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For once, without further comment, she nodded. He wasn't unaware of how she had her hands folded together, her short nails biting into her skin, but he would deal with that.
He'd been dealing with things for eighteen months, but hadn't felt in control of anything. For the first time since his father died, that feeling was gone. He was going to New York. To Marcus.
Chapter Eighteen
He'd kept the entry key to Marcus' place. It had been in his wallet all this time, working its way toward the back, behind the more frequently used assortment of other cards. Credit cards, his driver's license, hell, the video store card that protected Marcus' picture.
It was shortly after two a. m. and he'd seen a light on in Marcus' place from the glass elevator. Top floor. A spectacular view of Manhattan and the water. Because Thomas had to pass through three checkpoints using that access card, as well as a security guard, who recognized him with a friendly smile, he wasn't too concerned about letting himself into a New Yorker's apartment in the middle of the night. He could have called ahead, but chose not to, not wanting to give Marcus the ability to shut him out.
When he let himself in, Thomas dropped his bag in the foyer and then moved through the kitchen. The light had been on in Marcus' office area, but he found Marcus sitting in the dark living room, just inside the open balcony doors. He was in the shadows, next to the fluttering curtains. Thomas might have missed him, except he was smoking and the faint glow of the cigarette tip drew his attention.
Now Thomas leaned against the kitchen doorframe, considering the man he loved.
His fastidious lover was wearing just a pair of jeans, the top button open. The pack of cigarettes was half empty, ashtray full. A bottle of Jack Daniel's Gentleman Jack sour mash and Chopin brand vodka sat companionably together.
He was staring. It didn't seem to be at anything in front of him, so Thomas assumed it was at something inside him, something worth making himself shitfaced drunk. As Thomas watched, he lifted the bourbon to his mouth and chased it with the vodka in an impressive swallow. Straight from the bottle, both of them, and Thomas was willing to bet it didn't even make his eyes water. Wiping the back of his mouth with a hand, Marcus picked up the cigarette again.
"Marcus. "
Marcus froze in the act, turned his glance toward the interior of the apartment. The eyes glittered in the darkness and Thomas had the sudden impression he'd walked into the den of a wounded tiger.
"What are you doing here?"
"You forgot your cell phone. " Thomas lifted it, moved across the room. Taking a position in the open door to the balcony, he made sure he was square with Marcus, where he wouldn't be ignored. Deliberately, he hooked his thumbs in his pockets, curling his fingers loosely on the front of denim. Watched Marcus' eyes center where he'd intended, then run up his body with a greedy look gripping his features, causing prickles of heat to move across Thomas' skin.
Yeah, Marcus was drunk. But not too drunk, which meant he could hear, and maybe listen some.
Thomas didn't know what he was going to do or say, though. He was here. That was what mattered. The rest would come. "Your brother needs you to transfer six thousand to the account to cover the burial expenses. " Marcus' gaze shifted back up to Thomas' face. Deliberately, he crossed his legs, leaned back further in his chair. Took a deep drag on that cigarette with a style only Cary Grant could have emulated. Thomas could almost see the internal machinations clicking into gear to put the usual shields in place. "You couldn't call and tell me that?"
"I would have been here a couple hours sooner, but there was someone else I wanted to talk to. A story I wanted to hear. I didn't get all of it. I want it from you. But I got enough to get my foot in the door. "
"You think so?"
"I know so. "
"Are you fucking with me, Thomas? You think I'm in the mood for that?"
"Do you really think you can love someone without making yourself vulnerable? I told you. That's not how family works. "
"I'm not your family, Thomas. I wouldn't even know how to be. Go home. Go away. Go to hell. I don't care. "
"Nice try," Thomas said mildly, though Marcus' words spiked against the ball of nerves in his stomach. He knew he was playing against a master poker player. A Master, period. But he wasn't going to back down.
"Owen told me about a street kid they called Dodger. With slick hands and the kind of looks that made sure he could stay ahead of hunger. Just. Over time, two other kids got attached to him. Toby and Emile. He ran with them, protected them. Kept them clean while he did whatever he needed to do. Fifteen years old. A runaway from Iowa.
From a father who couldn't accept what he was and a mother who wouldn't stand for him. "
Marcus flicked ashes in the ash tray. "You're telling me a story I already know. Go tell it on a street corner. If you set it to music, someone might flip you a quarter. " But Thomas' sharp eyes caught the slight tremor in the fingers. Drink, but also nerves.
"Every Dodger has to have a Fagan," he pressed on, though the images the story had created in his head had made him sick, made him hurt for Marcus. "Yours was Mike Winshire. He'd grown up a street kid as well, become a small operator. Graft, gambling, prostitution, but according to Owen, a strangely gentle man who loved you in his odd way. "
Marcus rose out of the chair, swift, but without his usual animal-like grace. Paced out onto the balcony. "I chose every step of my life, Thomas. Mike taught me to survive, taught me to play the right games. If he needed sex, he got it from me and counted himself lucky to be tapping the ass of a pretty kid, because he was an ugly son of a bitch, hung like a damn moose.
"We only had one rule. I'd make him money and be his fuck toy, but my kids were off limits. They ran scams, worked some honest gigs. " A muscle flexed in Marcus' jaw and he shook his head. "I made it, they didn't. I stayed in control of my life from the beginning to where I am now. " He gestured to the view in front of him, the apartment behind him.
"You can handle anything," Thomas agreed. "So can I. So can my mother. So can Rory. But we all have a breaking point. When we get there, there's got to be someone or something that helps you hold it together. You can handle anything," he repeated.
"Except being out of control. What I've been wondering is. . . are you strong enough not to be in control?"
