Chapter 4
MARC
I dreamed.
It was an unpleasant dream. Not just because it was so confusing that it was upsetting, but because of the content.
At first, it was nothing but swirls of color and sounds, with occasional flashes of clear ‘memory’ that made no sense when put together.
There had been Malcolm’s funeral, which had been an unusually bright and cheery day that made sense considering the man he had been, but was somehow insulting to the grief that hung thick in the air.
Except that Jude was there, standing next to me with an umbrella, tear tracks on his cheeks as he demanded to know why I didn’t try harder, why I didn’t save Malcolm.
I wanted to tell him there was no way for anyone, even me or Reggie, to save Malcolm.
Aneurysms were tricky, hidden things, ticking bombs lurking in the brains of untold numbers of people.
Even if he’d had a scan, there was no telling if they would have found it in time.
There was nothing we could do except live with the realization that Malcolm had been there one day and was gone the next.
I wished I had taken the time in my busy schedule to answer his call the night before he died; at least then I could have said that my best friend died not having waited over a month to talk to me.
Except Jude wasn’t there anymore; it was Charlene, which made sense as she had been at the funeral with me, holding my hand gently as we lowered one of the best people I knew into the ground.
Except we weren’t at the funeral anymore; we were in my office in Arete.
She was accusing me of leaving her behind because I wanted to run naked with a bunch of men.
Which made no sense. We had divorced shortly before the groundwork on Arete had started, and I’d never told her about my sexual interest in men.
That had been a secret I had kept easily from her; it wasn’t as if it had plagued me during our marriage.
I wanted to remind her that when it came to running around with men, that accusation fell heavily on her shoulders, not mine.
She was the one who had betrayed the vows we’d made, violated my trust, and found someone else before having the decency to separate from me.
For all my failings as a husband and partner, I had never once betrayed her in the way she had betrayed me… repeatedly.
Charlene wasn’t there anymore, and neither was my office.
Instead, the sun was back, peeking between thick tree branches overhead, flashing through the leaves.
It was near where I’d grown up, a clearing in the trees that circled my childhood home.
The old metal swinging bench under one of the trees still looked like it had all the years I had retreated there with a book or my disc player to enjoy a little alone time.
Except I wasn’t alone; Reggie was there.
He wasn’t on the bench with me, but on the grass in front of it, wearing shorts and a loose shirt as he squinted up at the sky.
One leg of the shorts had dropped to show off a well-muscled, but exceptionally pale leg with wisps of pale hair sticking out as his toes dug into the grass.
His eyes were full of tears, his cheeks wet, but there was a bright smile on his face as he told me how sorry he was about how it had all gone wrong.
That he wished it had been enough, that he had been enough, but that in the end, he supposed nothing was ever going to be enough… was it?
I opened my mouth to ask what he was talking about and why he was so heartbroken again.
I hadn’t seen him that upset since we had lost Malcolm, and I wanted to wrap him in my arms and pull him close, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.
Even when his heart was breaking all over again, even when he desperately needed someone to be there for him again, I couldn’t bring myself to touch him.
His smile was sad, and he nodded, as if he understood, knew that touching him would be like touching a burning inferno.
It would light me up from my toes to the top of my head, engulfing me in fire and leaving me raw and helpless.
He knew how dangerous it was for me to touch him, even as it broke his heart, but he accepted it all the same.
I wanted to say I was sorry, that it was all too much, and that it felt so wrong.
We were many things, but to be that would invite disaster.
The fire would engulf us, our lives, the whole world.
We had worked too hard, gone through too much, fought like hell, to lose it all to a fire we could easily keep contained.
I was sorry he was the one who had to hold the fire in himself, that I couldn’t be strong enough to help him shoulder that burden.
Once more he gave me a knowing smile, his eyes bright with a secret knowledge and my heart thumped in anticipation as he opened his mouth to speak words that might be wise, might be painful, might be full of knowledge and help, but they would certainly change everything.
Instead of words from his open mouth, there came a harsh sound, like his throat and nose were fighting the wettest, most rattling battle.
With a grunt, I opened my eyes and blinked up at an unfamiliar ceiling in confusion.
It wasn’t until I stared at a light projection supposed to mimic underwater, the gentle sound of waves and the distant call of seabirds, that I realized where I was.
Then a lance of pain jabbed through the center of my skull, and I grunted, rubbing my forehead as I covered my face with a pillow.
God, why did he have to pretend to be the Little Mermaid when he fell asleep?
That same choking, harsh noise came from my right, and I raised the pillow from my face long enough to confirm my suspicions.
I was not only in Reggie’s bed, but sharing it with him.
He was on his back, one arm pulled out of its sleeve and under his shirt, the other thrown at an awkward angle.
I didn’t remember when he’d put on sleep pants, but one leg was riding up to his thigh as the leg in question was bent away from his body.
It was a good thing he did yoga regularly because just looking at his contortionist act was making my joints ache in sympathy.
I gave him a shake to tell him to roll over so his snoring didn’t leave him with a sore throat.
Except I wasn’t thinking, and when my hand rested on his middle, it was met with warm skin against my fingers.
His shirt had also ridden up, and I had unthinkingly laid my hand on bare skin, fingers flexing unconsciously at the pleasant feel of the flat but strong plane of his stomach, and the faint tickle of his hair against my fingertips.
Yanking my hand away as if it had been scalded, I decided if he was going to sleep in the worst way possible, then it was his responsibility to deal with the consequences of snoring through his Cirque du Soleil act.
I remembered Malcolm complaining, though it was done so with that light in his eyes that said he didn’t mean a word of it, that Reggie turned into a marionette whose handler was on crack when he fell asleep after drinking.
Reggie and I rarely shared a bed. Only those nights when we were away from Arete and sharing a room, too drunk to go to the effort of being dropped off at our respective homes.
Again, not common, but the first time Reggie had pointed out that we were going to wake up hungover and miserable, there was no point in making it worse by forcing me to sleep on the couch when his bed was large enough to fit both of us.
That had been before Arete was up and running, but it was something we’d done a few times since, though never here. That was new.
There was a tingling in my fingers that I didn’t like, and I scooted toward the edge of the bed as quickly but carefully as I could.
Sitting with my back to him so I wouldn’t be tempted to give in to the itching, I looked myself over.
Apparently, I had changed before bed as well, though that wasn’t exactly a clear memory.
I was wearing a pair of sleep pants that hovered above my ankles, and the shirt was the one I’d been wearing under my dress shirt.
Clearly, I had borrowed a pair of Reggie’s pants, and from the looks of the nearby table, I had folded not only my pants and dress shirt before collapsing into his bed, but paired and folded my socks neatly?
Drunk me had priorities…maybe not the best ones, but priorities all the same.
“Mmf,” came the grunt from behind me, and I turned to see Reggie unbending himself, his face scrunching unhappily as he slapped the side of the bed I’d been lying in moments before.
Chuckling softly, I patted his hand, and for whatever reason, that made him still with a heavy sigh as he now lay with his legs spreadeagled, one arm under his pillow, and the other in the warmth I’d left behind on the bed.
I couldn’t resist the urge to look at him again and tried not to be too disappointed when I saw the shirt had slipped back down to cover his stomach.
That was quickly forgotten with a sudden jolt as I realized that the sleep pants he was wearing were apparently not all that thick.
Or at least, not heavy enough to cover the outline of his clearly hard dick.
Now, at forty-two, I was aware that was not a sign of arousal and that more than likely when he woke up, he would sprint to the bathroom, as I should have been doing, to empty his bladder.
It was, however, the first time I had ever paid attention to his groin with more than a curious glance, and my eyes skittered away nervously before I was found out.