Chapter 4

The more frequently it occurred, the less Bryan was surprised when Angelo unexpectedly showed up at Russell and Patrick's house. The visits began happening more after the new year, as if Angelo had used that date as the official cut-off for giving them all space to acclimate as a family. Bryan had never once asked Angelo for that space, and he often suspected it had something to do with Bryan sucker-punching Angelo the first night they met—and for all Angelo insisted the punch was forgiven, Bryan still felt like an ass about it.

He liked Angelo. Well, he liked Friend Angelo. He wasn't wound quite as tight as Boss Angelo, who strutted around worksites with arrogance, authority, and the kind of demanding inflection that rubbed Bryan the wrong way. Bryan had known too many guys like that, most of them musicians with more confidence than talent. Fortunately for Angelo, he had actual talent to back up his arrogance.

Still, Friend Angelo who hung around with Russell, and occasionally engaged in tête-à-têtes with Bryan, was a much cooler guy. He was the guy who had paused his flounce out the front door to make sure Robbie was okay, and he was the guy who'd stayed with Bryan after Patrick and Russell whisked Robbie off to get his sliced hand fixed up by a doctor.

Bryan had seen a lot of guys get cut in prison. Sometimes, it felt like he couldn't go a week without seeing a fight, or the aftermath of one, with someone stumbling down the corridor clutching their bleeding side. Or bleeding eye or sliced cheek or other non-fatal body part that had been injured to make a point. Blood didn't usually bother Bryan.

Seeing his own flesh and blood whining and holding his bloody little hand to his little heaving chest had broken something inside Bryan. He'd frozen and been unable to do more than stare while Russell handled the situation like the former teacher he was, used to the crises of minors and how to bandage a cut in an emergency. Watching Russell take charge, calm Robbie, and keep Patrick from melting down had both awed and infuriated Bryan. Bryan should have been the one doing that, instead of hovering in the corner with a fuzzy brain and no idea how to help.

He'd spent several long minutes in the foyer with Angelo, hoping Angelo completed his flounce and left Bryan to deal with this. Naturally, Angelo had decided to stick around, bring out a brand-new side of his personality, and confuse the hell out of Bryan by showing true vulnerability by deflecting every attempt Bryan made at being direct.

The subtle "is he or isn't he flirting?" was intriguing, too. Intriguing, engaging, and a little bit arousing.

God help him, Bryan really did want to listen to Angelo whine about his bad day and maybe try his hand at being a shoulder to cry on (so to speak). To let his own guard down a little and invite people in—not something he excelled at with anyone, not even Patrick. And he especially sucked at it with Robbie, the one person Bryan desperately wanted an emotional relationship with. Practicing a little with a distraught Angelo—someone much closer to him in age and emotional maturity—had seemed like a great idea.

Then Bryan had pushed too hard and Angelo had lost his damned mind. "Fine, you want real? My mentor died this morning."

Surprise and empathy washed over him, but before Bryan could muster up a proper condolence, Angelo kept going with his verbal meltdown. "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."

Well, that was definitely news. Patrick often said Angelo was into the single?—

"With you. How's that for no bullshit?"

Bryan's fingers jerked and he dropped his fork. It clattered to the floor but made less noise than the static in his head. He stared at Angelo, unsure if he'd heard all that correctly. Angelo stared right back at him, eyes wide and expression somewhat baffled, as if he couldn't believe he'd said that out loud, either.

There was way too much in those couple of sentences to unpack quickly, so Bryan backtracked to the first, simplest thing. "I'm sorry to hear your mentor passed away. Was it unexpected?"

"Yes and no, and thank you. It was a heart attack."

Bryan tried to parse that one with what he knew of Angelo's profession. "Unexpected because it was a heart attack, but not so unexpected to pass from a heart attack because of his lifestyle?"

"You could call it a lifestyle." Angelo picked the bourbon bottle out of the sink and stared at the label. "He died in prison."

"He did?" Bryan usually prided himself on hiding his reactions and keeping emotion off his face, but he couldn't hide his utter shock from Angelo. "What was he in for?"

"When most people ask that, I find it incredibly rude and very rubber-necky."

"I apologize. I may have accepted my crimes and the punishment, but not everyone thinks that way when it comes to serving time. I shouldn't project."

"I projected a big fat lie on you today, so don't apologize. In fact, you might want to deck me again once I explain. Just try not to split my lip again."

"I didn't split your lip the first time. It was a small cut."

"It stung like hell whenever I ate or drank anything salty."

"But I bet it taught you a lesson about kissing someone else's boyfriend."

Angelo moved the bottle and a shot glass to the counter but didn't pour. He stared at them, as if he'd forgotten what they were both for. "In my own defense, I didn't know Patrick and Big Bear were dating when I kissed him. They didn't confess until the next day."

"That's fair. And I did overreact."

"Forgiven and moving on to today's complications."

"So, your mentor left you something in his will that has a relationship stipulation?"

"Yeah."

"Since you admitted my name got involved somehow, do you want to elaborate on this stipulation?"

"Not really but I will, seeing as I'm the one who brought it up in a fit of…mild dementia, one can only assume." Angelo groaned softly and shoved the bottle a few feet across the poured-cement countertop. His push-pull with the alcohol was mesmerizing in its own way, as if Angelo craved the drink but desperately wanted to remain clear-headed for this conversation. Or he was conflicted about drinking in front of an admitted alcoholic, which was…kind. Unnecessary but kind.

"Joe went to prison for financial crimes," Angelo continued, "and I was under the impression he lost everything. Or close to everything. I had no idea he had a special account he couldn't touch until he reached a certain age, or that he wanted me to inherit it when he died."

"You learned all that today?"

"Yes, I did. It was a bit of a mind-fuck to get all at once, so I can only blame shock for bringing you into things."

"Yeah, let's circle back to that." Bryan crossed his arms. "Loving relationship?"

Angelo bent at the waist and pressed his forehead against the countertop. The position put dirty thoughts in Bryan's mind that he shooed away immediately, and he maintained his stoic, "answer me now" pose. Interrogating Angelo was almost fun. Definitely entertaining and doing wonders to keep his mind off Robbie's injury.

Angelo breathed in silence for half a minute before straightening. "According to a letter Joe wrote me, which is in the box I brought over if you care to read it, he admits to having a lot of regrets, most of them about his lack of strong, personal relationships, not having children or a spouse, and not wanting me to end up the same way. Alone, middle-aged, without even my career to console me."

"Do you think that's likely to happen to you?"

"Considering my current trajectories? Yes. Joe's lawyer told me the stipulation for me accessing that account is proof I've been in a loving, preferably married, relationship for at least six months. In what I can only describe as a complete loss of self-control and critical thinking skills, I told the lawyer I'd met someone a few months ago, we are incredibly happy, and his name is Bryan Gillespie."

As far as explanations went, it sounded more like a plot line from a daytime soap opera, not real life, but Bryan had heard way more bizarre stories from fellow inmates. Stories he didn't always believe, but he'd valued his internal organs too much to ever openly doubt the tale teller's honesty. Still… "But why lie about me? Why not hit up a dating app, meet someone for real, and try to actually fall in love? Or better yet, take a page from a Hallmark movie, find someone in financial straits, and offer to give them a cut of your windfall for posing as your fake lover for six months?"

"Deal."

Bryan blinked. "What?"

"I said it's a deal. Ten percent of the inheritance for posing as my fake lover for six months. Actually, it can be for less, maybe four months, since I already told Mr. Darrow we met back in the fall."

"Wait a minute, that's not what I said."

"Yes, you did."

"I really didn't, though." Had Bryan just walked out of his life and into a badly-written sitcom? One person posing as someone else's fake anything never worked out, someone's feelings always got hurt, and the whole situation could have been avoided if people just talked to each other.

"You said you'd be my fake lover for six months in exchange for a cut. I think it's a great idea. We know each other. You're hot as hell, so people would totally buy me dating you. And when it's all over, you get ten percent of what could be a hell of a lot of money."

Bryan reached out and pinched Angelo's forearm. Angelo jerked away. "Are you for real? How strong is that bourbon? Did you smoke something on the drive over here?"

"Brother, if you want me to answer a bazillion questions, you're going to need to start writing them down. It's been a long day and I am caffeine deficient."

"Then how about I put the bourbon away and make some coffee? Because you, my decaffeinated friend, are not making a lot of sense."

"Fine, coffee. You've killed the last of my need to get drunk tonight, anyhow."

"Thanks?"

"You're welcome."

Unsure if he'd been complimented or not, Bryan made the coffee, and by the time the machine began spitting brown liquid into the carafe, he was alone in the kitchen. He hadn't seen or heard Angelo leave.

Confused and annoyed, he picked up his cooling bowl of pasta and took a bite on his way to check if Angelo's car was gone. He found Angelo on the foyer bench next to the box he'd been hauling around, lid on the floor, and what looked like a leather portfolio open on his lap.

"I thought you left," Bryan said.

"I agreed to coffee," Angelo replied without looking up. "Forgot to look for this."

"Was that Joe's?"

"Yeah. His sketchbook. A visual journal, of sorts."

Bryan angled for a better look without being too intrusive. The pages seemed to be a mixture of written words and drawings, but upside down and sideways, Bryan couldn't make out anything in particular. It wasn't his property anyway. He also didn't know what to say until he got some coffee into Angelo, so he let his brain sort through everything they'd discussed in the last ten minutes.

"Let's put the question of my involvement in this fake lover scheme aside for a bit," Bryan said. "Do you know how much money is in this account?"

"No."

"So it could be a hundred bucks as much as it could be a million?"

"Yeah."

"Okay, then while I completely understand the draw of wanting to know if you've just inherited a million bucks, why the rush into a relationship? You seem pretty put together and on top of your own finances, so you've got time to meet a real boyfriend and fall in love. Why go the rent-a-boy route?"

"Because the local housing market took a crash these last six months, my finances are stretched too thin, and I cannot afford one more major issue at a flip without serious problems. I tell Russell that I sleep at my renovations because it keeps me close to my projects, and that I prefer the nomadic lifestyle, but the truth is it's cheaper. I can't afford rent on my own place while I'm juggling these other mortgages and renovation budgets, and I'm not getting enough freelance work to cover costs."

Angelo snapped the sketchbook shut, his face a thundercloud now, as if his sudden confession was somehow Bryan's fault, when Angelo was the one running at the mouth.

"What about the rent you get for this place and the carriage house?" Bryan asked. His own monthly rent was far below the median for this neighborhood, but he assumed it was lower because of the main house's size.

"It barely covers the mortgage, and that's not going to change, because Big Bear and I made an agreement years ago."

"You're the landlord, though. I get that he's your best friend, and I'm not advocating you charge my little brother more rent, but it is your prerogative when the market changes. Costs go up so rents go up. That hasn't changed since I went to prison, right?"

Angelo stood with the sketchbook tucked under one arm. "A few hundred extra a month from this place won't help in the long run. I either need to sell one of my properties very quickly, or I need an influx of money, say, that's sitting in an account and is inaccessible until I prove I'm in a relationship."

Bryan followed him back into the kitchen, which now held the combined odors of microwaved Italian spices and freshly brewed coffee. "Does Russell know you're struggling?"

"Nope, and neither of us is telling him. These are my problems."

"Problems you just made mine by dropping my name to your lawyer."

"Joe's lawyer."

"Whatever. Fuck, you're an annoying pedant sometimes."

"Takes one to know one." Angelo pulled two simple black mugs out of the cabinet and began pouring coffee. He dribbled a bit, swore, and mopped it up with a dishrag. "Look, I can't wait six-plus months and hope my financial situation holds out until I get this windfall. Do you know how fickle housing and design is?"

"No, but I'm sure you have an entire diatribe on the tip of your tongue. I do, however, know how fickle the creative life is in general. How fast the public can decide they love your music or hate it, that you're either their favorite forever or now you suck so bad they're deleting you off their phone forever. You didn't come out with a new album fast enough, exactly to their demands, and you've been replaced by the next hot new thing."

Angelo slid a coffee mug in his direction. "I guess you do get it. You wrote music you hoped would sell, just like I design home interiors I hope will sell, and we're both victims to the ever-changing whims of the consumer."

Bryan ignored the "you wrote music" bit of Angelo's statement and focused on the sentiment behind it. The original stuff Bryan had tried putting together was never even close to the magic Patrick created. "In a nutshell, yes, which is why I'm very sympathetic to the spot you're in right now. But you've got friends and family to fall back on, man. Take a minute to absorb Joe's death. Really think about your options here. Then bust out your phone, get on Tinder or whatever, and go on some real dates. Meet someone real."

"I can't wait that long."

Bryan sighed and put sugar in his coffee. "Can't or won't?"

"Both. Look, I'll give you twenty percent of whatever cash I inherit."

"Angelo—"

"All you have to do is go out with me a few times, probably attend some public functions so people see us together. I'll even buy you an engagement ring if it convinces Darrow we're serious." Angelo groaned. "Shit, you're probably straighter than I'm queer all day, and you work in a very he-man profession. I guess you don't need fag jokes thrown at you daily at work."

"That kind of shit wouldn't bother me, and Otis doesn't tolerate any kind of homophobic, racist or sexist crap on his sites anyway. I've heard him give verbal smack downs to a few of the guys when they cracked what they perceived as harmless jokes. And since it's not really a big deal to keep secret from my so-called fans anymore, I'm bi. So dating a guy isn't some kind of noble sacrifice of my straightness."

Angelo's mouth moved almost imperceptibly, and Bryan was positive he was trying not to lick his lips. "So the person who gave you their number at the bakery? Guy or girl?"

Bryan smiled, liking the slight flicker of irritation in Angelo's eyes when he didn't answer.

"Okay, fine," Angelo said. "Just please tell me you haven't called them for a date yet. It'll look better for us and our dating history."

"We don't have a dating history, and besides, I haven't agreed to anything."

"You also haven't flat-out told me to go to hell, get bent, or otherwise harm myself, so that's a start. Twenty-five percent."

"Look, this isn't about the money I might or might not get."

"Why not? You were rich once, right? You remember what it's like to have disposable income, and now you're stuck working on a construction crew and living in your brother's backyard. You said you went skiing in the Alps once. You ate Thai food in fucking Thailand. Think about the freedom to travel again."

"I'm on parole."

"Only for what? Two more months? You'll be long past that by the time the check comes in. You really want to be stuck here for the rest of your life?"

Bryan laughed, less at the question than the earnest way Angelo asked, as if the rest of Bryan's future depended on this one decision. And it really didn't, not the way it seemed to for Angelo. "The last of my family is here, so I'm perfectly fine with being here with Patrick and Robbie. Besides, I'm not completely broke. Patrick is giving me a share of the profit when he settles on the sale of Mom's house, which should happen any day, so I will have a small savings."

"Oh. I mean, good for you, I forgot about that." Angelo stared at his mug for several long seconds, long enough that Bryan started playing the Jeopardy! theme in his head. Then Angelo put the still-full mug in the sink. "This entire night was a bad idea. I shouldn't have come over at all, should have just kept my problems to myself."

"Hey, man, I said you could vent to me."

"No, I mean all of it. Big Bear has other responsibilities now. I'll figure this out."

For the second time that evening, Angelo flounced toward the foyer. Bryan followed immediately this time, and he watched Angelo collect his box of possessions and leave. Waited at the door while the little red sports car roared to life. The sound of the engine faded as Angelo drove away.

Bryan gazed around the foyer, the entire house way too big for him now that he was completely alone in it. Great. He'd tried to be nice, to attempt befriending Angelo, and that had blown up in his face. Then again, most guys didn't propose a fake relationship in exchange for money, and then get offended when the proposed-to party didn't jump for joy and accept. Angelo was an odd guy for sure.

He also got the impression Angelo was lonely. Intensely lonely on a deeper level than just living alone and being perpetually single. Angelo's mentor had not only been in prison, he'd also just died, leaving Angelo for a second time. The loss of a beloved parent or parental figure always hurt, no matter your age. Despite her long illness, Bryan had still been devastated when he heard Mom had succumbed to cancer last year. And he'd been as equally heartbroken every time he spoke with Patrick and heard the underlying stress in his voice—the stress of grief, of organizing Mom's funeral and final arrangements, and of being a dad to a grieving Robbie. Doing all the things Bryan should have been there to help with.

Angelo was clearly used to coming to Russell with his personal problems, just like he'd done tonight after hearing the complicated news of his mentor's passing. If not for Robbie's accident, the pair probably would have spent a few hours in private, trying to figure things out, or maybe just Russell listening to Angelo vent. Russell definitely seemed to be the "thinks it through" to Angelo's "takes impulsive action," and Bryan had failed at stepping into Russell's very large shoes tonight.

Impatient also joined the list of adjectives that described Angelo Voltini. He hadn't been able to speak to Russell right away like he'd hoped, so he'd tried to leave. Bryan hadn't jumped at the chance to pretend to be his boyfriend/lover/fiancé immediately, so Angelo did leave that time. Bryan had seen hints of that impatience on job sites but never like this. Angelo battled Otis until he won any argument. He didn't give up and walk away.

Maybe Angelo was less likely to fight for things in his personal life than he was in his professional life. That was Bryan's experience with him so far. He wanted to ask Russell if Angelo wanting something as crazy as this fake boyfriend request was a standard flight of fancy, or if it was an unusual detour into crazy-land. Standard? Fine, okay, Bryan would let it go. Unusual?

He wasn't sure what he'd do (if anything).

Since he wasn't getting any answers by haunting the foyer, Bryan returned to the kitchen to finish his spaghetti, drink more coffee, and then clean everything up. About an hour had passed, so Bryan texted Patrick for an update. He was glad Angelo had been too wrapped up in his own drama to notice how anxious Bryan had been. Bryan wasn't used to seeing Robbie injured, and he still had some deep-down Dad Emotions that got a little overwrought when his kid—your nephew, jackass—was bleeding.

Patrick replied a few minutes later: Just went back. Probably three stitches. Frog is okay, mostly complaining he's hungry. We'll prob stop for food on way home.

Bryan smiled. If Robbie was thinking about food, his hand must not hurt too much. Thanks, P. Glad he's feeling better.

Hey, Frog asked if you can feed Bruno since we'll be late.

Can do.

He'd been asked to help feed Bruno dinner enough times while they all shared the carriage house that Bryan knew the routine. He wasn't overly fond of digging those squirmy mealworms out of the sawdust, but it had been bonding time with Robbie. Bryan collected the container of worms, plus a baggie of sliced bell peppers, and went upstairs.

Robbie's room here was twice as big as at the carriage house, which had been overwhelmed by the size of Bruno's aquarium tank. Here, it fit better on the dresser, and the only thing that seemed too big (to Bryan) for an almost-eight-year-old was the queen-sized bed. But that was the furniture the room had come with, and Robbie hadn't minded leaving his smaller bed behind.

Bryan loved the firmer mattress on Robbie's old bed, but Patrick's former room had bigger windows and a better view of the backyard, so Bryan tended to go back and forth between them. Not that it mattered or anyone cared, since Bryan had the entire carriage house to himself now. At first, he'd loved having so much privacy, after spending almost six years living on top of other men, in crowded, noisy spaces full of weird smells and a dampness that never went away.

Now, he was…lonely.

Bruno the bearded dragon was perched on a piece of driftwood that stretched half the length of his tank, right under one of the heat lamps, and he barely blinked at Bryan. Bryan dug out one of the twisty little worms and dropped it into the faux-stone dish Robbie kept stocked with weird red pellets. Without even seeming to move, Bruno was suddenly by the dish and crunching, the worm already gone.

"Hungry, huh? Don't worry, Robbie will be home soon."

Bryan alternated the worms with the peppers, until he'd fed about the amount he'd seen Robbie give. Bruno still had pellets and water, so with dinner delivery done, Bryan went back downstairs. Put the food away and washed his hands. Wiped down the countertops again. He poured the last of the remaining coffee into a travel mug—the mugs went back and forth between the two residences as frequently as the tenants—rinsed out the pot, and then went home.

Home-ish.

With nothing better to do until he got a final report on Robbie's hand, Bryan sat on the couch with his Gibson guitar, played some of his favorite tunes, and tried not to think about the confusing hot mess that was Angelo Voltini.