Bombora Page 14

  Eventually I settle on tightest pair of jeans I own and a gray V-neck I must confess looks damn good. Still with no clear picture of what I hope to achieve by going there, I figure it can’t hurt to look presentable. Phel used to use this tactic liberally, dressing in clothes that perfectly matched his eyes or strategically ruffling his hair whenever he had something touchy to bring up, and me being an average twentysomething dude, I fell for it every time, oblivious and distracted by his mouth or the open V of his shirt while he went on about the opera tickets he’d purchased for that evening, or the toilet that needed to be fixed. Hell, it’s an art women have perfected for ages, right up there with asking for a new living room set during sex. If Phel is going to slam the door in my face, I at least want him to stare at my package and hesitate first.

  “Hugh, I’m going out!” I yell at the closed door of his office, and in response I get something that sounds like a grunt of acknowledgement. He doesn’t ask where I’m going or when I’ll be back, which suits me just fine, since that way I won’t have to lie about it. Already I contemplate signing his name in the Palermo guestbook, which I should feel shitty about, but regard as sheer necessity. Desperate times and all that, and I’m pretty goddamn desperate right now.

  Years have passed, but I still know the way to Palermo without a map. Although it’s within walking distance of Hugh’s house, I take Lucy in case I’m forced to beat a hasty retreat. The compound looks just as I remember it, serene and cookie-cutter neat and not unlike a gated community you’d see in Newport or other überwealthy parts of California—parts of Cardiff, in fact, which is why Palermo fits in so well. The damaged wealthy feel at home here. Hugh used to complain more about feeling pampered and coddled than he did working the steps, but Phel…. This is probably not much different than the conditions under which he grew up, him being the product of old money and a truly intimidating empire. Even cut off from his family’s resources, he no doubt found a way to hold on to some of it, some way to keep himself in the creature comforts he once enjoyed freely. Phel always was one for planning ahead.

  The visitation policy for unsupervised patients is pretty relaxed, considering they are clients, not inmates, and can come and go as they please. The guard at the front gate waves me through before I finish giving a name. By comparison, arranging face time with inpatients in the main facility is a whole other song and dance, regulated by strict hours and pat-downs for the more severe cases, just in case a visitor gets the bright idea to smuggle something in. This reassures me somewhat. I would submit to eighty fucking cavity checks for Phel—not the fun kind either—but I doubt he’d feel the same, fiercely private to the end. I wonder how much Hugh knows about Phel’s issues, though I imagine he has filled in most of the blanks already. He was the one who spent time here, after all; I was nothing more than a lousy commuter.

  The compound really is beautiful, green and pristine, inviting, obviously a place of meditation and relaxation. I have to park Lucy near the main building and walk the rest of the way, since most of the compound is accessible only on foot. Other people, be they patients or staff, walk the grounds with far less of a sense of purpose than me, seemingly happy to be out and about, enjoying the cool breeze and sweet sea air. I trace the hedged-off paths that lead the way, bypassing a quiet pond and several meditation areas, and try not to reminisce about all my other visits here that were filled with fear for my brother. More than anything, I pray it won’t be the same with Phel.

  Christ, I hope he’s okay. He’s done such a damn good job of hiding all this, he could be in deep shit and I wouldn’t know it—wouldn’t be able to do a damn thing to help. He must hate it here. I can almost picture him forcing himself to relax in this environment, pretending like he belongs, but I know he must miss his old digs, that ridiculously opulent condo in the steeple of a church or his second home in Chicago, which could have gotten Oprah’s nod of approval. Hell, she probably bought it off him when he moved. I’d buy them back myself if I could, for him, but all I’ve got to offer is a weak apology and a plea for him to look me in the eye again. It’d be nice if he looked at me that way again, too, and kissed me with the same need as on the beach, but that’s nothing but a stupid fantasy on my part. No hopes or expectations to that end. I don’t deserve it, but then, I’ve always asked too much of Phel.

  There are six independent-living cottages on the compound, arranged around a leafy outdoor pond and a little cul-de-sac. It looks not unlike a fancy overnight camp, with a decent illusion of freedom and normalcy. Each has its own small porch and sitting area out back, partially fenced off for privacy. Not unlike the first time Phelan took me home, my hand is shaking slightly when I stop in front of the cottage with the 4 on the door. There’s no doorbell I can press and get it over with, no touch of a button to seal my fate; I’ve got to reach out and knock, feeling each rap of my knuckles against the wood like a fucking new nail in my coffin.

  I try to stand as far back from the peephole as possible—cheap of me, I know, but my objective here is to get Phel to open the door, not take one look and call for security before I even catch a glimpse of his face. In some small way, seeing him will make it better. Whenever things used to get really bad with Emilia and I had no clue how to carry on, seeing Phel’s face reminded me I was fighting for something important, even if the only person I was fighting was myself.

  At first there’s no answer, no hint of life within, but then I remember this is Phel we’re talking about, not my brother, and not everything he does sounds like an army rushing into battle. Still, the sudden rattle of the doorknob surprises me. I wonder if they still leave everything unlocked around here? I suck in a thick breath when the door swings open and Phel is there, sleep rumpled and dressed in sweats that make him look unbearably young and carefree. My stomach flips when I realize they’re an old pair of mine.

  “Nate,” he says in alarm, voice rough with disuse, and takes a step back like he’s discovered a tiger on his doorstep. His eyes track over me in a rush and then to our surroundings, probably a knee-jerk reflex to the past couple of weeks of secrecy and suspicion. Much to my relief, his desire to keep me hidden overrides his impulse to chase me away, and he drags me inside by the wrist so he can shut the door behind us. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Obviously I came to see you,” I answer tersely. “What the hell are you doing here? At Palermo?” Before we can launch into a frantic back and forth, because I know he’ll want to know how I found this place, I say, “I got your number off Hugh’s phone, okay? I had no idea you were in fucking rehab, for crissakes, I was just… I was just going to call you, but then I find out you’re here fighting a goddamn addiction?” I remember at the last minute I’m supposed to be here to apologize, not give him the fifth degree, and add, “Sorry. I had to come see if it was true for myself.”

  Phel scrunches up his face like he doesn’t know which part is more ridiculous. “Oh, great,” he retorts. “So now you’re going and stealing private information off your brother’s phone. Glad to see nothing’s changed.” He shakes his head angrily. “Can’t you see you aren’t wanted here, Nate? I’ve kept this information personal for a reason—it’s none of your business.”

  Unable to help it, I snort. “Right, none of my business. We break up, you take off, and when you’re suddenly locked away in a rehab facility, I’m expected to believe I had nothing to do with it.” It’s one hell of a thing to try to lay claim to, but I’m not here to weasel out of my responsibility or haggle for a smaller share of the blame. I deserve all of it, and that’s exactly how much I’m here to take. “Phel, the thought of you hurting yourself with something, I just—” I muffle a strangled sound of pain and have to look away from his face, allowing myself to observe my surroundings for the first time. His temporary home is exactly as bland and unoriginal as I expected of Palermo, decorated in soothing blues and whites, with inspirational paintings of sailboats on the walls. Fresh flowers and a river-stone fireplace attempt to cheer thin
gs up. “I’m not worth it.”

  Phelan’s expression hardens at me, and he moves back to lean against the wall near the entrance to the kitchen. On the table next to a steaming cup of coffee—he takes it with three sugars and so much milk it’s nearly white—I can see a crisp newspaper that must have been left by the maid. Stories of a world all but inaccessible to most of the patients here. I can feel Phel watching me for a second, observing my curiosity. Then he says, “You’re right, you’re not.”

  I can’t be upset at what’s true. “Then why all this?” I ask, gesturing around me.

  By his sigh, I can tell Phel is deciding how much he wants to commit to this conversation, how much he wants to tell me. That I’ve yet to be hauled away by Palermo’s intimidating security team is heartening. “I’m not here for drug or alcohol abuse,” he eventually says. “Believe it or not, my life has kind of fallen apart recently. I needed to recoup, and I needed a place to live. Considering I had enough of my own money saved, this seemed a logical way to achieve both.” I watch as one of his shoulders lifts, a gesture that makes my throat close up with its unspoken pain. “I needed help.”

  “And it’s my fault.”

  His eyes lift to meet mine, and there’s no hostility or reproach in them, just tiredness and heartbroken acknowledgement that what I’ve said is the absolute truth, and a flickering resolve to not contradict me. That’s painful, but good. Phel doesn’t need anything more on his plate right now, from the looks of it, including trying to protect my ego.

  I advance slowly toward him, anticipating being pushed away at any second, but he lets me get closer than arm’s reach before he flinches and presses himself back against the wall. Frozen, I maintain my distance.

  “I’m sorry I yelled at you last week,” I murmur. “It was a shitty thing to do and I knew it at the time, I just… lost it. You didn’t deserve that.” At his jerky nod, I risk coming an inch closer. “Tell me what I can do to help, if there’s some way to….”

  Phelan’s mouth gives an ugly twist as he straightens. He sets his shoulders in a tense, angry line that means business as much as the warning flash in his eyes. “What? Some way to make it better, Nate? Take back the lies and get my family speaking to me again? Change the fact that I’ve lost everything because of you?”

  “Don’t you think I’d fix that if I could? Hell, I’d leave and go back to Ohio if that’s what you wanted. If it’d make things easier.” This isn’t what I’m ready for at all, but once the words are out, I realize I really would do that for him. Hugh wouldn’t understand, of course, but knowing Phel might be more at ease with me gone is worth my brother’s confusion and my own mileage. My own heartbreak, too, though that goes without saying. I’d move to freaking Antarctica for him. “I’ll go if you ask me to. Even though I might not be able to fix things myself, I won’t stick around and watch you hurting, not if leaving can change that.”

  “Out of sight, out of mind, right?” he snaps.

  “You know that’s not what I mean.”

  Recognizing the muscle that tics in his jaw as disgruntled agreement, I give in to the desire to touch, pressing our bodies lightly together so he can feel I’m here. Last thing I want is for him to go off someplace else in his mind to escape the conversation. He shivers against me, hard enough that I feel it, and I dip my head to meet his gaze since he’s staring pointedly at the floor. The only way to snap Phel out of his withdrawn moods is to be direct, so there’s no way out of the conversation except through it. I don’t want a repeat of last time, and my face sure as hell would appreciate not getting punched again, but something about Phel makes me want to push and push until he shoves back—until he gives me some spark of anger, of the old, passionate him. But let the record show I have no fucking idea what I’m doing.

  “Phel. Do you want me to leave?” I repeat.

  He looks at me again, finally, chewing the inside of his lip, then counters, “What do you want from me, Nate?”

  Well, that’s simple enough, at least. “I don’t want to see you acting like some goddamn zombie all the time,” I say. “I’d like you to be happy again and not… this.”

  “And what if that man doesn’t exist anymore? What if this is all there’s left?”

  Shit, he looks ready to lose it, face pinched and upset in a way that could mean he’s about to go mental at me or just start bawling. Since I’ve never seen the latter and have no desire to, I’d happily settle for outrage if it gets us somewhere, gets me more of that Phel from the other day. Like I said, I’m in no hurry to get pummeled again, but I’ll take that over strained silence. Therapists always say anger is useful, right? That’s what I want. He can beat me to a bloody pulp in the name of progress. Not knowing what this new Phel is capable of, however, I don’t say that out loud.

  “I don’t believe that,” I tell him. “But maybe you do, and that’s why I’m willing to do what I can to change it. Anything, Phel. If you want me to go, I’ll go. But if you want me to stay….” I let that hang there for a second, aching with hope, and dare to think his silence can be read as acceptance. “Tell me what you need, man.”

  The request is pointless; we both know the answer already. Phel needs nothing less than what he took for himself on the beach that day, something hard and hungry and brutal, the desire to exact punishment for wrongs done to him. And hell, every part of me is willing to give it to him if it’ll help. From the way it made me feel, it might help me too. His fist made me feel like I was atoning for something unspoken.

  “What motivation could you possibly have to stay?” he asks me, and one of his hands fists the fabric of my T-shirt before he reaches to touch the place where my lip is still a bit swollen, the cut fading. At first the pressure is tentative, distracted, but as I open my mouth in invitation, he presses harder, seemingly fascinated by what his fist left behind. It stings a little and I hiss.

  “I’m not here to talk about me,” I remind him, fighting the impulse to lick at the pads of his fingers, or else take the digits into my mouth altogether.

  He seems to anticipate what I want, eyes going stormy indigo with sudden heat, dark as angry thunderclouds. “You don’t particularly want to know what I want to do to you, Nate,” he spits. “I have never wanted to treat anyone that way, much less you, and I don’t like it. I don’t even want to talk about it with my therapist, and she’s paid to listen to that crap. It’s just that you make me so….”

  “What?”

  “Angry.” A quick shift occurs, too subtle for me to decipher, and I feel his other hand sneak out to curl around my hip. His fingers dig into the bone. This time there’s no hesitation—the sharp pressure is hard enough to leave a bruise. I push myself into it and watch with satisfaction as his nostrils flare. “Are you telling me that’s what you want?”

  The lowness of his voice sends a shiver up my spine. Shifting my weight forward, I press our chests together to show how much I’d welcome a glimpse inside his head right now, even if it’s something he’s afraid to let me see. I’m not afraid to go there, though maybe I should be—I don’t know. I keep thinking there’s got to be something simmering beneath the surface, waiting to boil over; something he’s done a bang-up job of hiding from Hugh and the people here at Palermo—even from himself. I want that part of him for my own, want all of that pain and resentment and whatever else lurks down there. If it’ll let Phel finally think he’s not the only one who’s hurt, so be it. He isn’t, and I could probably spend a few days unpacking every ugly thought that’s crossed my mind since he left, but I’m slowly starting to realize he won’t believe it unless he sees it for himself, feels like he’s giving back a little of what I did to him.

  With a shiver, I realize I want that for him, no matter what it takes. It’s like that line about not knowing how deep the rabbit hole goes—I don’t think the point is that it’s deep, but that it’s impossible to resist finding out for yourself once you’ve been invited to look. Phel has already led me down pretty far, since I’d hard
ly be here if I hadn’t met him. Even if I’m starting to suspect we’re wandering into seriously uncharted fucking territory, I trust him all the same, like I wouldn’t trust anyone else.

  “I want you.” My voice comes out hoarse, words cracking around everything I don’t know how to say out loud, but my hands are weirdly steady as I reach out to him, bracketing the edges of his slim hips with my hands. He’s breathing hard into me, a flush creeping up his neck to stain his cheeks, and I feel the length of his cock begin to harden against my leg. The loose sweatpants do nothing to disguise his growing arousal. Thing is, he doesn’t seem to give a shit if I notice. “I want to feel you kiss me again like you did at the beach,” I say. “Honestly, Phel, I don’t care what I have to do to get you to make me yours again, how fucking low I have to stoop. I’ll do anything, just… let me.”

  To prove it, I slide down to my knees, wincing at the hard impact against the wood floor, and lean in to nuzzle his erection through the soft cotton until he gasps. As his hand creeps into my hair and tightens almost right away, I release the soft moan that’s been building since I walked in the door. I haven’t had a cock in my face since the last time I was with Phelan. I’m not ashamed to admit having both of these things in front of me is enough to make my mouth water. Meanwhile, the tight jeans that seemed such a great idea an hour ago are hot and constricting, trapping the boner that suddenly presses against the fly. I could unbutton myself—would be grateful for the relief, actually—but get the idea Phel might have something to say if I go off script now. Especially after I’ve all but offered myself to him in slavery or some shit.