Page 18 of Fly Boy
With a soft smile, she nods to the cabinet by my head. “Hand me the noodles?”
Reaching up, I grab a pack of spaghetti and set it beside her as she adds the extra touches to the sauce. “Thanks, honey. Now you boys go relax. Dinner will be ready in ten.” Just as we’re about to walk away, she whirls around and points her sauce-covered spoon at Dad. “Not you, though. You can help by setting the table.”
Dad groans mockingly but goes to join her, his hands landing on her waist as he presses against her back. Their chatter is lowas they mull around each other, finishing dinner together while Bowie and I disappear to the living room.
“How’s work?” he immediately says when we’re out of earshot. His question is loaded, the same topic of conversation that always seems to be brought up whenever we’re talking.
“Fine.”
He brings his beer to his lips, pausing to ask, “Just fine?”
I flop down onto the sofa and thread a hand into my hair. “I don’t know what you want me to say, Bowie.”
“Maybe that you’ve got your head out of your ass and asked that girl out.”
My eyes slam shut, frustration seeping into my veins at my brother not letting go of a subject I’m trying so hard to ignore. Plus, the secondhand embarrassment that washes over my body whenever I hear my voice inside my head say, “you couldn’t handle my hands on you,”doesn’t help.
“Since when have you been so obsessed with my dating life?”
Bowie lands beside me and shrugs. “Since it’s almost as much of a clusterfuck as my own. And it’s nice to hear about someone else’s problems.”
That catches my attention. “Okay, spill.”
He hesitates. “Mason told me he’s attracted to me.”
“When?”
“Remember the night we went to the bar?”
I nod, thinking back to a couple of weekends ago, a rare Saturday night when we’d gone out for a few drinks. We’d bumped into Bowie’s most recent client, a young hotshot billionaire who was having his first-ever photoshoot done for the cover of Forbes. Since coming home from the Amazon, Bowie has had his fair share of rich and famous clients. Taking shots forGQ,Rolling Stone,Vanity Fair, and other massive magazines. And, like me, he’s never crossed the line of fraternizing with a client.
Bowie looks sheepish as he continues. “Well, when I went to check on him to make sure he was alright, he sort of blurted it out.”
“Shit,”I mutter. “What did you say?”
“What do you think I said? He’s straight, Wyatt,” he snaps, his fingers strangling the beer bottle. I pull it from his grip and place it on the side table beside me. He leans forward, a long exhale leaving him as he rests his elbows on his knees, holding his head in his hands. “I can’t do that again. I can’t get involved with another straight guy.”
“I know, man,” I say, touching his shoulder. If I could track down Bowie’s slime ball of an ex-boyfriend and hurt him the way he hurt my brother, I’d take any punishment handed to me with a smile on my face. There’s a special place in Hell reserved for guys like him who play with people's hearts and toss them to the side when they’re bored.
“Were you a dick about it?”
He itches the back of his head. “I don’t think so. I mean, I told him that I was sorry, but I wasn’t the guy for him.” I’m quiet, which causes him to glance at me from the crook of his arm. “What?”
“Do you—” I pause as I try to get a read on my brother. He’s different, no longer the fun-loving man he once was before he’d left for the jungle, and there’s nothing I wouldn’t give to have him back. In his place is this brooding, grumpy photographer who doesn’t see the world through the same lens anymore. I palm the back of my neck. “Do you wish you’d said something different?”
He sighs again and shrugs, his silence speaking volumes.
“Boys, dinner,” Sadie calls, interrupting our heavy moment.
Bowie goes to stand, but I squeeze the hand on his shoulder, keeping him seated. “I’m here if you ever need to talk, Bowie. You know that, right?”
“Yeah, thanks,” he grunts. Giving me a half-hearted smile, he disappears into the kitchen.
Bowie rinses his plate in the sink before putting it in the dishwasher. Leaning against the side of the counter, he rubs his stomach with a groan. “I swear she gets better with each meal she makes.”
“I know,” I agree, knocking his hip with mine to get him to move over, allowing me to duck my empty bowl under the tap. “I forgot how much I love Sadie’s cooking.”
“You eat here at least once a month, the same as me. How can you forget?” Bowie asks.
