russell had his coat on. Patrick did a quick search for phones, wallets and keys, and then the pair was out the door, leaving Angelo and Bryan behind in the suddenly silent foyer. The abrupt shift from emergency adrenaline spikes to post-emergency quiet was discombobulating, and for a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Then Bryan released a long, deep breath. "He's a brave kid. Cut looked deep."

"Kids hurt themselves." Growing up with three male cousins, their household had gone through their share of mercurochrome and bandages, and Angelo had a few small scars on his knees from one eventful summer attempting tricks on a dirt bike. "He'll probably impress his friends at school if he gets a few stitches to show off."

"Yeah." Bryan's expression was blank, as usual, but his voice carried the weight of a terrified parent who'd just sent his kid off to war.

"Dude, it's fine. He might not even need stitches. My cousin got a bad cut on the food truck one day and the walk-in doc just used this glue stuff. Worked like a charm."

"Right."

Angelo turned and really studied Bryan. His tense shoulders and balled fists, and the way he couldn't seem to focus on any one spot in the foyer. Was this how Bryan panicked? In his own quiet, stoic way? The complete opposite of the hyper-animated way Patrick panicked over Frog's minor injury? For being brothers, Bryan and Patrick were nothing alike—beyond their obvious love for Frog. But Frog was Bryan's nephew, not his kid, and a nephew he hadn't seen for most of his life.

"I think you need a drink more than I do," Angelo said. "Come on. Kitchen."

Bryan followed him without further prompting. He installed Bryan in the breakfast nook, grabbed two shot glasses from the top shelf, and sat opposite Bryan. Bryan barely twitched while Angelo poured them each a snort of the bourbon. Normally, Angelo preferred a proper snifter so he could take his time and savor the smoky flavor of his favorite liquor. Today wasn't that day, and this wasn't the bottle.

Angelo tossed back his shot and poured himself another. Bryan simply stared at his folded hands, that annoyingly blank, stoic look back on his face. "Drink up, pal," Angelo said. "It might untwist your springs a little."

"I can't."

"Oh shit. Sorry." He was such a self-absorbed dumbass. "Your parole? Isn't that over soon?"

"Yes, but…" Bryan pushed the glass away with a single fingertip. "I'm a recovering alcoholic, Angelo. I can't drink."

"You are? You can't drink, like, ever?"

"Not if I want to keep my life together. Patrick never told you this?"

"No. But we also aren't known for our heart-to-heart chats. Honestly, I'm pretty sure he just tolerates my presence because Big Bear and I are a package deal. Not to mention the whole landlord thing."

"Patrick likes you. He just doesn't express it well because he's used to people he cares about leaving him behind."

"It's not his fault your parents died. Parents die." Angelo tossed back his second shot. Melancholy spread over him like a heavy blanket, not only for Joe's recent passing but also for his own mother, whose long-ago death still slapped him with grief once in a while. Like tonight, when he felt disconnected from everyone in his life.

"Not just our parents," Bryan said softly. "I left him, too."

"You went to prison for him. It's not like you packed a bag and went on vacation to Europe."

"I kinda did once."

Angelo wasn't even buzzed yet, but he couldn't get that comment to make sense. "You left Patrick behind and went to Europe on vacation? Like skiing in the Alps or something?"

Bryan tilted his head to the side, his mouth doing that up-twist thing again. "Patrick and Russ really didn't tell you anything about my past, did they? You have no idea who I used to be."

"I mean, I know you were in a country pop band with Tracy Lyons. Patrick and I…well, I guess we bonded a little last Thanksgiving. He mostly talked about himself, but he told me a little about you when I helped him Christmas shop for Russell. It's cool that you got famous for a hot minute or two, but going on tour isn't the same as leaving Patrick behind to spend a year in a Buddhist temple. It was your career."

The way Bryan stared at him gave Angelo the impression he was missing an important detail or five, and he didn't like being out of the know. Irritated and urged on by the alcohol warming his empty belly, Angelo picked up the shot he'd poured for Bryan and started to tip it back. He'd had a shit day and deserved a couple of drinks, damn it.

Naturally, Angelo had to look up from that enticing amber liquid, right into Bryan's eyes. Eyes that didn't judge but that still made Angelo feel as if he'd done wrong, as if Bryan's eyes were his own personal conscience, chirping on his shoulder. Annoyance bubbling, Angelo rose with both glasses and the bottle. He dumped the shot into the sink and left everything there. The glasses of tea Russell had begun pouring what felt like hours ago were still on the counter.

Angelo took them back to the table and sat.

Bryan picked one up. "Thanks. You didn't have to stop drinking just because I don't. I really don't care. Might not go out to bars anymore but I don't judge others for it."

"Maybe I don't want to drink anymore tonight."

"You came over here with the intention of drinking."

"Yeah, I did. I also came over here with the intention of venting to my best friend about my shitty-ass fucking day, not hang out with my best friend's boyfriend's brother, who's judging me with his eyes."

Bryan let out a funny noise that wasn't quite a snort. "I'm doing what now?"

"You're sitting there pretending you aren't judging me for drinking in front of you, which we've clearly established was not my evening's plan, so you know what?" Angelo stood and stalked to the sink, stress and those shots doing a number on the already tenuous grip he had on his brain-to-mouth filter. He picked up the bourbon bottle. "You don't have to hang out and watch my self-destruction. Actually, I don't even have to hang out and witness this. I'll just go drink in one of the guest rooms and pass out. Probably even manage it before Big Bear gets back with the injured cub, because God knows how long the walk-in will take to see him."

"You know, I'm not Russ, but if you wanna vent about something…" Bryan spun his index finger in the air. "I'll listen. Honestly wouldn't mind the distraction."

"Are you really that bored? You want to listen to my personal problems?"

"Yep. You'll keep my mind off Robbie."

"Robbie'll be fine. Pretty sure he was the least worried person in the room when you brought him downstairs. Kids hurt themselves. Hell, when I was Frog's age, I not only managed to fall out of a treehouse I was building with my cousins, but I also landed ass-first on a board with a rusty nail in it. Talk about a sore ass in the not-fun way. Plus, I had to get a fucking tetanus booster. That fucker hurt worse than the nail."

Bryan slow-blinked. "Was that supposed to make me feel better?"

"Did it work?"

"No."

"Then no, it wasn't." Angelo abandoned the bourbon bottle again and began rummaging through the fridge for food. Russell said it was a clean-out night, so why let anything sit one day too long and spoil? He found a bowl of spaghetti marinara with a few mini meatballs in it, grabbed a fork, and started eating it cold from the container.

While Angelo absolutely loved fine dining and fancy meals, he'd grown up with three other boys (and occasionally Aunt Rita's latest boyfriend) in the house, so he'd learned to inhale food whenever it was in front of him, especially as a growing teen. Sometimes the microwave left food vulnerable to equally hungry poachers lying in wait.

"If my mother caught you eating out of the fridge without putting it on a plate," Bryan said, "she'd smack you on the ass with her flyswatter, and then give you a look so sad you'd think you'd beaten her."

"Good thing I'm immune to parental guilt then."

"It sets a bad example for kids."

"I've never done it in front of Frog." But those big, sad eyes were fixed on Angelo, and he sighed. Got himself a damned bowl, scraped half the food into it, and put the rest back in the fridge. "Happy?"

"I'd be happier if you'd nuked the rest for me but it's a start."

"Hey, I got you a drink."

"Thank you for that." Bryan joined him on the far side of the kitchen and put the rest of the spaghetti in the microwave. While it heated, he leaned against the counter, hands braced behind him in a sexy pose that stuck out his hips and chest, and Angelo tried not to stare. He was definitely attracted to Bryan, who was the exact kind of muscular and sexy Angelo liked to find when he wanted to be nailed hard, but that was not happening for two very good reasons: Bryan was his tenant, and he worked for him. Angelo had rules about not fucking people he worked with.

Not to mention the undefined nature of Bryan's sexuality.

Nope, definitely off limits. He tried to distract himself by shoveling a meatball into his mouth. Chewed and swallowed. "So what was the other surprise you got at the market? Besides the creamy peanut butter pie?"

"Got a phone number along with the pie."

Angelo nearly choked on a strand of spaghetti. "Oh yeah? Gonna call?"

"Haven't decided yet." The microwave beeped. Bryan used a towel to pull the steaming bowl out and stirred it with a fork. "Think I should?"

"Guess it depends on what they're offering and what you're looking for."

"Not sure either way."

"Then can I call them?"

Bryan kept stirring his spaghetti. "Earlier Russ said you got some bad news."

Way to deflect, pal."Yeah, I did. But my bad day can obviously wait when a kid has a boo-boo to fix."

"I don't know Russ as well as you do, but I get the feeling that if you were having a serious, life-altering crisis right now, he'd have stayed here to talk to you and let me go with Patrick and Robbie to the clinic."

"You could have said you'd go so Russ could stay. The kid really just needs Patrick. It's not like you or Russ are his father."

Bryan stiffened all over, and if Angelo hadn't been staring at him, he might not have noticed. But he saw the way Bryan's jaw tensed and his fingers gripped the spoon tighter. Even his hair seemed to get duller and more angry. "No, we aren't, but Russ is Patrick's boyfriend, and I got the sense Patrick needed the support more than Robbie did. Patrick is…he puts the weight of the world and infinite galaxies on his own shoulders when it comes to taking care of Robbie, and no amount of ‘kids get hurt' is gonna change that."

"Yeah, well, one day Frog is going to go off to college and have a life, and Patrick will need to cut the umbilical. Every minor stab wound is not a national emergency."

"It is when it's your kid who's hurt."

"Like you know any better than I do, Mr. Single Rock Star."

Bryan scowled, his first real expression in a while, and ate his spaghetti.

Interesting."What? Worried you've got some groupie babies running around out there who might come looking for daddy and his warbucks?"

"Do you ever take five seconds to think before words tumble out of your mouth?"

"Not often, no. People say it's part of my charm."

"What's the rest of your charm? And if you say it's your Italian good looks, I call bullshit. There's obviously something deeper about you, or Russ wouldn't have been your friend all these years. He doesn't strike me as the type who's attracted to or entertained by superficial flair."

Angelo's irritation meter rose exponentially at the way Bryan was trying to explain Angelo's own best friend to him. He knew Russell better than Bryan ever would. And who the hell was Bryan to judge Angelo for trading off his looks? The guy was a former fucking music celebrity, for fuck's sake. If you didn't photograph well for social media, you weren't going to be famous.

"So I flash a smile to help me get my way and that makes me shallow?" Angelo fired back. "You didn't use any sort of superficial charm to get this baker's phone number, huh? He or she just handed it to you on a whim?"

"We aren't talking about me. I'm trying to figure you out. I gave you a chance to vent about your day, and you turned it around and made it about Robbie. Like you just now tried to turn the charm conversation back around on me. I did not call you shallow. You brought in that word. Are you telling on yourself?"

Angelo slammed his bowl down on the counter. "You called me superficial first. And you're an asshole."

"Why? Because you can't charm me? Man, I spent more than five years of my life surrounded by the worst kinds of people. People who lie like they breathe and who will cut your tongue out for saying the wrong thing near them, much less at them. You wanna survive inside, you keep your head down, observe, and you take people at face value. And what you're showing me? All bullshit. You're hurting and don't want to talk to me about it? Fine, say so. Just cut the bullshit and be real."

"Fine, you want real?" Anger obliterated his better judgment, and Angelo blurted, "My mentor died this morning, I'm his sole beneficiary, but the only way I can access my inheritance is by being in a long-term, loving relationship, and I told the lawyer that I was in one. With you. How's that for no bullshit?"

Bryan dropped his fork, and it clattered to the floor.