Aching Blood

Chapter 1

“I’m home! Stopped on the way to get your favorite cake.”

Smiling, he walked in that lush morning sunshine to the kitchen, balancing a paper bag in his right hand and tugging a suitcase in the left.

No answer, but Trent used to sleep late on Saturdays, so he put the bag on the counter, and loosened his tie on that crumpled shirt.

He ditched his suit jacket and kicked his shoes off. Heaven.

“Trent?”

Whistling, he walked to the bedroom door with a small smile, and knocked. “Trent? Sleepy head…”

He pushed the door open, and stepped in.

His heart skipped at the sight of that empty bed.

One with too tidy sheets. One where nobody had slept in.

Shit. He looked around, but the room was empty, the blinds still half lowered.

He hurried back to the kitchen and took his phone out.

Stupid. He slept at a friend’s, maybe… Checking his messages, but there were none.

He typed; a bit pissed above that fatigue.

-am back where are you?

Watching the screen, but nothing came, but that mild fear, that Trent had gone out and gotten into an accident.

His eyes went to their photo on the wall, Trent and him, at their friends’ wedding, Trent’s arms laced around his chest from the back, his wide smile, his grey hair and beard next to his black hair and grey eyes, both of them in suits, a promise of that wedding they had been planning.

Soon. He frowned, a tiny icicle growing into his heart.

Worry. Fear, too. Maybe call the police if he doesn’t answer.

The phone buzzed then in that silence. In that white kitchen flooded with light, a single red flower in a vase. Trent loved red roses.

He swiped it open.

-sorry, babe I can’t do this anymore I’ll leave you a few days to pack and find a place

That icicle had blown up in his chest, spreading to his lungs. What…? Blinking at those few words, that anger poised at the edge of his shock. What…? Motherfucker.

Dialling. Pick up bastard!

“Hi…”

“You…” He had to take a breath, fill those tight lungs when his whole chest was in a cage. “You… left? You’re leaving me?”

“I’m sorry, babe. I can’t anymore, not with your work, the constant stress, you being away… the worry…”

“We’re getting married…” That disbelief, still.

His eyes drifted to the paper bag, to that stain on it as the cake started leaking into the side.

Breathing softly, trying to use his discipline not to lose it as his hand clenched on that innocent phone.

“I quit… I left my client so we could have that time you were missing?” That sudden anger made him dizzy. “I even brought you a fucking cake!”

“I’m sorry about your job, but it’s too late for us, babe. Don’t be mad, ok? It’s for the best. Before we commit to something? Right?”

“Is this how you fucking break up with me after all these years? Over the phone?”

“Now, now… you see how angry you are? It’s better this way. You would have shouted. You’re shouting now.”

“Of course I’m fucking shouting! You… you’re breaking our life apart!”

“I’m just doing what’s best for us.”

“What’s best for you!”

“You never understood how much I gave up for us… how I spent days in agony, worrying about you… how it made me feel…”

“Oh, you, you, you… is that it? It’s my fault now! You knew what I was doing when we met! You fucking knew! Don’t blame me for this!” That anger, sifting into despair. “Don’t… can you come home? We could talk… talk this over. Please.”

“No. I can’t… I won’t be reasonable when I’m around you, and you know that. We’d end up in bed and fuck…”

“And maybe we should, and you wouldn’t leave…” He had to shut up, his tears clogging his throat. Please, please…

“You’re a grown man, babe. You’ll get over this.”

“Fuck you, I still love you!”

“And I will think of you fondly too. Call me when you moved out.”

He sighed, his lips trembling with wrath and grief. “Fuck you.”

Cutting the call, his tears rushed to his eyes, but not before he lost focus of that cake in that crumbling bag.

Grabbing it, he hurled it against that white wall, the bag ripping, that raspberry and cream cake smashing on the wall, like a silent howl of agony.

Followed by his own, ripping that silence.

Wrath, tears. He slammed the phone down and pushed his fingers in his hair, clenching hard, his voice raw.

“Fuuuuuuck! Fuck! Fuck!” Pacing the kitchen as the cake slid down the wall, leaving a blood red trail in that creamy mess, that sweet scent pervading the space.

“Fuuuuck! Fuck you!” Thinking he should just break everything to pieces, his rational mind took over in all that haze. No client, no home, no wedding… “Fuck!”

Whirling to his ringtone, he went to the phone and picked it up, half-blind with tears and rage, thinking it was Trent. “You low-life fuck!”

A tiny silence, then a familiar smooth voice with that distinct posh British accent it was always carrying. “My, my… so many years working together, but I never knew this was my nickname?”

His heart dropped. “Sinclair?”

“Yes. As you may have guessed since you didn’t bother checking the caller.”

“I’m sorry…”

“Trouble?”

He didn’t want to confess to his boss, but fuck it if he wasn’t going to. “I got dumped… Trent walked out… I have to walk out… Ah, fuck.”

“Oh, unfortunate. And Mira told me you resigned your client?”

“Yes. I’m sorry. We were supposed to get married, and he was complaining about me not having time… and… uh…”

“Well, this does not seem to be a problem anymore, as I seem to gather you have plenty of time now.”

“Fuck you, seriously.”

He laughed softly. “You are a sexy man, Duncan, but I won’t fuck you. Apologies. Now, to the matter at hand. I have an assignment for you, if you wish to accept it.”

“Don’t play the James Bond on me.” Sighing, he watched the cake plop to the tiled floor. Fuck you.

“I can’t help it.” Chuckling. “A prime assignment. One of our clients requires a personal bodyguard for their offspring, a rather feisty youngster…”

“Forget it. I’m not going to babysit some spoiled, rich brat who’s half-crazed with alcohol and drugs.”

“My, my… how did you guess?”

“Forget. It.”

“I seem to recall you’re out of job, and out of your home, and single? Might as well pick up some good money. What could go wrong? Salary, lodging, and basically being paid to trail that rich brat and make sure he doesn’t drown in his own vomit or the family pool.”

“Fantastic…” He blew a breath, fed up.

“Is that a ‘yes’?”

“It’s a ‘fuck you’, that’s what it is.”

“I love how American you are with your potty mouth. Oh, that is right, some French in there too, must be the combative spirit, always rebelling against common sense.”

“You’re done?”

“And your answer is?”

Duncan looked around, to that home, which was not one anymore, to their silent smiles in a happy moment frozen in time. To that cake disaster on the wall. His chest tight. Young, rich fuck. What could go wrong? “Alright.”

“Splendid. I told them you would meet them at the Cedar Hills private hospital’s detox unit.”

“What?”

“Hurry. They are expecting you.” Click.

“Hey!” He looked at the blank screen, internally screaming. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Typing the address in the GPS, he was already shedding his clothes on the way to the shower.

And fuck it if he was going to pick them off the floor, ever.

He put the water on full blast, hot, and stepped under it, letting it hammer at his heart, wash that stress and grief out a bit.

Soaping up, that familiar scent ramming into him, that scent they used to fuck in, pressed against the shower wall…

Shit! He washed his hair out, rinsing the foam, watching it slide down his body, trickling in his dark body hair.

That muscled body, his hands braced on the tiles as he let the water rush down his back, his ass and thighs, rush down that large tattoo on his left shoulder and arm. Fuck.

Drying quickly, he readjusted his hair, cropped short, a quick glance at his grieving eyes in the mirror, but there was no time to mull over his pain, so he went to their closet, ignoring that punch to his heart when he saw their clothes snuggled together.

Fuck. Dressing, another shirt, another tie, another black suit.

Fishing his wallet out of the other suit jacket, he took his phone off the sink, and rushed to pull new shoes on.

Fuck. Glancing at his watch, he wiped it off.

Ok, still fine… Riding down to the garage, he watched the floor count, trying not to break down and howl.

Fuck. But of course, there was no car in their spot…

Holding back another howl, he called a cab and walked up to the ground floor, stepping out in that amazing sun.

Waiting on the curb, seeing couples everywhere, holding hands, or just walking wherever, holding hands, and it all seemed a dream, a bad dream, those messages, that call…

The cab pulled up and he sat inside, telling the driver the address.

Meeting his eyes in the mirror, he gave him a glance which made him look away.

Fuck this. Almost justifying himself when he hadn’t drunk a drop in years.

Watching the buildings whizz by, the streets, the cars, people on the sidewalks.

Leaning against his hand, trying not to crumble when he knew he had to look professional.

The landscape shifting from downtown to lush suburbs, visible from the highway, to the outskirts of the city, the road winding between tall trees, to a gated property.

They could roll into that large park surrounding a cream colored building, discreet gold letters. Private Hospital. Fuck rich people.

He paid the driver and got out, walking straight to reception. Fuck… He messaged Sinclair.

-their fucking names?

Watching the dots.

-Polite, as ever. Henry Galloway and his wife, Martina.

Pocketing the phone, he smiled at the nurse. “Mr and Mrs Galloway are expecting me?”