Bombora (45 page)

I force a chuckle to hide how painfully my breath caught in my throat at Phelan’s question, and let my hand come to rest at the back of his neck, a gentle hint that he isn’t going anywhere. “Never ask me anything like that ever again,” I tell him a moment before I bring our lips together.

Maybe for the first time in his life, Phel doesn’t have a smart response, but I feel the spark of his smile come to life against my own. For once, and for a long while after that, there’s not a damn thing else to be said.

T
HE
rustle of the hotel shower curtain makes me turn my face away from the spray just as Phel steps into the tub and sidles up next to me, a quick flash of teeth as he grins and proceeds to steal my hot water. I can’t help but smile back even as I roll my eyes at him, then hook an elbow around his neck in a playful headlock so I can angle us both in a better position to share the shower.

Barely more than ten minutes have passed since I felt his lithe body against mine, and perhaps an hour before that I had him underneath me, begging me to make him come for the third time tonight. Still, the warmth of his body and the slick slide of his wet skin sends a shiver through me, elicits an exhausted but optimistic jerk from my cock like I haven’t felt since, well… the first time I took Phel to bed, really.

“I thought I made sure you were unconscious,” I say teasingly, then let out a happy sigh as Phel grabs some soap and begins lathering it up on my chest. I’ve washed myself already, but no way am I gonna tell him to stop. “Your last words were, I’m pretty sure, ‘You’re going to kill me if you keep this up.’”

Phel snorts and gives one of my nipples a vicious enough twist that I yelp in surprise and flinch to protect myself. “I might be older than you, but I bounce back quickly,” he drawls. “Last I checked, you’re the one who gets winded after twenty minutes of surfing.”

“Fuck you, that was
one time
.” I hope Phel will enjoy being reminded of this exchange the next time he’s in the mood for athletic marathon sex. That there
will
be a next time makes me want to sigh in relief again, a quiet joy that’s finally starting to seem real and solid and
here
.

Following the initial rush of excitement, the hastily scrawled note to Emilia that Phel and I were going someplace more private, and the ensuing drive to the hotel, during which Phel probably broke a few land speed records, I started to feel a bit wary. I began to wonder if I might jolt awake and realize none of this had really happened. If hope is an elevator, I wanted to stop the ride before I figured out I had that much farther to fall in the inevitable crash. The paranoia alone was enough to make me feel stupid on top of feeling like a jackass—there are better ways to react to your lover chasing you clear across the country to make a statement—but my reservations must have revealed themselves in a single unguarded expression when I thought Phel wasn’t looking.

He crossed the hotel room to take my hand in his; apparently I spoke too soon when I said we had nothing left to talk about. It was starting to become clear that wasn’t true, and that we would probably both be doing some talking for a while longer if we wanted things to get better. I reminded myself it didn’t have to happen—couldn’t—all in one night, but the shadow was hard to shake.

“We both feel like we have something to prove right now, or need to have something proven to us,” he said quietly. “Let’s not make any promises except to say that we both want this to work, okay? I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere.” His brave smile let me know he was on the same page: trying not to become mired in the doubt that killed us the first time around. “I’m trusting that you aren’t going anywhere either. Is that enough?”

Unsure of my voice, I nodded and let him put his hands on me. Surprisingly, the heat of his touch was all the reassurance I needed. It
was
enough.

Still is, and I interrupt Phel’s lazy attempts at soaping me up to get my arms around him again and bear him back against the shower wall. Definitely trying this later, I think. He hisses as his butt hits the chilly tiles, but smiles at me ruefully.

I love seeing his hair all wet and plastered to his forehead like this, those great blue eyes blinking up at me from under his lashes. Fuck, he’s sexy, and I want to go on being reminded of that fact every day until I die. I always want to feel this greedy and uninhibited as I slide my hands down his slippery sides to his ass, then bend my head to kiss his neck. Knowing I can do these things whenever I want is exhilarating, and an opportunity I don’t plan to pass up again. It’s crazy, but my dick is already getting hard again as it brushes Phel’s thigh, and he only has to take one look at the state I’m in around him to know I will always be his, for anything and everything. Tonight is only the beginning. Hell, the past year and a half will have barely scratched the surface if I have anything to say about it.

“When do you suppose Emilia and Liam will expect you back?” he asks, teasing, the smile evident in his voice. I bite down a little on his collarbone just to hear him chase the question with a gasp. “I might not be done with you for a while yet.”

Even before I open my mouth to respond, when I lift my head to smirk down at him, I can tell from his unimpressed expression that he knows whatever I say next will make him roll his eyes epically. “Well, while you were busy recovering from that spectacular ass fucking I just gave you, Emilia sent me a text to say I shouldn’t bother showing my face until I’m sure we’ve sorted things out.” Enough years of marriage will make you pretty good at approximating tone of voice even through text messages, and I heard Emilia’s amusement in every word. Knowing her, she called Hugh already to high-five him over the phone.

“And do you think we have?” Phel asks, a note of seriousness in his tone.

I try to let the force of my kiss speak for me, and based on how he slumps a little in pleasure, I think it does, but I pull back to touch his cheek in a fond gesture anyway. “I think there’s a lot of crap still to discuss,” I tell him honestly. “But we’ll get there eventually. This thing of ours…. We knew what we were betting on from the beginning, even if it took us a hell of a long time to get it right.”

Phel cocks a little smile at me that suggests he’s thinking about some other conversation he’s had. “Hugh told me something not long after you left, about how good surfers always know how to spot the best waves even if they don’t always know how to ride them at first.”

I smooth my hand over Phel’s shoulder as he shrugs, partly just to touch him but also to encourage him to finish the thought.

“He said I was one of the best surfers he’d seen, in that way. Out of everything he’s ever said to me, that might be the one thing that stuck.”

“That kid knows what he’s talking about sometimes,” I admit and think that there might never be a way to qualify how much I owe my brother. For this, for being my Rock of Gibraltar. For helping me come back to myself when I always assumed I’d be the one taking care of him. I know Phelan feels pretty much the same way, that whatever lies in our future can only include Hugh as well, and I’m over the mood at the thought. It feels like that’s how it should be. Everything in its right place, to quote a song.

I press another kiss to Phel’s forehead and then reach out to shut off the water. We’re both clean enough, I think, and there’s a whole pile of blankets and pillows calling to us. Right now all I can think about is loving him again and then falling asleep while I stare at his face. I’m eager to wake up and see him there in the morning. It’s a deep, bone-tingling excitement better than the rush of crashing out on a really spectacular wave—a full-body high.

“Come on, sunshine,” I say. “I’m not done catching up yet. Let me take you back to bed. We can talk about the rest of our lives tomorrow.”

Hugh

L
ET
me just start by saying that Liam is not, and has never been, a shy kid. He has every ounce of his father’s cockiness and charm and a heaping dose of Emilia’s poise and good sense, so it would surprise me little—as in not at all—if he someday went on to become the kind of lawyer students read about in their textbooks and dream of one day becoming. A real killer in the courtroom, the kind of prosecutor who goes on to take down every Don Corleone type there is. Arguing with that kid puts me on edge; I always lose. Then, to make matters worse, Phel went and buoyed up every last remaining insecurity he could find, so my nephew now has roughly enough self-esteem to go out and become the next Brad Pitt. Loosely put.

More specifically, Liam is really goddamn good at surfing for a kid his age, and knows it. I’m all for confidence out on the waves, but it makes teaching him safety and technique all but impossible.

Liam looks at the foam training board like it’s personally offended him, happily uncaring that he hasn’t surfed in months and oblivious to my God-given right to play the overprotective uncle. It’s a gorgeous June morning, the breeze crisp and the sun bright, and it was more or less unanimously decided that today should be spent down at the beach, same way we unanimously reach this decision every morning. As such, no one needed much convincing, least of all Liam, who I know has been dying to get back on a surfboard for ages. It’s his second summer out here with us in California, and he won’t be heading back to Ohio until the end of August.

I’m all for letting him at the waves, but I need to know he can handle himself out there before I let him anywhere near the water. Nate, Emilia,
and
Phel will all string me up by the nuts if something happens to him out there. But the only response I can get out of him is an exasperated “I’m a better surfer than my dad, Uncle Hugh—for one thing, I’m not afraid of big fish
or
mermaids,” followed by the kind of eye roll perfected by eleven-year-olds the world over.

“Stop mouthing off and show me another pop-up,” I snap good-naturedly. “You can show off later when I’m sure you’re not going to be feeding any fishes on my watch.” There’s another exhausted roll of Liam’s eyes before he gives up and does as I say. I have to admit he’s doing really well, young body springing up to the proper surf position with complete ease. The only unusual thing is that Liam surfs goofy, like Phel, and I have to mentally flip him around to adjust his legs here and there.

As I leave Liam to practice a few more times, I glance over to the water and see Nate and Phel coming in from the surf with their respective boards under their arms, bickering and shoving one another like they’re ten. Like I’ve seen happen a million times before, Nate, who rarely wins his arguments with Phelan the honest way, stops Phel midsentence by grabbing him around the waist and hauling him in for a kiss. A childish part of me still wants to blush and look away whenever they do that, and I hear an echoing “
Gross
” from Liam’s quarter. I make a face at him to show my agreement, though I’ve definitely caught Nate and Phel in more compromising positions before. And I’m not even just talking about the first time.

Holding hands (which, by the way, will never not look weird coming from my macho-as-shit brother), Nate and Phel wander over to where we’ve laid our towels and gear on the beach. Almost immediately, Liam starts whining to Phel about how overprotective I’m being.

Phel snorts and turns, a signal for Nate to unzip the top part of his wetsuit, then flicks an amused look my way. “Much as I enjoy seeing your father and uncle made out to be the bad guys,” he says, “I got the same treatment from Hugh before I was allowed into the ocean with a surfboard too. You better get back to practicing if you ever hope to prove them wrong.”

Liam grumbles some more about how this isn’t his first rodeo, but complies.

“How’d you do that?” I ask incredulously, amazed that Phel can get Liam in line without batting an eye. Not that I’ve ever seen Nate or Emilia struggle with him to any great extent, but with me it’s like pulling teeth to get my nephew to do anything he doesn’t want to. I think the kid knows I’m a pushover, though Phel spoils him more than anyone else.

It’s Nate who answers, stooping to ruffle his son’s hair. He playfully plants a foot in the middle of Liam’s back as he’s lying across the board, laughing as Liam whines and struggles to get back up like a turtle who’s been marooned in the sand. “Liam doesn’t like it when Phel gets pissed,” says Nate, grinning. “He knows it’ll just lead to a lecture with lots of big words he doesn’t know.”

It occurs to me this is precisely how I used to lecture Nate as a kid, how much it used to annoy him then too. Like father, like son, I guess. But this, I think, is why Nate is the perfect dad: his parenting style would probably get Child Services called on him if witnessed by the wrong person, but the fact of it is, he ignores the adult/child dynamic most of the time, treating Liam with the same amount of roughhousing and silliness as two kids would each other. I’m reminded how little physical attention—or affection—our own father paid to us as we were growing up, and I know why Nate does it. I know why Phel spoils Liam rotten, too, though he’s not so much the roughhousing type. Instead he appeals to Liam’s desire to be taken seriously, which earns him major brownie points in Liam’s book.