Boyfriend Chronicles 02 - The Boyfriend Mandate (5 page)

Memphis rolled his eyes, grimacing as if the motion hurt. “Chill, Ty,” he said. “All’s well that ends well.”

Several beats ticked by as Tyler pondered Memphis’s words and studied the drops of salt water rolling down his face. The wet T-shirt clung to the muscles of his chest, and Tyler could just make out the lean six-pack beneath the fabric. But there was something in the stuntman’s posture, beautiful body aside, that screamed pain.

“But it didn’t, did it?” Tyler asked slowly. “End well, that is?”

The same could be said about their relationship.

As soon as the thought arrived, he wondered if the man was thinking the same thing. Memphis turned to look at him, and the direct gaze triggered a visceral response. A frisson of heat erupted low in Tyler’s gut. But he managed to maintain a neutral expression as they continued to stare at each other.

“No,” Memphis said in a low voice, “it didn’t end well.” He licked his lips and then slayed Tyler even harder when he went on. “I walked out and left you behind…”

Oh, God.

Tyler blinked once, and then his whole body shut down, refusing to move as the memories arrived like a tidal wave.

The first year after Memphis had left, Tyler used to lie in bed and think about his ex. He’d wonder if Memphis was happy, if he even missed Tyler at all. If he’d felt as though he’d lost a part of himself that he could never get back—like a limb or his heart or his other half.

Sonofabitch
.

Tyler rubbed his eyebrows with his fingers. Somewhere out in the harbor, a tugboat blew an air horn, the sound long and loud and oddly soulful, buying him time before having to fill the awkward silence. Unfortunately, the noise ended before he was ready. He dropped his hand and set the useless memories aside, determined to bring them back to the present.

Because the present was the only thing that mattered anymore.

“More important, today didn’t end well,” Tyler said as he stared at Memphis. “You should have called off the stunt.”

Memphis refocused on Patrick and the crew down on the pier. “There’s a wacky system in this business,” he said, which didn’t sound like the response Tyler had been hoping for. “You have to be ballsy, but not
too
ballsy. A four-out-of-five rating means you’re crazy enough to do anything to get the job done.”

“And when you hit five…?”

“You’re just too insanely dangerous to deal with on the set,” he said, a smile tugging on the corner of his mouth.

Tyler huffed out an amused breath. “Where do you sit on this sliding scale?”

“Depends on who you ask.” He let out a snort and then placed his palm on his temple, grimacing again before attempting a smirk.

The cocky look fell way short of the mark, and Tyler considered insisting Memphis sit down and rest. But the man’s choices didn’t affect him. They weren’t partners or boyfriends. They weren’t even friends.

The stunt is done and it’s time to go, Tyler. Time to leave
.

The words worked until he noticed a trickle of red-tinged salt water dribble from beneath the stuntman’s baseball cap.

Tyler let out a silent curse and stepped closer. “You’re bleeding.”

Memphis touched the drip on his temple and studied the mix of seawater and blood with a surprised expression. “Just a little cut,” he said. “Nothing big.”

Now that he was closer, Tyler noticed Memphis’s face was pale, more so than just a little cut would produce.
Dammit
. Clearly the injury was more serious than he’d first assumed. He spent several wasted seconds trying to talk himself out of the words he said next. But, ultimately, Tyler couldn’t turn the medical training off. Apparently that extended to those he’d spent years resenting.

Tyler touched the stuntman’s arm. “Let me see the cut.”

“I’m fine.”

Tyler didn’t move. Memphis met his eyes again, pure stubbornness on his face. He must have felt even worse than he looked, though, because he finally let out a sigh.

“Okay, come with me,” Memphis said.

Red Sox hat on his head, he started off toward a small tent set up for the crew. As Tyler followed, he reminded himself not to study his form, the wet jeans hugging his legs and outlining hard muscle. He definitely shouldn’t be studying the broad shoulders or the denim covering the ass Fifth and Taylor owned. But it was difficult to ignore those things as he trailed behind, assessing the man’s gait and checking for signs of unsteadiness.

When they got to the tent, Memphis sat on the corner of a table and removed his hat. The laceration located just beneath his hairline was small. The band of the cap had stemmed most of the flow of blood. Now that the hat was gone, the cut began bleeding again. But that wasn’t Tyler’s biggest worry. He scanned Memphis’s cheeks and lips, noting the lack of color, and his concern swelled.

Remember, just treat him like a patient
.

He carefully examined the small cut, ignoring the scent of salt and citrus and the feel of Memphis’s warm skin. “You don’t need sutures, but this needs to be cleaned up and bandaged.” He forced himself to focus on the oozing wound rather than the good-looking face, the dark, wet lashes framing eyes that could seduce even the most resistant of souls. “The real worry is a concussive injury.” He finally convinced himself to remove his hands from Memphis’s forehead. “You need to go to the ER. You might even need a CT scan of your head.”

“No.” Refusal washed across his expression. “I’ll be fine.”

Tyler opened his mouth to protest, but Memphis crossed his arms and spoke first.

“I’ve had enough of hospitals to last me a lifetime. You know how much I hate them.” He sent Tyler a pointed look. “I’m not going.”

Crap, what now? The risk, though small, was
real
. So he studied Memphis and contemplated his next move. Perhaps he could lead Memphis into making the right decision himself.

With a renewed sense of purpose, Tyler switched tactics. “Do you have a headache?”

“Yes.”

“Any other symptoms?”

“My head is swimming and my ears won’t stop ringing. So what?”

“Exactly,” Tyler said. “You have vertigo and tinnitus.”

“Jesus,” he muttered. He rubbed the top of his head. “I hate doctor speak.”

“You suffered a concussion. Possibly worse,” he pressed on. “Your head needs to be scanned. Or at the very least, you need to be observed overnight.”

Memphis attempted a boxer-melting grin. “Are you volunteering?”

Tyler reminded himself not to roll his eyes. The guy was clearly in pain. If Memphis thought he could deflect the argument by flirting with him, he had another thing coming.

Tyler knew his smooth tone sounded forced. “You need to get checked out, Memphis.”

In exactly the same tone, he said, “I’m not going to the fucking hospital, Tyler.”

God, had the man always been this difficult?

Their gazes locked, Tyler tried again. “Ever heard of the ‘talk and die’ syndrome?” Overly dramatic choice of a condition to mention, maybe. But he wasn’t playing games here. “Even a minor head injury can be dangerous. And if you begin to vomit and slip into a coma,” he said with a wry tone, “someone needs to drag your ass to the ER in time for a burr hole to be drilled into your skull.”

“Burr hole?”

“To measure the swelling in your brain.”

“Sounds like an interesting way to spend an evening,” Memphis said.

“For the newbie ER doc, definitely,” he deadpanned.

Memphis laughed, the sound abruptly cut off when he winced. “Damn.”

The stuntman grimaced, pressing a hand to his temple, and Tyler stared at him, trying not to worry. He tried not to care about the very remote possibility his ex-boyfriend had more than a simple concussion.

“I’m not taking no for an answer,” Tyler said.

Memphis opened his eyes. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll agree to the observation part anyway.”

A sense of accomplishment hit, followed by an intense wave of relief.

“So you’ll go to the hospital?” Tyler said.

“No,” he said. “The reporters are relentless, and I have no intention of letting rumors about an injury spread. Last time that happened, it was a media nightmare.” And then he pursed his lips, his hazel gaze lit with faint humor. “But if you want to keep an eye on me tonight, feel free.”

The surge of accomplishment in Tyler’s chest was suddenly tempered by a heavy, sinking feeling as reality set in. Memphis was counting on Tyler saying no. He was counting on Tyler’s need to avoid his ex-boyfriend outweighing the man’s well-being.

Shit
.

“Not a problem,” Tyler lied. “I’ll do it.”

The stuntman’s expression turned thoughtful. “The staff in the hotel where I’m staying can’t find out, either.”

Jesus Haploid Christ.

The trap he’d set for himself was getting deeper and deeper.

Regardless, Tyler made sure his tone remained cool. “Then it’ll be easier if you come with me.”

Several seconds passed by with no response.

“Damn,” Memphis finally murmured. His brow bunched in surprise, he went on, all traces of a flirty tone and teasing look now gone. “I was just kidding before, you know. I didn’t think you’d really follow through with the observation thing.”

Tyler decided not to dwell on
why.

Memphis tipped his head curiously. “You sure you want me to come home with you?”

Not at all
.

“Absolutely,” he answered instead.

Memphis studied him for a moment before a brief spark of amusement flared in his eyes again, increasing the weight in Tyler’s chest.

“Okay, then.” The stuntman pushed off from the table, looking far more cooperative than before. “Let’s get going.”

Good Lord.

Tyler stared at his ex, trying to sort out his churning thoughts. He’d achieved his goal; he’d made sure Memphis would be taken care of.

But now Tyler was left wondering if he’d just won…or lost.

~~~***~~~

Leaving the site of the stunt turned out to be more difficult than Memphis had anticipated.

The pounding in his head had turned into a mother-effing sledgehammer that left him nauseous. But he plastered a smile on his face as he said good-bye to the remaining spectators while trying hard not to puke or bleed.

It wasn’t easy.

Fortunately, Tyler’s nurse agreed to escort Patrick and his mom back to the city so Tyler could drive Memphis’s Jeep. Once he and Tyler were heading across the parking lot, things were beginning to look up. His headache had eased some, Patrick’s wish had been fulfilled, and Tyler hadn’t been offended by the kid’s obnoxious behavior, thank fuck.

Memphis should have known his recent bout of good luck wouldn’t last.

As they neared the row of cars where he’d parked, he spotted the journalist and let out a sigh. Memphis grabbed Tyler’s arm and pulled him toward the other side of the line of parked cars.

“What are you doing?” Tyler asked.

“Hopefully dodging the paparazzi,” he said, and the words got Tyler’s instant attention.

“Mr. Haines!” a man’s voice called from behind.

“Too late.” Memphis pressed his keys into Tyler’s hand and picked up their pace, feet crunching against gravel. “No matter what happens…” he murmured as he adjusted his baseball cap to cover his cut, “just keep driving.”

The redheaded journalist caught up with them, a smirk on his face. “When is the he-man stunt guy going to make a statement about coming out of the closet?”

Memphis had to grin at the predictable question.

After only three years on staff, Sean McDaniel had taken over as lead paddler on
The
San Francisco Sun
douche-canoe. The dude reeked of a homo hater. Either that or Sean was projecting.

“Your fixation on my love life is interesting, Sean. I never lived in a closet,” Memphis said. Despite his thumping head, his smile grew bigger. “But when you grow tired of living in the dark, I’d be happy to boot your ass out of yours.”

Sean’s smirk grew bigger. “Where’s the ex-wife?”

“None of your business.”

“Looks like you and Dr. Hall are getting back together.”

Memphis led Tyler toward the Jeep. “You’re just disappointed because you were planning on asking me out.”

The reporter turned to walk backwards in front of Memphis, a derisive set to his lips and his tone. Memphis had to give him credit. He was persistent. Although Memphis still hoped the guy tripped and landed on his ass.

“I’m beginning to wonder if this whole thing was just a publicity ploy.” Sean didn’t even wait for an answer. “Who turns you on more?” he went on. “Guys or gals?”

Memphis almost laughed. Was that the best the prick could do?

“I’m an equal-opportunity boner kind of guy,” he replied. “Feel free to put that quote in your paper.”

Tyler coughed hard, and Memphis briefly wondered what the heck was wrong with him. Unfortunately, he didn’t have time to ask due to the asshole journalist.

Memphis kept his hand on Tyler’s arm and refused to stop even as Sean continued his heckling. They arrived at the Jeep without incident and Tyler hit the unlock button. Once they were inside, his ex started the vehicle. Tyler, cool-headed man that he was, smoothly backed out of the parking spot as the redhead persisted, jogging beside them and pounding on the side of the SUV.

“How about an in-depth interview?” Sean called out.

Really? The reporter made it too easy. The jokes almost wrote themselves.

“Is ‘in-depth’ your secret code for a ride down Hershey Highway?” Memphis called through the window.

Apparently the mention of taking it up the ass was Sean’s last straw. With a scowl, he cursed and gave the vehicle one more thump. Memphis blew him a mocking good-bye kiss as Tyler shifted the SUV into drive, stepping on the gas and leaving the guy behind. Soon, they were headed down the highway that would lead them back to San Francisco.

After a minute of silence, Tyler slowly shook his head in an interesting mix of disbelief and amusement. “You had to egg the reporter on, didn’t you?”

“Had to keep up the status quo.”

“Why?”

“I told you, I don’t want any rumors about an injury in the press,” he said, pulling off his hat and tossing it in the back.