Capture & Surrender (Market Garden, #5)(60)

Though once he’d closed the door behind himself, he realised too late that this place didn’t offer much protection. He remembered too well being tied up and on all fours while Brandon f*cked him. The two hundred quid had really been a joke in that context, but damn if that f*ck hadn’t very nearly broken him. Tension jumped up into his throat, crystallised in a heavy lump, and didn’t budge.

He’d meant it. He would not pen Brandon in. Would respect his choices.

“So what are you going to do, Frank?” Andrew had snarled. “Break my neck? That’s not really a challenge for you, is it?”

Andrew. God, Frank had been such an arsehole to him when they’d started dating. When Andrew had gotten under his thick skin and confronted him with all the poison he’d stored up inside, invariably pressing into old wounds that weren’t nearly healed. This row hadn’t even been about anything specific—nothing Frank could remember.

Andrew must have felt like he was taming a wild bull half the time, because Frank had been so resentful of the man’s education, money, smooth manners. He’d never expected them to get anywhere as a couple. At least not outside the bed.

But with much patience, Andrew had gotten him to a point that was halfway civilised.

Didn’t mean the old Frank didn’t sometimes rear his ugly, square head, ready to knock down walls and punch anybody who provoked him and ran too slowly.

He put the papers down on the desk, tried not to go back and see if Stefan was already leaving with the client. Or whether he could make up some reason to interfere.

It’s his decision.

“Why are you doing this?” He’d asked Andrew once, when the man had faced him down over something stupid and inconsequential Frank had been upset about.

“I think you need to be protected from yourself at times.”

Still true. He was a better man now, settled, not angry and bitter anymore. That anger’s red-hot core had cooled, and when he examined it now, it didn’t really seem much like anger at all. Protectiveness could look very similar and was one of his better traits. And he still couldn’t force it on Stefan.

Or Brandon, who hadn’t accepted his help, likely never would, and maybe that was pride, or independence. Maybe, as a Dom, Brandon chafed at the idea of owing him anything. Brandon did things on his terms, and normally Frank liked that in people. He respected the willingness to go through a wall if need be. Andrew’d had that in spades.

And after all the shit he’s been through, you’re going to saddle him with your aging carcass and your hang-ups and your battle scars and the time bomb ticking in your blood?

Frank sighed and rubbed some stiffness out of his neck. For all that he wanted to protect Brandon, just being together would eventually hurt him. They took precautions, but the fact remained that Frank was infected. And unless science had an earth-shattering eureka moment in the next few years, this would eventually kill him. Frank had already watched Andrew wither away. No one should have to watch someone go through that. To make Brandon watch two lovers in a lifetime die like that? Inhumane.

Closing his eyes, Frank continued kneading at his stiffening neck. He could buy all the camera gear Brandon wanted. Help him get a visa by whatever means necessary. Give him whatever he needed to get out of this line of work. But the one thing Frank couldn’t protect Brandon from was him. Not as long as they kept doing this.

The kid had been through enough hell, had gone across an ocean to lick his wounds and start over. Frank couldn’t put him through that again.

Which left one option.

Frank opened his eyes. His legs felt like lead as he started towards the door. He went back out into the lounge.

Stefan and the john he’d been seducing earlier were gone. Frank didn’t let himself think of where they were or what they were doing. He tried not to, anyway. Easier said than done.

“Hey, boss.” Raoul eyed him over the bar. “You all right?”

“Yeah.” Frank gestured at the colourful backlit bottles of top-shelf liquor. “Pour me a double.”

Raoul didn’t move. “Uh, boss, are—”

“I’m not one of the boys.” Frank tapped his fingers on the bar. “Give me a bloody drink.”

“All right, all right.” Raoul poured the drink and handed it to him.

Glass in hand, Frank nodded towards the back. “I’ll be in my office.” He took a step, but paused. “When Stefan comes back, tell him to come see me.”

Stefan. Not Brandon. They shouldn’t have crossed that line in the first place. Raoul shouldn’t have brought him in. Frank shouldn’t have made him part of his life. Learned where the name Stefan came from. Introduced him to his friends. Maybe asked their approval. And received it.

“So, if that matter comes up, I’m claiming that best man spot before Mike snags it.”

Oh, Geoff.

Frank dropped into his chair, feeling sixty or seventy years old all of a sudden. Old, tired, and ill to his heart, ill to his stomach, and worse, to his soul.

You want to protect him? This is how you do it.

Once the whiskey was gone, he desperately craved another, to take the edge off, to numb himself, though he despised drunks and hated the loss of control. With his looks and easy manner, Brandon would find somebody else. Somebody like Chris, or hell, any man out there with a pulse. Closer to his age, healthy, and with more good years in him. Nobody would suspect him or treat him like a leper. No longer guilty—or diseased—by association.