Boyfriend Chronicles 02 - The Boyfriend Mandate (4 page)

“Being sick doesn’t give him a license to treat people like shit,” Memphis said, sending the teen a pointed look. “Only elected officials get to be card-carrying pricks.”

“Sorry,” Patrick mumbled.

Tyler’s lips quirked at the corner, and Memphis tipped his head. Interesting. Not only had Tyler taken the teen’s ugly behavior in stride, he seemed to find the situation amusing.

“Trust me,” Tyler said easily, “it’s not the first time I’ve been treated like crap.”

Christamighty
.

The words felt as though they’d been unloaded by a sixteen-ton dump truck. Memphis stared at his ex-boyfriend, no closer to deciphering his expressions than he’d been two days ago. Was Tyler referring to how things had ended between them? Or had Memphis’s guilt—ten freaking years’ worth—taken hold and provided the interpretation? For the umpteenth time since the photo shoot, Memphis wished he could read him better. But today’s Tyler was nothing like the old Tyler. Not that Memphis had expected the guy to deck him when they’d first come in contact. Heck, he’d known Tyler probably wouldn’t yell, either. But he
had
expected Tyler to let loose with a mother lode of curses. Or at least a glare or two.

All this civilized behavior was driving Memphis bat-shit crazy.

But maybe that was Tyler’s end game, to kill Memphis with civility while he wallowed in his guilt. He suppressed a cynical grin. If so, he couldn’t help but admire the man’s diabolical plan of epic proportions.

“Although”—Tyler nodded toward the far end of the crowd—“dealing with the paparazzi is definitely a new level of crap.”

Memphis spotted the reporter from
The San Francisco Sun
and nearly moaned as if in pain, the heat from Destiny’s laser now searing a hole in his ass. Of
course
the boneheaded journalist had followed through on his promise to attend today.

Shit.

Memphis massaged the back of his neck, hoping to rub away the fatigue and the ache. And then he crouched beside the wheelchair, needing a break from the building tension.

“Let me tell you about the gag I’m about to do,” he said to Patrick.

One eye studying Tyler, Memphis spent the next few minutes discussing the stunt with the teen. The boy perked up in interest, shifting higher in his seat. Memphis explained how he was supposed to run down the length of the concrete dock, small explosions set to detonate behind him as he ran past. He showed him the harness beneath his specially designed outer shirt and where he’d attach the cable once he was behind the second shipping container located farther up the dock. Memphis pointed out the barge parked off the pier that contained the hoist set to reel him back at the precise moment of the last blast of fire, as if blowing him backward.

He figured Tyler would enjoy the show, too. Especially if he’d ever fantasized about offing Memphis himself.

The kid asked good questions, and Memphis did his best to answer them. Yes, his run down the dock had to be carefully timed with the explosions. Yes, he had to hit his mark at the right moment and hook up his cable or the propane tanks could potentially engulf him in flames. But his mind was only half on the explanation, too preoccupied with Tyler’s presence.

When the kid seemed to run out of questions, Memphis asked, “Any news on the bone marrow transplant front?”

“I’m part Native American, remember?” he said.

“Meaning it’ll be hard to find a match.”

“Yeah, which totally sucks ass,” the teen said. “And since I’m adopted, that lame brother of mine is useless, as usual.” He crossed his arms, his expression going dark again. “I wouldn’t want his bone marrow anyway. After my first round of chemo, he told my friends I lost the hair on my nuts.”

Above the kid’s head, Memphis’s gaze landed on Tyler’s, and a moment of understanding flared between them. It was hard enough dealing with cancer, but add teenage angst into the midst and things got downright ugly.

Tyler looked down at the teen. “My older brother did something similar to me in junior high.”

Memphis froze, his heart slowing until the thuds grew farther and farther apart in his ears. He remembered Tyler telling him this story. He knew how much the incident had hurt.

“Oh, yeah?” The kid twisted in his chair, staring up at Tyler. “What did your brother do?”

Tyler paused before answering. “He got mad at me one day, so he told his friends that my biological mother was a prostitute.”

Worse, he’d
lived
in that environment with her until he was four.

Damn.

Back in college, the reality of Tyler’s age at adoption hadn’t fully registered. Older now, and supposedly wiser—a stretch, for sure—Memphis could better appreciate the consequences of being adopted out at that age.
Four
, for fuck’s sake. No wonder the guy had been so hopeless socially—well, with everyone except Memphis.

“And once something like that is known,” Tyler went on with a wry tone, “the news tends to spread like wildfire, especially at school.”

After several seconds, Patrick asked, “Was it true?”

A muscle in Tyler’s cheek twitched as he studied the blue water of the bay before glancing back at Patrick, a composed look on his face. “Yes,” he said. “It’s true.”

The teen turned his attention back to the crew and the activity on the dock. Silence descended upon their little group.

“Man,” Patrick finally said, letting out a low whistle. “Congrats on winning the award for having the dickiest brother.” He held out his hand for a fist bump, which Tyler returned. And then the teen went on. “That totally sucks donkey balls.”

A breath escaped Tyler, a sound that could be classified as an aborted laugh. “Yeah,” he said with a small smile. “It definitely sucked donkey balls.” His eyes briefly ticked to Memphis, the expression unreadable.

Hunh.

Memphis stood, realizing he was no closer to interpreting Tyler’s reactions than he had been twenty minutes ago. He turned to face his ex-boyfriend. When their gazes met again, sparks flared up his spine, his body humming with anticipation. But was that due to the uneasiness between them? Their history and unfinished business? Or because Memphis still had the hots for his ex? Jesus, the man was a definite head turner. And he used to do amazing things with that mouth…

Damn it to hell and back.

Memphis tugged on his harness, blaming the overheated feeling on the two layers of shirts and the fire-resistant fabric. Because what kind of masochist lusted after someone who had to be emotionally blackmailed into being around him? Memphis figured the recent publicity was mostly just a convenient excuse Tyler used to avoid him.

Not that Memphis could fault the guy.

He caught Tyler’s eye. “Don’t let the kid give you a hard time,” he said lightly as he laid a reassuring hand on Patrick’s shoulder.

Tyler gave a single nod. “We’ll be fine.”

He sounded so confident and sure, while Memphis felt as though he’d just found himself on unstable ground.

A small knot of anxiety tightened in his chest, but he pushed the feeling aside and turned to head back toward Hal. With any luck, after the stunt, Tyler would be ready to discuss the past like two reasonable adults. Hopefully while throwing out a cuss word or two. That would certainly make Memphis feel better. But right now, he needed to focus on not getting killed.

And keeping the reporter away from Tyler.

After a lot of whining from Patrick that Tyler chose to ignore, the stunt finally got under way. He quietly exhaled in relief, grateful the day was almost over. Soon, thank God, he could consider his part in Memphis and Noah’s deal complete—right after he watched his ex-boyfriend pretend to get blown up.

Not your average, everyday entertainment.

The director gave the signal, and Memphis began his sprint down the pier. Cameras and spectators and crew members focused on the man as he darted past wooden crates and fake cans of fuel, each canister exploding after he ran by. Ten seconds into the stunt and Tyler realized the blasts were coming faster than Memphis could run.

What the h―?

A container detonated right beside Memphis, and the rising fear brought a bitter taste to Tyler’s mouth. The stuntman dove behind the shipping container, disappearing for what was probably only a few seconds but felt like a hundred beats of Tyler’s pounding heart. Tense, he waited for what came next.

The last blast of fire was huge—every muscle in Tyler’s body clenched—and the cable hoist jerked Memphis back. His body arced through the air in a ragdoll position that mimicked death as he sailed out over the water, landing in the sun-dappled bay. At least, Tyler hoped Memphis was only pretending to be dead. He was no longer sure.

And,
Christ
, the urge to dive in after him and check for a pulse was paralyzing.

The crowd went silent as waves undulated outward from where the stuntman had hit the water, everyone waiting for him to reappear. Tyler lived, died, and was resurrected a hundred times over—seriously, Jesus had been an
amateur
—before Memphis finally resurfaced and triumphantly pumped his fist in the air.

Relief coursed through Tyler, and he gripped the handle of the wheelchair for support. Numb, he listened to the spectators applaud as Memphis climbed the ladder onto the pier, coming to a stop at the top to wave at the crowd, a massive smile on his face. Tyler pressed his lips flat in amusement, annoyed at himself. Clearly, Memphis specialized in shit-eating grins and dishing out heart attacks.

Even the crew members looked relieved as they surrounded the guy and unhooked the cable. Memphis removed his outer T-shirt and the harness, saying something that made the staff laugh. And then he patted a gray-haired man on the back, swiping his baseball cap and placing it on his own head before heading in Patrick and Tyler’s direction. Along the way, he stopped to shake hands with the spectators and sign autographs—an amazing feat for someone who, minutes before, Tyler feared was dead.

And as he watched his ex approach, he felt…changed. A strange, sinking feeling somewhere inside that he couldn’t pin to anything specific.

“Dude,” Patrick said when the stuntman arrived, giving him a high five, “that trick was
sick
.”

Memphis grinned. “You like?”

“Me like.”

Tyler met his ex’s expectant gaze. Unfortunately, much to his surprise, he couldn’t say he’d enjoyed watching Memphis pretend to get killed.

Knowing the words were vague, Tyler said, “Pretty impressive.”

He then weathered a pause he couldn’t decipher.

Finally breaking their staring contest, Memphis turned and cuffed the teen on the shoulder. “Why don’t you get your mother and the nurse to wheel you down to the dock?” he said, nodding at the activity below. “I asked a couple of the crew to show you how they rigged the explosions.” He paused and then pointed a finger at the black-haired teen sporting oxygen tubing in his nose. “But no pretending to have trouble breathing again just to get sympathy and talk them into giving you supplies.”

The adolescent didn’t even bother sounding offended. “I have some serious
skills
.”

“I know,” Memphis said, obviously fighting the smile. “And today we’re going to use those skills for good and not evil. ¿
Comprende
?”

Patrick’s laugh filled the air as he pushed the wheels of his chair toward the ramp, clearly struggling not to act like an excited kid when he was, in fact, a really excited kid. As Tyler watched the teen and the two women make their way down the dock, the pressure to fill the silence slowly grew. The weight of Memphis’s watchful gaze was heavy.

Tyler kept his focus on the teen. “Do you think it’s wise to show him how to rig explosives?”

“Too late,” he replied. “He was already putting shit in the microwave in the break room at the hospital, trying to blow things up. When I visited him there, I showed him the ingredients that make the loudest boom.”

Tyler barely restrained the
are you out of your mind?
look.

Memphis went on, watching Patrick with a hint of fondness in his voice. “He reminds me of me at that age.”

Tyler couldn’t resist. “A smart ass?”

“No,” he said with a chuckle. “Determined.”

Determined to live life full throttle, probably. Just like Tyler remembered. Worse, Memphis seemed dead set on driving Tyler crazy by being so…impossible to resent.

He shoved the thoughts aside and studied Memphis’s profile, the face every camera loved and the clean line of his throat. His hair looked darker brown when damp, the short strands long enough to be charmingly tousled. But there was a tension around his eyes that Tyler hadn’t noticed before, and he cocked his head, trying to assess Memphis’s condition. Over the next several seconds, it dawned on him the man’s relaxed expression appeared forced.

Something wasn’t right.

“I get the feeling the stunt didn’t go as planned,” Tyler said.

His laugh sounded tight. “Not exactly,” he said. “Five seconds into the gag I realized the timing was wrong on the series of explosions.”

Tyler bit back a curse.

Just as he’d figured. He’d had a feeling things were off, but hearing it confirmed out loud was more disturbing than he cared to admit. Then again, if Memphis wanted to court death for a living, it was none of Tyler’s business.

None of your business
.

“I thought they seemed too close for comfort,” Tyler said.

“That’s because they were. And let me tell you,” he said with an amused quirk to his lips, “I didn’t think I was capable of running that fast. I knocked my head on the concrete when I dove behind the container. I think I even blanked out for a sec.”

Blanked out—wait, what?

Confused, Tyler shook his head. “Why didn’t you stop the stunt?”

Memphis shot him a look. “Do you know how expensive starting over would’ve been?”

Seriously
?
What the
hell
?

“Not nearly as expensive as a round of surgery to reattach your limbs,” he replied with a dry tone. “And probably not as expensive as a funeral, either.”