Chapter 7

Someone nearby was using a jackhammer and Angelo was going to shove it up their ass once he figured out who dared do this to him. No one should be jackhammering at the Mulberry house; the thing was complete and on the damned market!

He tried shouting for them to quit, for fuck's sake, but his mouth was an irritating combination of both sticky and dry, and he couldn't get any words out. Or swallow very well, so all that came out was a kind of mumbled grunt. He flailed for his phone, which he kept on the charger by his pillow, so he never missed a notification. No phone. No mattress, either, only dead air.

The fuck?

He shifted his hips slightly, and a shock of pain rolled through his ribs and abdomen, clueing him into a new, urgent need to piss. Why did his whole body ache like he'd gone six rounds in a boxing ring? He didn't box. Hadn't been in a fist fight in years, not since him and Lorenzo got into it over…fuck, he couldn't remember. He had to piss, didn't know where he was, and he really wanted someone to punch him back into oblivion so everything stopped hurting.

"Hey, you waking up?" Deep voice. Familiar.

He tried to communicate about the jackhammer, but his mouth still wasn't cooperating, and the noise had actually dimmed a little. Now he was pretty sure the jackhammer was inside his own skull and not outside on the street.

"Take a minute and get your bearings," the familiar voice said. "You had a shitty night."

Yeah, no kidding. He managed to peel his eyelids apart while doing a full-body check. On his back, nothing broken or in a plaster cast. He hurt all over, was stupid-thirsty and had the world's most epic headache. Bryan's concerned face came into focus above him. What was Bryan doing at his house? Was Angelo even at his own house?

And then everything came back in a nauseating rush: Joe's death; his drunken offer to Bryan; hitting up Tim's and drinking more; the explosion; getting picked up at the ER by Russ and Bryan. Above Bryan's head, the high ceiling of the carriage house's living space came into focus, and he finally understood he was on the couch.

And his bladder was about to explode.

"Gotta piss," Angelo finally ground out.

"Okay. Think you can make it upstairs?"

"No." The way his stomach sloshed and his left side screamed, he was pretty sure he'd vomit if he tried to sit up. "Shit."

"Yeah, don't do that part. Hold it for thirty seconds, pal." Bryan disappeared, and Angelo gritted his teeth through the however-many-seconds before Bryan reappeared with an empty plastic bottle. "Piss in this."

"What?"

"Look, you're obviously in pain, and it's either the bottle or pissing your pants, and I think we'd both rather deal with the bottle. Just point and shoot, my man. I won't gawk at you."

"Fuck my life."

"You can fuck it later, just pee in the bottle." Bryan turned and walked a few feet away.

Cheeks flaming and chest burning with humiliation, Angelo yanked the front of his sweats down, pulled his dick out and did his business, careful not to spill. Mortified, he capped it and put it on the floor, determined to dump it later himself. Bryan gave him a sanitizing wipe, and once Angelo was situated, followed it with a sports drink to sip. The orange-y liquid helped soothe his dry throat, even if his rolling stomach didn't appreciate it.

When Bryan reached for the other bottle, Angelo flicked his hand away. "I'll get it later. Leave it."

"Okay. Last night coming back to you?"

"Vividly." Angelo gave the sports drink back to Bryan, then rested his hand lightly over his bandaged side. "Let me guess. I was too wasted to make the stairs at either house, so it was a choice between two couches?"

"Russell and I both decided you were too out of it to take into the main house. Didn't want you waking up Patrick or Robbie, so we brought you here. Couch seemed a better alternative to you breaking your neck on the stairs."

"Thanks. Time is it?"

"A little after noon. I've got your prescriptions but you should probably eat some toast or something before you take anything."

Angelo blinked dumbly. "You got my prescriptions?"

"Well, Russell went and got it, because I can't drive, but yeah. Patrick called to check on you before he went to work, too, but you were still passed out."

"So Patrick knows?"

"Russell filled him in this morning. Nat and Sasha stopped by, too, but I didn't want to wake you. Both are a little banged up but mobile and worried about you."

"That was nice." Super nice, actually. "News about the explosion?"

Bryan shifted his weight and slipped his hands into his jeans pockets. "Fire marshal is still saying evidence is inconclusive."

"So it could have been deliberate?"

"They aren't ruling it out yet."

Angelo shivered. "Jesus."

"Hey." Bryan squatted beside the couch then squeezed his knee. "On the plus side, whatever caused the explosion happened after closing, which minimized the casualties. No one was killed or permanently maimed. It could have been a lot worse. You said so yourself."

"I'm a smart guy."

"Even if you do say so yourself?"

Angelo blew a weak raspberry at him. "Can you help me sit up? I can't eat toast lying down." When Bryan didn't react, he added, "Please?"

"Magic word." Bryan stood. "Okay, try moving your legs off the couch first."

With a little encouragement and a few pulls from Bryan, Angelo managed to maintain an upright position on the couch, feet on the floor, for several minutes without vomiting all over his lap. "This is progress."

"Hold this anyway while I make toast." Bryan put an empty mixing bowl on his lap, and then moved to the small kitchenette tucked under the second-floor bedrooms. Other than it having no more toys in it, the downstairs hadn't changed at all since Patrick and Frog moved into the main house. Well, the guitar and stand over by one of the large picture windows was new, but there wasn't much else personal around, not even framed family photos.

Bryan isn't nesting because he doesn't expect to stay long-term.

Bryan keeping his options open once his parole was finished worked in Angelo's favor, if Bryan took him up on the fake boyfriend offer. It would give them the perfect excuse to break up once Angelo had his inheritance. But this morning—no, afternoon—was not the time to bring that conversation back up. Not until Angelo felt less like demolition wreckage and more like a functional human being.

He fumbled around for his phone before remembering it had probably blown up at Tim's last night. His tablet and laptop were at home, so no way to check on anything, and— "Shit, what if Otis has tried to call me?" he asked no one in particular.

"I called Otis this morning," Bryan said from the kitchenette. "Told him I wasn't coming in today and why, so he knows to call my cell for now if he needs to talk to you."

"Oh." It hadn't even occurred to him that Bryan wasn't at work, either. Bless Otis for being an understanding foreman, because Bryan couldn't afford to lose his job—not just financially, but because of the terms of his parole. He needed stable employment. "Thank you, Bryan, for running interference."

"No problem. I offered to work a half-day, but Otis said, and I quote, ‘Take the day and make sure our dumbass boss don't hurt hisself again.' Unquote."

Angelo snorted and bright lights of pain winked behind his eyelids. "Fuck, don't make me laugh."

"Sorry."

"And it's not like I got blown up on purpose. I could have definitely lived my whole life without this particular experience."

"I don't blame you. Oh, and you got one more message. A police detective wants you to come by the precinct and give a statement about last night. Apparently, you were too incoherent to interview at the scene."

"Oh joy, sounds like fun."

"I mean, you've gotta get a new phone anyway. If Russell is too busy to drive you, call a taxi, go get a phone, and then swing by the precinct to give your statement. Once your head stops screaming at you, of course." Bryan came back to the couch with a paper plate and two slices of lightly buttered toast. "Here, nibble on this."

"Thank you." Sitting up wasn't doing his stitched side any favors, but he sucked it up so he could eat the toast and finally get a pain pill into him. He washed it down with more sports drink, then closed his eyes and breathed. Antoni used to say he would close his eyes, slow his breathing, and visualize the pain releasing its grip on his brain, slinking away and disappearing. Said it helped when ibuprofen wouldn't touch his headaches.

Thankfully, Angelo had stronger pills than ibuprofen and wasn't afraid to use them now that whatever the hospital gave him had worn off—unlike his teetotaler cousin. Not that Antoni didn't have good reasons not to drink or trust narcotics. But meditation was Antoni's deal not his. Angelo trusted his pills to get the job done, and after a while of listening to Bryan putter around the carriage house, the pain in his head eased. His side still ached, but he'd gotten a couple of stitches, so there wasn't much he could do about that except live with it.

"Hey, man, you feelin' better?" Russell's voice boomed through the downstairs and startled Angelo out of a light doze. Bryan and Russell stood near the door and, from their stances, Angelo guessed they'd been whispering about him before making Russell's presence known.

"Yeah, my head isn't splitting open like a crowbar on drywall," Angelo replied. "You on a break?"

"Yeah, I quit early so I could check on you." He lumbered over, a friendly grin on his face. "If Bryan don't mind hangin' around to get Frog off the bus, I can take you to get a new phone. If you want."

"Actually, that would be good. If it's okay with Bryan."

"Bryan's fine with it," Bryan replied. His own smile seemed…forced? Weird. It wasn't like he could have driven Angelo around town. "Think Robbie was the talk of recess today? Showing off his stitches?"

"Probably so," Russell replied. "His classmates already love him, because he got to bring Bruno in for show and tell. And he's talked his teacher into having me speak to the class about art and puppets sometime in April."

"Lucky kid."

"Mind if I take a shower before we go?" Angelo asked, purposely interrupting the cutesy kid talk. "I can at least look semi-human."

"Are you supposed to get your stitches wet?"

"Fuck."

"No, he's not," Bryan replied. "I read the discharge papers twice. But if we put a chair in front of the sink, we can probably wash your hair at the very least. Get the blood out."

"Okay, let's do that."

The last time he'd sat at a kitchen sink and let anyone wash his hair, he'd been thirteen years old, and he'd been bent forward while Aunt Rita scrubbed his scalp with salt and apple cider vinegar, after Antoni came home with head lice. He and all his cousins had reeked for the rest of the day. Sitting and leaning back as far as his stitches would comfortably allow while Russell carefully shampooed his hair was almost a soothing experience by comparison.

Bryan stood by with spare washcloths and towels, and once Angelo's hair was clean, Russell helped him take off the sweatshirt and sponge off as much as possible. He still smelled faintly of smoke, but he'd wash his lower half later. Maybe tomorrow when it would be easier to bend over, because no way was he letting Bryan or Russell wash his butt.

Okay, so maybe having Bryan do it wasn't an altogether terrible idea, but that kind of fun could wait until they were actually fake dating.

If. Not when.

Bryan handed him a dark green, long-sleeve shirt that was not Angelo's style, but it was clean, warm, and smelled pleasantly of laundry soap. They were close enough in size that it fit almost perfectly. Bryan gave him another surprise: his freshly-laundered pants from yesterday. They had a few small tears, and the dark fabric had some extra-dark spots around the waist, but they were better for a public appearance than Russell's oversized sweatpants.

"Thank you," Angelo said. "I'm surprised you didn't darn the holes, too."

"I don't have a sewing kit," Bryan deadpanned.

"Dude, you live next door to a puppeteer. I'm sure he's got a needle and thread."

"Just put your pants on."

Angelo dressed, declared himself presentable, and was in the passenger seat of Russell's car before he remembered that damned bottle of piss.

Fuck my life.

Bryan was delighted at the chance to get Robbie off the bus by himself. Russell usually went down to the bus stop alone or with Bryan, and Bryan was completely okay with that. Bryan was the uncle in this situation, while Russell was the future maybe-step-parent and the permanent resident. Still, Bryan enjoyed his one-on-one time with Robbie when he got it. Those rare moments showed Bryan that he did have a nurturing side, despite having never chosen to show it before now.

In his father's house, men did not nurture. They didn't show emotion, they didn't cook, and they definitely did not cry. Or quit.

During his ill-fated music career, Bryan had proved he had the nurturing ability of a cement block. He'd tried to make it up to Patrick after Robbie was born, and all he'd succeeded in doing was leaving Patrick alone to not only raise Robbie, but then to deal with their dying mother all by himself. .

But he'd tried today with Angelo, really tried, damn it. Not only because Angelo was wounded and a guest in Bryan's home, but also because he was starting to think of Angelo as a friend. An actual friend he cared about, rather than an irritant who occasionally stopped by, had a sex drive higher than the city of Denver, and was more infuriating than a toddler on a sugar rush. Angelo had allowed himself to be vulnerable in front of Bryan, and Bryan was not used to that from guys as seemingly alpha-like and put-together as Angelo Voltini.

Making toast, getting Angelo's pills, and standing by while Russell helped him wash his hair and torso had given Bryan a tiny window into all the things Patrick had done for both Robbie and Mom for so many years. Meals and diapers and medications and laundry, over and over, into exhaustion. Emptying the plastic bottle of urine Angelo had left behind was such a tiny chore in the grander scheme of things.

The sheets he'd put down on the couch last night reeked of smoke, so Bryan tossed them into the washing machine, along with Russell's borrowed sweats. The small, stacked unit couldn't handle much more at once, and with only about fifteen minutes until the bus arrived, Bryan began a very slow walk down the block to the corner.

Most of the kids who got off the bus here walked to their own homes, scattering in four directions. Three young women and one guy he'd guess to be in his early forties were regulars at the corner. Bryan always offered polite smiles and nods when he was there with Patrick or Russell. Russell was well-known in the neighborhood, having been a teacher for many years, and he occasionally chatted with the moms, but the nameless man was pretty chilly toward all of them.

Today was no different.

"Russ couldn't make it today?" the blond mom in zebra-striped leggings asked.

"He's helping a friend with a personal errand," Bryan replied. The woman kind of reminded him of Leah, whose number was in the junk drawer at home, and he really needed to talk to Angelo about this fake dating thing.

"It's great Robbie has so many uncles to help out. Such a lucky kid. Poor Phoebe hasn't had a stable man in her life since she was two years old."

She seemed to take her own comment as permission to begin a diatribe about the state of her love life, just loud enough for the other two moms to nod along in silent commiseration. Bryan stood there, forcing a polite smile, and begged for the bus to arrive earlier than scheduled.

He caught the first glimpse of the bus several blocks down the street just as Zebra Legging Mom was winding down with, "We should set up a playdate with Phoebe and Robbie. They're only one grade apart."

Bryan blinked dumbly at her. "A playdate?"

"Sure. Our house is one block over." She waved in the opposite direction of home.

"Um, you'll have to ask Robbie's dad about that."

She stared at him, blinking owlishly, and it hit him just as the bus trundled to a stop along the curb that she wanted him specifically to come to this "playdate" or whatever. As pretty and bang-able as Zebra Leggings Mom was in those skin-tight clothes and red, pouty lips, Bryan had another possible engagement to worry about before he could start thinking with just his dick.

"Saved by the bus," he muttered as the Stop sign swung out and the bus door opened.

Robbie was the third kid off, and he gave Bryan a startled double-take when he saw him and no one else. "Hey, Uncle Bryan. Where's Big Bear?"

"He had to take Angelo to run some errands and asked me to get you today. That okay?"

"Sure." He waved his bandaged hand in the air, and Bryan spotted several black scrawls. "Three kids signed my hand today! It isn't like a cast so it won't last long, but how cool is that?"

"Pretty cool, buddy."

They turned toward home, and Bryan soaked in the simple joy of an almost-eight-year-old nattering on about his day in the second grade. The main house's front door was locked, and Bryan didn't have his keys, so they went around and in through the patio doors, which were usually unlocked during the day. Robbie put his backpack on a chair at the breakfast nook, and then headed for the hidden housekeeper's staircase in the corner of the kitchen. Bryan had been fascinated by this old-fashioned feature of the big house, and it was a quick short-cut to the upstairs.

He didn't have to ask to know Robbie was checking on Bruno. The kid loved that lizard like other kids loved puppies.

Bryan leaned against the counter and played a game on his phone until Robbie came back with Bruno clinging to his shirt. "You want a snack?" Bryan asked. "Got homework?"

"Yes, please, and I gotta read a chapter."

"Same book?"

"Yeah." He went straight to the breakfast nook, settled on the bench, and pulled a slender paperback out of his backpack.

Patrick kept a container of pre-cut veggies for snacks, so Bryan arranged some on a plate, along with a squeeze of Ranch dressing. Robbie thanked him and shared his snack with Bruno while he carefully read his book. Bryan was both mystified and impressed by Robbie's studiousness, when most kids would want to play while the sun was still out and do homework after dinner.

But Patrick also assured Bryan that when the weather warmed up, Robbie would be the first one out the door to enjoy the heat and sunshine, so this "get straight to homework" phase wasn't going to last.

His phone pinged. Text from Russell to him and Patrick: Bringing Angelo and food back for dinner, so don't worry about cooking. Be home around five.

That was a relief. Not the Angelo thing, but the dinner thing. Bryan was a mostly helpless cook. He hadn't learned when he lived at home, and once he began touring he lived on take-out and restaurant food. Cooking for himself? Hah! Toast and scrambled eggs? Manageable. Frozen dinners in the microwave? No problem. Anything more complex than that? Well, he was spending time watching a bunch of cooking channels on YouTube to learn the basics, so he didn't always have to rely on his brother (or his delivery app) to feed him.

Bryan might not always live in Patrick's backyard.

Robbie finished his assigned reading and took Bruno upstairs to their playroom. They'd converted one of the spare bedrooms into a palace of building blocks, Legos, spare packing boxes, and anything else Robbie could use to construct a small city for himself and Bruno to adventure in during the cold winter months. Bryan cleaned up their snack plates, wiped down the table, and was contemplating his next move when Patrick got home.

Patrick strode right across the kitchen, dropped his shoulder bag onto a counter stool and yanked Bryan into a hug. Bryan tensed at the unexpected embrace, arms by his sides, and tamped down his instinct to pull out of it. Patrick was a tactile person. Bryan…not so much.

"Thank you so much for last night," Patrick said as he pulled back and released Bryan. His smile turned into a half-grimace. "Sorry, I know I should have asked before I hugged you."

"It's okay, it was an impulse. And I didn't do anything last night."

"Come on, Bryan, you went with my boyfriend to the hospital to get Angelo, and then you took care of Angelo today without being asked. You were a really good friend to Russell and a great brother to me for supporting Russell. So yeah, thank you. Between Frog's cut hand and Angelo getting blown up, Russ was a mess this morning. But he would have been a bigger mess without you."

"I was more than happy to help. You love Russell, and he's been really decent to me. So has Angelo, considering how awful our first meeting was."

"I think it helps that Angelo was too drunk to really remember that first meeting."

"True." Bryan was kind of grateful for that, too. Angelo had had every right to order Bryan off his property after that stupid, impulsive punch.

"Still, you took the day off to babysit Angelo, and if I know Russell, he's going to feel like he's in your debt. So be gentle when collecting?"

Bryan shook his head. "He doesn't owe me. Angelo might owe me but not Russell. What do you think they're bringing home for dinner?"

As if on cue, Patrick's stomach grumbled. "I don't care. All I could manage for lunch was a cup of apple slices and peanut butter from the gas station."

"Forgot to pack your lunch?"

"Yup."

"Isn't one of the benefits of a work-from-home boyfriend that he can bring you things like a forgotten lunch?"

"Working from home is still working, though. Russ has his routines and his schedules. He already quits work early some days to get Frog from the bus stop. He isn't responsible for my forgetfulness, no matter how many times he says he doesn't mind. I would mind."

"Depending on other people when you forget something is okay, Patrick. You aren't a single dad taking care of your kid and our mom all by yourself anymore. It's okay to need support for yourself and to take it when it's offered."

Patrick shrugged and walked to the refrigerator. "I'm working on that."

Bryan didn't press the issue. He had no business criticizing how Patrick chose to accept help or not. All he could do was reiterate how many people were there to support him now, through everything, from Robbie needing stitches to forgetting his own lunch. No one had to do everything for everyone else all the time.

Patrick began describing a class of fourth-graders he'd subbed for today while they set the table for five. Bryan eye-balled the six-pack of craft beer in the back of the fridge when he got out the pitcher of sweet tea. He'd never ask Russell not to keep beer in the house—it was Russell's house, after all—but it was damned tempting. A nice cold draft with a shot of whiskey had been his drink of choice.

No. You can't reset the sobriety clock after all this time.

Patrick got a text that Bryan assumed was an ETA on dinner, because Patrick went out to the foyer and shouted up the main staircase for Robbie to put Bruno in his tank and get washed up for dinner. Sometimes, Bryan imagined building a kind-of high chair for Bruno so he could join them at meals and presenting it to Robbie for his birthday. For all that would win Bryan plenty of Cool Uncle Points with Robbie, Patrick would hate it.

Robbie was downstairs and waiting impatiently in the dining room with Bryan when the front door finally opened. Two voices in the foyer didn't surprise Bryan, but only Russell and Patrick walked into the dining room, Russell carrying a paper takeout bag.

"Where's Angelo?" Bryan asked.

"Couple hours out took him down," Russell replied. "I dropped him off at the carriage house with a carton of steamed rice and an egg roll to snack on before he takes any more pills."

"He's staying over again?"

"Yeah, he said—" Russell frowned. "Shit, is it okay if he crashes with you? He said you said it was, but I should've asked you first."

"It's fine. With his injuries, it's better he stays around people instead of alone." And since Russell still looked like he'd stepped in a pile of dog shit, Bryan pulled on a tiny bit of humor. "Besides, after so many years of living on top of other guys, it's nice to have someone around at night. Believe it or not, his snoring is kind of comforting."

"He does snore like a rusty chainsaw. Can't say as I ever found it more than annoying."

"You kind of snore too, babe," Patrick said to Russell. "And you can't say you don't because you've heard the audio."

Russell actually blushed, which Bryan found all kinds of hilarious. Patrick had the big, ginger bear of a man wrapped around his pinkie, that was for sure. So did Robbie.

"Since it's just us four, can we please eat?" Patrick asked. "Before my stomach turns itself inside out?"

"Did you get me worms?" Robbie asked when Russell began pulling white Chinese takeout cartons from the larger brown bag.

"I sure did, buddy," Russell replied. "A whole container of special worms, just for you."

This was Bryan's first time sharing Chinese with the others since his release, so he was curious what on earth Robbie had asked for. A peek into the carton showed him what appeared to be vegetable lo mein. "I didn't know frogs ate worms," Bryan teased.

"Sure they can," Robbie replied with a familiar, authoritative tone that suggested a lecture was forthcoming. "All kinds of worms. Earthworms, mealworms, silkworms, butterworms, waxworms?—"

"Butter worms?" Russell echoed. "Why does that sound like some kinda weird State Fair concession snack?"

Robbie seemed poised to respond, but Patrick said, "How about we save the worm talk for after dinner, yeah? Bryan, you want some of the moo goo gai pan?"

"Um, sure, thanks." Bryan loved anything and everything off a Chinese takeout menu. He also had huge soft spots for Thai and Vietnamese food. One of the first things he really wanted to master cooking on his own was a simple vegetable and noodle stir fry.

Dinner passed with an odd cloud of anxiety lingering over Bryan's head, and he couldn't explain it. He loved sharing meals with his family, even if the meal was semi-quiet and only broken by the occasional request to pass this or that, or a comment about someone's day. Robbie happily slurped up his "worms" and veggies with the appetite of a growing boy, and even though the whole "butterworms as State Fair food" conversation was still fresh, Bryan ate his fill.

He helped clean up the leftovers, but when Patrick asked if he wanted to hang out and watch TV, Bryan begged off. He was due back at work tomorrow and needed to catch up on a bit of last night's missed sleep. All true, but part of his anxiety ball was his need to return to the carriage house and make sure Angelo was okay. It was an irrational worry for someone who was barely a friend.

Bryan left through the front door so he could take the long way around and down the connecting driveway to the carriage house. Just for the fresh air and long walk—two things he'd never take for granted. The downstairs windows only shined a bit of light from the kitchenette, so he expected to open the door and find Angelo either asleep on the couch, or upstairs in Robbie's room.

He did not expect to step inside and find Angelo sitting upright in the middle of the couch, head thrown back like he'd collapsed there. Panic sliced coldly through Bryan's chest. And then he saw Angelo's arm was moving. No, not arm.

His hand.

Inside his pants.