Boyfriend Chronicles 02 - The Boyfriend Mandate (3 page)

Feeling awkward as hell, Memphis plowed a hand through his damp hair. “Fuck me.”

What a boneheaded response, Haines
.

He cleared his throat and tried again. “You knew this was coming,” he said in a low voice. The words felt harsh, so he gave his roommate’s arm a gentle squeeze.

“Not so soon,” Tyler said.

The words sounded small and were followed by a slight sniff.

Memphis swallowed hard. “The doctor told her she only had three months, at most.”

The fourth should have been considered a gift, they’d said.

Fucking doctors, what did they know? A gift of
what
? Pain? Of vomiting and hair loss and failing bodily functions? Watching Tyler watch his birth mother gradually grow weaker had been the second most painful event in Memphis’s life. The first was when he’d been on his own downhill slide, death waiting patiently for him at the end.

“But I
just
found her, Memphis.”

The words were loud for what they didn’t say:
It wasn’t fair
.

No, it wasn’t freaking fair.

Memphis had spent six months helping Tyler search for his birth mom. His awkward, geeky roommate, future leader of the mathlete minions, had been determined to find her. The guy had been too busy buried in schoolwork and the search for his biological mother to socialize at his new school. Helping Tyler had seemed like the right thing to do. And then they’d found her and learned she’d been HIV positive for years…and was now getting treatment for breast cancer.

Cancer
.

A wave of nausea rose in Memphis’s gut, like that first toxic hit of chemo to the veins.

Memphis had barely held his shit together the day they’d tracked her down at the hospital three counties over. He’d pretended as if the antiseptic smell and the harsh fluorescent lighting and the resulting memories were no big deal. As soon as they’d made their way back to the dorm, he’d shut himself in the bathroom and puked his guts out. Food poisoning, he’d claimed. His friend had been too distracted to see through Memphis’s lies. And then came the truly painful times, watching Tyler watch his mother slowly slip away.

“I’m sorry,” Memphis said.

His voice muffled beneath the covers, Tyler said, “You should go get something to eat.”

Memphis blew out a breath. No way in hell would he leave him here alone.

“Only if you come with,” he replied, squeezing his roommate’s shoulder again.

“I’m not hungry.”

Tyler shifted and buried his head deeper under the comforter, and Memphis’s palm slipped to an exposed part of his friend’s hand, landing on ice-cold skin.

“Shit.” Concern rolled through Memphis with greater force. “You’re freezing.”

Shock and grief and despair were working their way through Tyler. Memphis knew the feeling well enough, and it didn’t take a fucking medical degree to recognize the signs. So he studied the form beneath his palm, debating his next move.

Only one choice felt right.

Memphis nudged his roommate’s shoulder. “Scoot over, bro.” He ignored the
danger
,
danger
,
danger
screeching in his head, because getting close was bound to leave him craving something he shouldn’t…

“Why?”

With a determined sigh, Memphis yanked the covers down, staring at the messy waves of black hair and clear gray eyes now rimmed in red. Instantly, he averted his gaze away from the wet tracks staining Tyler’s cheeks. No wonder the guy had hidden beneath the covers. He didn’t want to be seen crying.

Well, he definitely deserved a little consideration and privacy, but only to a certain extent.

Memphis gave his roommate’s shoulder another nudge. “Move forward.”

“What are you doing?”

This was no time for the brutal truth, words like
I’m really worried about you.

“I’m tired.” Memphis figured that was truthy enough. “I just beat my best time doing The Nightmare while
you
slept the day away.”

Tyler didn’t make his usual crack back.

A brief pause filled the air before Tyler scooted forward and held up the covers. Memphis stretched out behind him and shifted close—but not
too
close—hoping the shared body heat and company would help with the shock and the feeling of loss.

As he studied the back of the unruly head of hair, the smell of Tyler’s sheets mixed with his unique scent flooded Memphis’s nose. And the awareness that had been stalking him for months—yeah, that freaking inconvenient awareness—zipped through his limbs and wrapped around his groin even more firmly, as if to stay.

Memphis squeezed his eyes shut.

Fuck you, Harry, and your little girly prosthetic hormones, too
.
Why are you turning me bi?

Memphis had thought he’d put this attraction shit behind him.

Apparently not.

He slowly willed his body to relax, the scent of his roommate and the darkness and the fatigue stealing through his body. Jesus, he hoped he wouldn’t reach for the dude in his sleep.

“We’ll nap here for a bit while you warm up,” Memphis said. “And then I’m gonna drag you out to get some food.” Before he knew what he was doing, a silly surge of affection had him brushing his hand through Tyler’s hair. Flustered, Memphis ended the gesture with a playful tug on a curl, hoping to cover the moment. “And maybe a buzz cut, too.”

He teased the guy constantly, but, damn, he loved those thick, black waves.

Tyler sighed, the sound more fond resignation than sadness. “You’re such a doofus,” he murmured, and the familiar nickname made Memphis grin. “I don’t need a haircut,” he finished dryly.

In response, Memphis let out an amused snort.

“I suppose pizza isn’t an option for dinner,” his roommate went on.

“Oh,
hell
no.”

His friend huffed out a small laugh. “Not even if I skip the double meat?”

Memphis smiled, enormously pleased Tyler sounded more like his old self. “Not even.”

~~~***~~~

Present Day, North of San Francisco

Memphis had faced the truth long ago: Fate was a bitch, a malicious evil bitch who seemed to have his ass permanently sighted in her riflescope. Going two rounds in the ring with cancer—count them,
two
—could hardly be a coincidence. Apparently, after the first round, Fate had taken the fact that he was still breathing personally. And it tickled the hell out of Memphis that he made a living daring her to take him down.

A self-satisfied smile curled Memphis’s lips. The more elaborate and dangerous the stunt, or gag, the more satisfying
not
dying was. Unfortunately, today he had to survive several small explosions while attempting the truly impossible trick: getting back on better terms with Tyler.

Standing on the concrete pier of the industrial marina, salt permeating the cool breeze, Memphis shaded his eyes and scanned the gathering crowd until his gaze found Tyler again. Memphis figured Destiny had finally cut him some slack. She’d hand-delivered the opportunity to help the man with his fund-raiser and, ultimately—
hopefully—
return them to a friendlier place. Not relationship friendly, though. Memphis had burned that bridge long ago.

Hell, he’d blown the motherfucker sky-high.

But Tyler had strolled into the photo shoot with an impressive calm and a voice so smooth and resonant it added twenty tons of cool-headed nerves of steel to anything he’d said. Things like
this isn’t a social call
. And in response to catching up on old times? A small smile and an
I believe we’re well beyond that
.

Regret churned in Memphis’s gut as he studied Tyler from afar. He wore his black hair shorter than the shaggy mess he’d had in college. Long and lean, he definitely had more muscle. But how could Memphis get them back on better terms if he couldn’t read the man? Did Tyler really not give a damn about the past? Or did he secretly want to knife Memphis in the chest?

His mouth gave a wry twist at the thought. Unfortunately, the recent tabloid article had hardly won him any goodwill, either. And now…Patrick.

Fuck.

His wheelchair parked next to Tyler, the kid sat slumped in his seat, oxygen tubing draped across his face. The sullen teen was nothing like the smiling, adorable kid Hope Heals featured on the cover of their brochures. With good reason. His black knit hat and dark eyes were the perfect match for his sour mood.

When Patrick scowled up at Tyler and said something that
couldn’t
have been polite, Memphis winced. Jesus, he was the one who’d convinced his ex to help the teen out. If this continued much longer, Tyler would have
another
reason to curse Memphis’s name before the day was done.

“I’ve been sent to give you a heads up,” Hal Compton called from behind.

Memphis turned to watch the gray-headed stunt coordinator—and Memphis’s longtime mentor—cross in his direction.

“I’ve just received bad news,” Hal went on. “Unfortunately, it affects you, too.”

Memphis bunched his brow in humor as he admired Fate’s tenacious will. “You are just one more casualty in the rubble that is my week, Hal.” The look on the older man’s face hardly inspired confidence prior to today’s particularly difficult stunt, so Memphis asked, “What’s the word?”

“Camera number three needs to be taken down and set up again.” Hal pointed his clipboard in the direction of the crew. “Some idiot got the instructions wrong, and now we’ve got about a thirty-minute delay while we shift everything around.”

Perfect. More time for Patrick to give his ex-boyfriend hell.

“Translation?” Memphis said. “I have at least forty-five minutes before we’re ready.”

Hal’s eyes narrowed as he adjusted his baseball hat. “When I say thirty minutes, I mean thirty minutes.”

Memphis chuckled. “Are you willing to bet that World Series Red Sox cap you’re wearing?”

“Deal.”

He gave Hal an affectionate pat on the back. “Let me know when the hat becomes mine.”

The stunt coordinator grumbled, but his heart wasn’t in it. They’d replayed this scenario way too many times before.

Hal jabbed his finger at Memphis’s chest. “You just stay focused,” he said, as if Memphis
hadn’t
practiced this gag over and over again until he could perform the sucker in his sleep.

Well, everything except the multiple explosions part. Those were too expensive to do more than once, twice if need be and Memphis didn’t get dead the first go-round.

“And keep your head in the game.” Hal turned to head toward the offending camera, calling over his shoulder. “We don’t want to get that famous ass of yours blown to pieces.”

Memphis grinned. Because, damn, if he was going out, that would be a freaking
awesome
way to go.

As the crew made final preparations, the director began to argue about the position of the camera. Memphis knew he should stay put, but forty-five minutes was a long time to let Patrick’s behavior make Tyler resent him even more, if such a thing were possible. Time to run interference. With any luck, he’d also learn the key to reading his ex-boyfriend’s expressions.

Memphis set off to join them. A special site had been sectioned off for Patrick next to the end of a shipping container, offering him the best view and shade from the afternoon sun. As Memphis rounded the back of the massive metal crate and approached them from behind, Patrick’s voice drifted in his direction.

“I don’t need a nursemaid, dude,” the teen said, casting an angry frown up at Tyler.

Memphis sighed, feeling his goal of getting on Tyler’s good side slip further from his grasp.

“Excellent,” Tyler said smoothly. “Because I’m not a nursemaid.”

“You can leave now.” Patrick’s frown morphed into a scowl.

The doctor’s placid expression didn’t budge. “I’m not going anywhere.”

The kid muttered a curse and expertly turned his wheelchair. Oxygen tank attached in the back, he rolled away from the three adults accompanying him—his mother, Tyler, and Tyler’s nurse—until he reached another barricade and there was nowhere else for him to go. The kid kept his back to the group in a blatant act of rudeness. Or rebellion. Probably both.

Patrick’s mother sent the nurse a worried look and then turned to Tyler with a pleading expression on her face, and he nodded in acknowledgment. Dressed in what Memphis assumed was his doctor attire—because who else wore a dress shirt and a tie to the filming of a stunt?—Tyler ambled over and came to a stop next to the wheelchair, one hand casually stuck in his pocket.

Patrick’s voice was loud enough to carry. “Quit following me around, jerk,” he spit out.

Memphis groaned and increased his pace, but Tyler appeared unconcerned, his voice as unruffled as the day he’d shown up at the photo shoot.

“I’m here to provide your mother peace of mind in the off chance you need anything,” Tyler said.

“What could I possibly need?”

Tyler paused before answering, his tone dry, “I’m guessing an attitude adjustment.”

Memphis had to smother the laugh until Patrick glanced back up at Tyler.

“I just have leukemia,” the kid said, bitterness dripping from every word. “I’m not helpless, you fucktard.”

Jesus Christ. What vocabulary classes were kids taking in school these days? How to Sound Like a Dick 101?

Memphis strode forward and closed the gap between them, his voice low but firm. “Apologize.”

Patrick started and whipped his head around, glancing up with a guilty look on his face. The kid then seemed to deflate, slumping lower in his wheelchair. Memphis had visited Patrick in the hospital once, and he knew the kid had a seriously misguided case of hero worship.

Memphis barely restrained the skeptical scoff. Hero? If anyone knew why he didn’t deserve to be idolized, it was Tyler, especially after the way Memphis had ended things.

Real fucking brave, Haines
.

“He’s not bothering me,” Tyler said, meeting his gaze.

The masculine, clean-shaven face housed mesmerizing gray eyes framed by thick lashes. Wisps of black hair were just long enough to curl a bit at his collar. Funny, almost two years together and Memphis had never truly appreciated how colorless Tyler’s eyes were until two days ago. Maybe that was because Tyler had never seemed so…coolly detached.