Capture & Surrender (Market Garden, #5)(52)

Brandon jerked a bit, but didn’t pull away.

“I went for possession with the intent to distribute. Couple years.”

“Drugs?”

“Human growth hormone.” Frank almost laughed, but didn’t have either the air or the humour to do it. “Supplements that weren’t legal. I was taking them, had a good source. Easy money. Nothing you can’t still get in some of the more hard-core gyms.”

“Okay.” Brandon just listened.

“I was pretty seriously into all that. Not quite competition standard, but I got used to being big. Trained with rough guys, North London gangs, rough guys, as I said. That connection might have got me busted, but, yeah, I went for that. Maybe that was the only thing they could pin on me. Hell, it was the only thing I did. I was a bouncer back then.”

Brandon tightened his hand on his leg. “You don’t have to tell me.”

“I went behind bars, had a cellmate. Wasn’t like the American prison movies at all, you know? I’m big, anyway. So anything that happened in that cell was completely consensual. He wasn’t gay, I don’t think, but he’d been in there five years. Me, I discovered I was. Had had a vague idea, of course, but didn’t manage to wrap my head around it. Thought it made me weak or something, and that’s not something I am easily. Weak, I mean.” He glanced down at his knuckles and briefly tightened his hands. “Got out, cleaned up, went looking for more. Met Andrew. Dated. Fell in love.” Terrified of those emotions. Utterly screamingly terrified. “Bought a house. Settled. Figured I had a shot at a respectable life and all that. Then my health started acting up. Got weird rashes, felt like shit, couldn’t lift my usual weights. Andrew got it worse, and he figured out what it was.” Frank closed his eyes. “I’m still amazed he didn’t leave me then and there.”

Brandon swallowed. “So he got it . . . from you?”

Frank nodded. “As far as we know.” And hadn’t that guilt gnawed at him relentlessly all this time? The money made it even worse. He still felt guilty, going from nobody with barely a regular income to “rich” by his own standards, “comfortable” by Andrew’s. Like he was reaping massive rewards for killing the only man he’d ever cared about. It didn’t seem fair, felt like the universe slapping him in the face and laughing at him.

Emily hadn’t wanted a thing but photos and had reminded him that Andrew had wanted him to be “all right,” that Andrew found dying easier because “Frank is taken care of.” Same guy who’d infected him, set for life because of him.

“Wow,” Brandon whispered after a while. “That must have been hell for both of you.”

“I’d say you have no idea, but”—the dream Brandon flashed through his mind, and instead of shuddering, he made himself pull Brandon a little closer—“I think you do.”

“Yeah. Pretty close, anyway.”

Frank stroked Brandon’s hair for a moment, then kissed his cheek. “I’m sorry you’re having to deal with any of that again.”

“It’s not the same.” Brandon’s Adam’s apple jumped. “Not even close.”

“How so?”

Brandon moistened his lips. “You’re healthy. And the treatments are getting better by the year.”

“It’s still—”

“I know.” Brandon put up a hand. Closing his eyes, he shook his head. “I know. The facts, the realities, all of that. But right now, you’re fine.”

Brandon reminded Frank right then of a kid trying to talk reality into changing. And really, what was to be gained by insisting that while Frank was fine now, there was no way to predict the future? Brandon had already been made to feel like a leper out on the paintball field. There was no need to pour salt in that wound before it was necessary.

And what do we do when that conversation can’t be delayed anymore?

Brandon touched Frank’s face, and gently turned his head so they were facing each other. Frank braced himself, expecting Brandon to say something else that he wasn’t sure he could handle right now, but instead, Brandon’s hand slid into Frank’s hair. He drew him down and kissed him. It was a light kiss, gentle, but went on. They wrapped their arms around each other, and Frank stroked Brandon’s sweaty, spiky hair as they shared the kind of kiss he’d led himself to believe would never happen again.

I’m here, and I want to make sure you are.

I know what’s happening, but I’m not going anywhere.

I need you.

A movement to the side broke Frank’s focus on Brandon, and he pulled away, feeling Brandon’s hand slide to his shoulder, then down his arm as he half turned.

The other players—most paint-splattered—were on their way back to the ready area, herded by Geoff, who gave him and Mike irritated looks. They should probably have stopped the game rather than let Geoff fend for himself.

Mike ordered Chris to stay the f*ck away from Frank and Brandon for the moment, and then he walked over to Geoff, who wiped his face and gave Mike his full attention, head tilted somewhat as he listened. Mike and Geoff were one of those couples who could very quickly communicate complex problems; their trust was implicit and explicit, and they seemed to have some kind of shorthand, too.

It didn’t take even fifteen seconds before Geoff stepped up to Chris, who rested his fists on his hips.