Capture & Surrender (Market Garden, #5)(19)

Stefan’s brow furrowed. “Okay.”

Frank took another deep breath to calm his nerves. “I lost my partner. A year and a half ago.”

Stefan jumped. “Oh. I’m . . . sorry to hear it.” His voice was soft, almost a whisper, like he’d run out of air.

“Thank you.” Frank’s voice didn’t have any more strength than Stefan’s. “It’s been difficult. I’m sure you can imagine.”

“Ooh, yeah.” Stefan broke eye contact and stared down at his own hands, wringing them in his lap. “I can definitely imagine.”

“Stefan.” Frank drew a deep breath. “My partner died of AIDS-related complications.”

Stefan’s head snapped up, and Frank thought the kid lost some colour.

Frank moistened his lips. “And the reason I don’t mess around at the paintball field or—”

“You’re positive too.” It wasn’t a question, nor was it an accusation. Simply a conclusion based on the evidence presented.

Frank nodded slowly. “I am.”

“Oh.”

“Under the circumstances, I should have told you before we went to the field. But it’s not something I want to be common knowledge here.”

Stefan’s eyes lost focus. “I understand.”

Heavy silence settled in, and it seemed to press down on Stefan’s shoulders as much as it pressed on Frank’s. Stefan didn’t look at Frank, which made Frank’s skin crawl. Nothing like announcing you were a leper to someone who’d wanted into your pants twenty-four hours earlier. The kid was probably reeling, mentally replaying all the moments when he’d tried to get to Frank, realising how many bullets he’d dodged.

As if HIV was the Grim Reaper’s touch. Frank was in excellent health with an exceptionally low virus count. There were condoms. Safe practices. But the disease was still terrifying, and Frank couldn’t deny he’d had the same reaction in his pre-positive days. He couldn’t blame Stefan, but it still hurt.

He cleared his throat. “That’s all I wanted to discuss. You can go.”

Please go, Stefan.

Stefan nodded and pushed to his feet. “Okay. Um, thanks for telling me.”

“You’re welcome.”

“This stays between us.” Stefan pushed the chair back into its place. “Don’t worry.”

“Thank you.”

Stefan turned to go. He put his hand on the doorknob, pulled it open, but then stopped, his back to Frank. Frank wanted to ask if something was wrong, but was afraid to. He really didn’t want to hear that Stefan was quitting now.

Still in the room, Stefan closed the door with a quiet click. He didn’t turn around. “Can I ask something personal?”

Frank pretended his heart hadn’t jumped into his throat. “Go ahead.”

Now Stefan turned. Not all the way around, but enough to make eye contact. “What was his name?”

Frank’s heart stopped. “I . . . what?”

“Your partner.” Stefan moistened his lips. He’d always seemed so ballsy and cocky, but suddenly he looked his own age. Maybe even a little younger. Boyish. Innocent. “What was his name?”

Frank found some air. “Andrew.”

Stefan nodded. “I was just curious. I’m sorry again for your loss.”

And with that, he was gone.

And why had Frank wanted to share the name, when most of his days, he managed to not even think it? Eighteen months. He’d moved on, had pushed it all to the fringes of his mind. He no longer woke up thinking Andrew wasn’t in the bed because he’d gone to the kitchen or to the toilet. When he woke up alone now, he knew why.

That’s the problem with the daddy kink, boy. Old guys have history. And some of it is horrible.

He was rattled, though. His heart had skipped a few beats, and he rubbed his face. Sexual attraction was one thing. Chemistry. Whatever you’d call it. Kink compatibility. Mutual admiration when it came to shooting paint. He’d enjoyed the banter, too.

Hell, these days he was so desperate for a touch that he could fully understand the johns that came here for a few moments or hours of relief from loneliness or an itch that they couldn’t scratch otherwise. Simple loneliness could drive a man to act in strange ways. For three weeks after the funeral he’d been a wreck, unable to even feed himself for crying. The soul-wrenching misery of it all, the mealymouthed life goes on, and God is thy shepherd, and he’d always heard what people thought inside their skulls: your insatiable lust has made you both ill, and he’s only the first to be punished.

It probably wasn’t fair. His therapist had told him he was projecting, but the whole your recklessness will kill you vibe, that had been impossible to deal with on his own. If not for Geoff and Mike, he’d likely have walked into traffic or a train, blind with tears.

And worst of all was that the anti-virals kept working on him, and working fine. It had been Andrew who’d lost weight, Andrew who’d had horrible stomach trouble, who couldn’t go to work for weeks while every change of his pill cocktail kicked his scrawny arse all over the floor. And then the worst: wishing for death so the suffering would be over.

Frank wiped at his eyes and forced himself to get up. Facing this shit always brought it all back. All he wanted was to keep people safe and at a distance and keep his goddamned dignity in the face of all of this. Keep the respect of the people working for him, and not have to deal with whispers and rumours and panic when he sneezed or had a cold or was a bit under the weather. He had enough on his plate without all that. Things like staying sane and healthy and enjoying life while he could. And if that meant reffing a game rather than dealing with all the f*cking baggage, then that was his goddamned right.