Turning slowly, Avery leans his arm on the roof of the car and peers at the man sitting there in the back seat—all alone. He looks…old, somehow. He looks tired. The wrinkles near his eyes are more prominent, and there’s bags there like he hasn’t been sleeping.
He looks sad.
“Where are you going?”
Alejandro’s eyes narrow. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll text you when I’m back.”
And well, it’s not a happy anniversary. It’s not a kiss. It’s not a single touch. It’s not affection in any capacity—but at least Alejandro’s acknowledging him, which is so fucking pathetic how much that means to him right then.
“Okay.” He steps back, then goes to shut the door but hesitates, because something feels off. Like a hot ball of emotion in his chest he doesn’t quite understand but he knows it’s because Alejandro has never looked this run-down before. “You can call me, you know.”
Alejandro blinks at him. “Sorry?” It’s not really a question, but Avery holds back his sigh and answers like it is one.
“If you like…need something.” He feels like a fool because Alejandro knows this. He’s paying for those exact services, but he means it differently this time, and he hopes Alejandro understands it. “If something’s wrong. I know we don’t talk, but…if you need to…”
He holds his breath, and he waits for Alejandro to be cruel, or to offer him silence, or to maybe even drive away while he’s still holding the door open. Instead, he leans over just slightly and rests his hand on the empty seat where Avery had been sitting. He stares for a moment then gives a single, barely-there nod. “Thank you.”
Then he’s gone. The driver takes off, and the door slips from Avery’s hand, shutting on its own. He just stands there for a few minutes, an under-worked, over-paid sugar baby hovering at the curb wondering what the fuck just happened.
Because Alejandro Santos just said thank you, and Avery’s pretty sure he’s never uttered those two words in his life.
4
The Way It Hurts
The roar of the plane is the only thing that keeps Alejandro centered. It’s the white noise factor—he has a machine like it for the side of his bed when his thoughts and compulsions are just too much, and he feels like he’s going to crawl out of his skin. And it’s worse now—but it always is this time of year.
One, two, three…tap tap tap. Four, five, six…tap tap tap. Seven, eight, nine…tap tap tap.
Ten…tap.
He can’t hear the sound his nails make on the faux-wood panel near the window, but he can feel the way it shimmies up his arm with the vibration of movement. It doesn’t settle him the way it does in the office or at home, but it’s enough. For now. His heart isn’t racing, and he’s not letting himself think, because thinking means remembering, and remembering means he’s going to start drinking, and he needs to be sober when he lands.
Shoving his hand into his pocket, Alejandro curls his hand around the little wooden object. He doesn’t take it out, he just feels the shape of it with the pad of his thumb. It looks like something he’d seen once on a trip to Alaska. There had been a street fair, and he’d wandered after his meeting to try and get the blood flowing to his legs. It was warmer than he’d expected it to be, so he ducked into a few of the booths, and one of them had Inuit art—a lot of paintings and wood carvings.
He hadn’t opened the package Avery had given him until he was home, and showered, and through his endless nighttime routine that held the weight of the world in his own little universe. He’s been in years of therapy so he damn well knows that searching out blue items and tapping patterns on his glass table won’t make or break the world, but some days are just harder to function without his tics.
He’s past the point in life that they make it difficult to function when he has to skip a few, but as the year creeps toward December, the barrier between himself and the pain he tries to stomp down into dust grows thinner and thinner.
Until it’s gone.
Until now, when he’s on a plane flying over the Atlantic trying not to look across the seat at his brother who doesn’t even try to pretend like he isn’t staring. He taps his rhythm again, and it helps—even if it’s only a little.
“Why didn’t you bring him?” Louis speaks in Spanish, which soothes Alejandro’s nerves a bit more. He also pitches his voice to be heard over both the engine and the space between them, so Alejandro considers for a long moment pretending like he can’t understand him. “Mamá would love to meet him.”
Alejandro turns in his seat and gives him a flat look. “Oh, absolutely. It’s good to see you, Mamá. May I introduce the man I’m paying an absurd amount of money to…” He doesn’t finish, and Louis snorts a laugh.
He’s very much the younger brother, and Alejandro envies him so much he aches with it. Louis is effortless, and he’s charming. He has a golden touch that shows in his business dealings, and in the way he keeps his home, and how their parents still dote on him. He’s single now, but it shows in the way he chooses his partners—all of them beautiful and cunning and perfect, just like Louis.
All of the things that make him the man he is also shows in the two children he has with his college sweetheart. Their dark hair and dark eyes and round cheeks and infectious laughs are a reflection of their father. And god, Alejandro loves them, but being around them is still too hard.
It’s why they’re not on the plane. It’s why Louis left his children behind to accompany him on this trip like he’s done for the last eight years—alone and mostly quiet. Giving him shit about anything and everything except Gabrielle and Connor.
He bites the inside of his cheek, and he releases the little orca, laying his hands on the arms of his chair as Louis slides into the seat across from him. He doesn’t offer a drink because he knows that while Alejandro wants it—desperately—he won’t take it.
“How long are you going to keep doing this?” his brother asks, leaning over his thighs to catch his gaze.
“What this?” He raises his brow, baiting Louis. “Oh, you mean how long am I going to keep paying Avery to suck my…”
“I know you’re not fucking him—in any capacity,” he interrupts sounding impatient. “I’ve seen the poor bastard more than once, and he’s miserable. No one getting a good dicking has any right to look that unhappy, Andro.”
Alejandro feels his wince on a visceral level, and he turns his gaze out toward the sky. “Avery knew what he was signing up for.”
“Of course he did. He was a broke college kid who got paid a thousand dollars to wash your Bentley with Dawn dish soap.”
“Seven hundred,” he corrects absently, because he knows down to the very cent how much he’s spent on Avery. Not that it matters, but somewhere in his head he thinks maybe if he can reach the magic number that feels right—something would…something would give.
“And probably hundreds of thousands more now,” Louis says, but he doesn’t sound judgmental. He never sounded judgmental, and that’s one of the reasons Alejandro both loves and hates his brother. “But I’m talking about Gabri…”