Текст книги "Trust"

Автор книги: Ella Frank

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

Chapter Twenty-Seven

It was Sunday evening when Logan turned his car onto Tate’s childhood street. It’d been around an hour and a half since they’d landed, and it had been bittersweet leaving New York behind. They both knew they had to come back to their real lives, but as he pulled the car to the curb in front of the two-story house, Logan thought, Why do we have to start with the ugliest part first?

Tate reached across the car to touch his thigh, and Logan glanced down and put his hand over the top of it. Bringing his eyes up to the concerned ones looking at him, he found himself smiling over at Tate.

“Shouldn’t I be the one comforting you right about now?” he joked, trying to lighten the mood.

“Why? I’m not the one who’s worried. Everything I want is right here in this car. That’s not about to change.”

Logan leaned his head back on the headrest and closed his eyes. “Sweet talker.”

“It’s the truth.”

“Then remind me again. Why are we here?”

Tate let out a soft sigh. “Because I figure if my father can swallow his pride and apologize… then the least I can do is see where things stand with the rest of them.”

Logan couldn’t fault him for that. He was the one person who’d reached out to him during Tate’s hospital stay. Logan hadn’t seen him since, but he knew he’d visited with Tate, and it made him hopeful that maybe at least one of his parents would come around and accept his decision.

But will he accept us?

“All right, then. Let’s go and see if the Morrisons are home.”

Tate released his hand to open the door, and Logan climbed out also, rubbing his palms over the front of his jeans. He waited by the side of the car as Tate came around and held his hand out to him.

“Come on. I think it’s about time you were introduced to my family the way you should’ve been the first time.”

As Logan stepped onto the sidewalk and slipped his hand into Tate’s, he marveled at the difference between now and the first time they’d stood here.

“And how is that?” he asked, curious of how Tate saw him—saw them.

He started to walk up the drive, making Logan have to follow or let his hand go, and once they’d reached the white steps leading to the wrap-around porch, Tate kissed him. “As my boyfriend and the man I love. The person I now live with.”

“That’s a lot of information right there,” Logan said, trying to hold back the smile he felt threatening to appear.

“It is. But they need to know that’s the way it is. If they want to be in my life,” Tate said as he backed up two of the steps, “in any way—whether it’s on Sundays for dinner or in hospital rooms because I’ve been in an accident—then they need to know that you are going to be there. You’re the only person I want there. Everyone else is just an added bonus. Got it?”

Logan took a step up, stroked Tate’s cheek, and told him, “You make me so fucking happy. I had no idea I never was before.”

Tate smiled broadly before capturing his lips in a kiss. Then he turned to make his way to the front door while Logan lingered just behind him, waiting for whatever the hell was about to take place. But he wouldn’t have to wait long because Tate raised his hand and knocked.

As Tate stood there with Logan’s hand in his, he wondered what was about to happen. But instead of the apprehension he’d once felt about bringing Logan home to meet his parents, he felt proud.

I have a caring, successful partner.Hell yes, I’m proud, he thought as the door opened and his father stood before them.

He felt Logan’s fingers tighten around his own, and Tate took a step back so he was standing directly beside him. His father’s eyes went first to him and then over to Logan before they dropped down to where their hands were connected. He then raised his head and shocked the hell out of him.

“Tate, Logan… This is an unexpected visit.”

It was the first time he’d ever heard his father speak Logan’s name, and as it lingered in the air, Tate forgot what he’d been about to say.

“Do you want to come in?” he asked.

Tate wanted to answer, but before he said yes, he needed to know what they were walking into. “Is Mom home?”

“No. She’s over at your sister’s,” his father said as he pushed the screen door open and stood aside. “Do you want to come in?”

This time, Tate took a step forward and felt Logan follow. As they passed by his father, Tate said, “Thank you.”

They walked down the hall and into the living room where, months ago, they’d had their first spectacular showing, and Tate looked at his surroundings. It was strange to be back there after everything that had happened. It felt surreal. Like that Sunday had been a whole other life ago. And as his father gestured to the couch and he sat on it beside Logan, he thought that it really had been.

“I thought everyone would be here,” Tate started, honestly surprised his father was here by himself. Sundays had always been a family day, and usually after church and lunch, Jill and Sam’s kids would be racing around the yard into the evening.

“Yeah,” his father said with a sigh as he walked into the kitchen. “Some things have changed over the past few weeks.”

Tate looked over at Logan, who’d sat back on the couch and casually placed his ankle over his knee. He appeared relaxed, and for a minute, Tate bought it. Until he saw the way Logan’s fingers were drumming out a frenetic rhythm on his thigh.

He reached out and put his hand over Logan’s, stilling his fingers, and when he caught those blue eyes, he winked. He then turned back to the kitchen and saw his father watching them. He had the fridge door open, and when he saw Tate looking at him, he quickly averted his eyes back to the contents inside.

“Do you two want a drink? Soda? Beer? Wine, maybe?”

He’s nervous, Tate thought, the idea never having occurred to him before. Almost as nervous as we are.

“Dad?” he said and then waited for him to look at him again. When he did, Tate let Logan’s hand go, telling him, “I’ll be right back,” as he got to his feet. He made his way into the kitchen and got three glass tumblers from the cabinet. “You still got your bourbon stashed around here somewhere?” he asked his dad.

His father narrowed his eyes at him and then smiled. The expression was so familiar that Tate felt tears prick his eyes, but he blinked them away as his father pointed behind him.

“In the flour container on the bottom shelf.”

Tate took a deep breath and walked into his mother’s large pantry. He grabbed the container, and when he came back out, he put it on top of the wooden butcher block and opened it.

“Thought you quit, old man,” he said as he fished out a half pack of Marlboros.

“Life has been stressful lately.”

“I totally agree with that,” Tate said as he unscrewed the bottle of alcohol. “Dad?”

His father raised his eyes, which mirrored his own, and they encouraged him to continue.

“I want you to meet someone.”

They both turned to where Logan had sat forward on the couch, and his father said, “We already met, Tate. I told you—”

“I know what you told me, but I want you to meet the man I know. Not the one you had to talk to because he was sitting in a hospital waiting room.”

Tate poured the three drinks, and when he slid one across the surface, his father took it in his hands and lifted it to his lips.

“Fair enough.”

He looked over to Logan and crooked a finger at him. As he stood and walked their way, it was more than obvious to him that Logan was anxious. His shoulders were stiff, his hands were in the pockets of his jeans, and when he stopped beside him at the kitchen island, he made sure they were far enough apart that they weren’t touching.

Oh no you don’t, Tate thought, and moved over so their arms grazed one another. When Logan looked at him, he offered a drink with what he hoped was an expression that said, Trust me.

Logan liked to think himself a pretty confident guy, but as he stood in Tate’s family kitchen opposite his father, he had to admit that he was intimidated as hell. He’d been watching father and son from across the room as they stood side by side, intrigued by their likeness. It was almost uncanny.

The curls Tate wore messy and long had clearly come from his father, who wore them cut close to his head. But there was still a noticeable kink there. His weathered features were tan, just like Tate’s complexion, and a moment ago, when he’d smiled across at his son, Logan had recognized the expression as the same easygoing one Tate would flash.

Tate was the spitting image of his father—and for a minute, it had made Logan wonder how he would have measured up if he’d ever had a chance to stand beside his own father.

“I was just telling Dad I want you two to meet,” Tate said, interrupting his thoughts.

Logan cocked his head to the side and eyed him. “Pretty sure we’ve met a few times now.”

“That’s what I told him,” Mr. Morrison said before he raised his glass and took a sip of his drink.

“Okay, smartass,” Tate said to his father. Then he faced Logan. “I meant it would be nice if he got to know you outside of a hospital.”

“Ahh, I see,” Logan said. He then turned to Mr. Morrison and extended his hand. He wasn’t sure what he expected, but when he reached for it, Logan decided that it was about time to make his intentions crystal fucking clear. He clasped it in a strong grip and inclined his head. “I’m Logan, and I’m in love with your son.”

He refused to look away from the man who still had his hand. When Tate’s father shook it, his mouth twitched at the side. And he floored Logan by saying, “Yes. I can see that you are, son.”

Logan wondered if he’d imagined what he just heard, but when Tate put a hand on his back and his lips by his ear, saying, “You can let go of his hand now,” he knew he hadn’t.

Did his dad really just call me son? he thought, and released his hold.

When Tate’s father chuckled, Logan reached for the tumbler in front of him and downed it. So Tate poured another glass for him, clearly sensing he needed it, and then started asking questions.

“You said Mom was over at Jill’s? What’s that about? She didn’t know I was coming.”

“No,” his father agreed. “She didn’t. But ever since…”

As his words faded, Logan lifted his glass back to his lips. He didn’t think what was about to be spoken aloud was going to be anything good, and he wanted to be a little more inebriated before it was voiced.

“Dad?” Tate urged. “Just say it. Ever since what?”

Logan cleared his throat, hoping in some way to dissuade Tate’s father from speaking—it didn’t work.

“Ever since you woke up in the hospital and she found out Logan had been coming to see you—that I had been letting Logan in to see you—things changed.”

Tate rested his hands on the counter and asked, “Changed? How?”

“Tate,” Logan warned softly, not at all comfortable witnessing this conversation.

“It’s okay, Logan. He deserves to know. Your mother… She’s staying with Jill right now.”

“What do you mean?” Tate asked, and then he looked over at Logan as if he knew what was going on—which he certainly did not. “She left because of a decision I made? That’s…that’s—”

“Not what happened,” his father interrupted, grabbing the bottle from Tate. He poured himself a much larger serving than before and then turned to Logan and added to his glass, saying, “He can drive you home. I think you need this as much as I do.”

Awesome, Logan thought and sat his ass down on the barstool at the kitchen island.

“Tell me what happened,” Tate said as his father reached for the pack of cigarettes on the table.

He held them out toward Tate, but he shook his head.

“I quit.”

His father turned Logan’s way and asked, “This your doing?”

Logan wasn’t sure if he was about to get in trouble or be praised, so he stammered a little. “I…ahh…may have mentioned something once or twice.”

Tate laughed at that, and when Logan glanced up at him, he caught him rolling his eyes.

“Do you disagree?”

“No. You just make it sound like you suggested it so nicely.”

“Didn’t I?”

“No. You told me to ‘do us both a fucking favor and quit.’ So I did.”

Logan thought about that and then, arrogant as ever, said, “I don’t see the problem. You quit, didn’t you?”

Tate smirked at him in a way that made Logan feel like they were the only two people in the room. “I did.”

“And I only mentioned it twice.”

Tate poked his tongue into the side of his cheek and nodded. “Sure, counselor.”

That was when Tate’s father spoke up, reminding Logan that they weren’t, in fact, alone.

“However you managed it, I’m glad for it.” He then turned to Tate as he lit up. “These things will kill you, you know.”

Tate shook his head and opened the window above the kitchen sink. The gesture seemed routine to Logan, as if the two of them had done this before when Tate had either lived there or visited.

“Dad, what happened with Mom?”

Logan looked between the two of them and then waited silently.

“She moved out a little while ago.”

Tate’s eyes crinkled up on the sides as if he were trying to understand what his father was telling him, and then he got his brain in order and managed to ask. “Why?”

When Mr. Morrison faced him, Logan raised the full glass to his lips and downed the third helping of bourbon. As it burned a fiery path down his throat, he felt a nice buzz start in his head and thought, Yeah, I just love being the reason for families to split. It seemed to be his specialty.

Tate stared at his father in shock as he waited for an answer. This was the last thing he’d expected when he’d walked in here tonight. He’d thought they would spend the evening trying to get his parents to accept them into their lives. Instead, there he was, sitting in the kitchen he had grown up in, asking where his mother was.

“We disagreed on something that was rather important.”

Tate walked around the counter until he was standing in front of his dad and asked, “Me?”

His father raised his cigarette to his lips, took a drag, and then nodded. “Yes. You, son.”

Tate said nothing as he placed his palm on the counter—he’d even forgotten he had told his father not to call him that. All he knew was that in that moment, the man standing in there was the same one he’d admired as a boy.

“When you first came to us with Logan, it was a shock. A big shock. It was hard to comprehend that you’d gone from being a married man to being—”

“With a man?” Tate supplied.

“Right. And we didn’t react well at all,” his father admitted as he turned away from him, almost as though it were easier to say it if he didn’t have to face him. “I’m ashamed of how we acted that day, and I’m even more ashamed of the way I treated you when you came back to see me.”

Tate glanced at Logan and found him sitting still as a statue on the stool as if he were afraid to breathe. He knew the feeling. He wanted to know where his father was going with all of this, but he was also terrified to hear the truth. So he waited patiently.

When his dad got to the sink and pressed the butt of his cigarette into it, he hung his head as if feeling the shame he’d talked of. “When I saw you lying in that hospital bed, I knew there was nothing that was going to stop me from having a relationship with you again.” He leaned up against the sink, crossing his ankles out in front of him. “I couldn’t believe that I might lose you, and the last thing I’d ever said was—”

“I was no longer your son,” Tate whispered as he approached him. “Dad?”

“Yeah?”

“What happened with Mom?”

“She…”

Tate nodded and said softly, “She doesn’t agree with you, I assume?”

“No. She and Jill still feel as they did before.”

“But you don’t?”

As his father stood tall, he reached out and clasped his shoulders. He wrapped his arms around him, and Tate felt his heart break a little as he said in his ear, “You’re my son. And this man—he loves you.” When he pulled back, Tate saw the tears in his eyes. “He wants you safe and happy. I may not fully understand it, but how can I not support that?”

He looked over Tate’s shoulder, and when Tate turned to search out Logan, he saw that his blue eyes were glassy—from tears or the third drink, he wasn’t sure.

“She needs to decide what’s more important to her. But my family comes first, and Tate, you’re family.”

Tate hugged his father, and as he stepped away, he raised a hand and swiped at a tear that had managed to escape. Then he had a thought, one he knew would take not only his mind off all of this, but Logan’s too.

“Is my guitar still upstairs?”

“Yes,” his father replied. “It’s in your room.”

As Tate walked over to the island, he asked Logan, “Want me to show you the guitar I brooded over as a boy?”

Logan gazed past him to his father as if seeking permission, and the gesture was so unlike him that Tate thought that it was absolutely endearing.

When he stood, Tate snagged the bottle and said, “We’ll be back in a minute, Dad.”

“No rush. It’s your house too.”

Tate nodded, and when he turned back to Logan, he raised his eyebrows impishly and said, “Follow me.”

Logan felt as though he’d had the carpet pulled out from under him. He’d come here expecting one thing and been totally blindsided by another. Tate’s father had welcomed them into the house, given them booze, and then sent them upstairs with his blessing.

Okay, so maybe not the last part quite how I’m thinking it, but close enough, Logan thought as he concentrated on the tight ass in ripped jeans walking up the stairs ahead of him.

He was relaxed enough to acknowledge that the thought of being taken up to Tate’s childhood bedroom was doing all kinds of inappropriate things to him. Add in the playful look Tate had aimed at him before they’d left the kitchen and, yeah, he couldn’t wait to see Tate’s old room.

When they were at the top of the stairs, Tate turned left and made his way down a narrow hall, past an old bookcase and several doors, to the one at the end, which was shut. As Tate reached for the handle, Logan made sure he kept his distance. He knew that, if they touched, he wouldn’t want to stop, and considering they were in Tate’s parents’ house, he figured that it was best to keep his hands to himself.

Before Tate opened the door though, he turned to face him, and Logan wondered what the problem was.

“Wait a minute. Do you have your glasses?” Tate asked.

The question was so left field that Logan couldn’t even think of an answer. Why do I need my—

“Can you put them on?” Tate asked and then scooted around him.

Logan reached in the top of his sweater pocket, and as he put them on, Tate came back and stepped around him, pressing a hardcover book to his chest. He looked down at it and then back to the man whose eyes were full of devilry.

“You’re almost exactly how I imagined you.”

Logan’s brow rose.

“I mean, you’re wearing a sweater, not a polo shirt. And I’m pretty sure that, if you were shy, you’d be looking at your feet and not my lips. But the glasses, the book, the way your hair is perfectly done. Yep, you’re looking pretty nerdy there, Mr. Mitchell.”

Logan’s mouth practically fell open at that, and as he took a step forward, Tate brought the bottle of alcohol to his lips and took a swig.

Fuck, he’s hot. In his ripped jeans, black T-shirt, and jacket, Tate was anything but nerdy. He looked rebellious, sexy, and downright dangerous as he continued to check him out like they were standing in their own house—not his father’s.

Loving his “broody musician,” Logan chose to play his part the best he could and lowered his eyes. He pretended to drum his thumb nervously on the cover of the book in his hands, and when he looked up from behind his glasses at Tate, the devious smile that met him made his alcohol-hazed brain go into high lust alert.

Get it together, Mitchell.

“Come on, Tate. You said if I helped you with your homework today, you’d show me your guitar.”

Tate didn’t turn away as he twisted the doorknob to his room. He kept their eyes locked, opened the door, and waited for him to pass.

As Logan stepped forward, he made sure to give his best imitation of a “shy” look from under his lashes, and if the way Tate clenched his jaw and shut his eyes was any indication, he’d nailed that fantasy for him good and well.

Feeling pleased with himself—and somewhat buzzed—Logan stopped once he was in the middle of Tate’s old bedroom. Over by the window was a narrow bed with a red-and-black-striped cover. The walls were plastered with throwbacks to their musical generation—as well as the classics, of course. And when Logan turned around to see Tate lounging back against his closed door, checking him out, he really did feel that rush of nerves mixed with excitement. The only difference here was it had zero to do with the fact that he liked a boy and was unsure if he liked him back.

No, this had everything to do with the boy he was looking at practically daring him to touch him—and there was no way he was going to do that with his father downstairs.

“My guitar is right over there,” Tate told him, gesturing toward the foot of his bed with a tilt of his head.

Logan glanced over at it and was about to move closer when Tate pushed off the door and suggested, “Why don’t you sit down?”

Logan looked for a desk chair, anything but the—

“On my bed.”

“Tate…” he said, his pulse starting to race.

Tate regarded him as he picked the guitar up and came around to him. “Yes?”

Logan chewed his bottom lip and then pushed his glasses up his nose.

Tate chuckled. “Nervous?”

“No,” he dismissed immediately, but when Tate took a step toward him, Logan backed up.

“I don’t believe you.”

Logan’s legs hit the side of the bed, and as Tate brushed a soft kiss across his lips, Logan groaned. Damn, this fantasy was pushing every single button of his, including the one inside his chest.

When Tate raised his head and licked his lips, he moved even closer, and Logan had no choice but to sit down. Then Tate sat beside him, giving him an oh-so-innocent look.

“Relax, would you? I’m not going to make you do anything while my father’s home. I’m a good Catholic boy, remember?”

Logan’s eyes narrowed on the tease next to him, and when Tate started to play the guitar, he thought how lucky he was that the cheeky flirt was his.