Page 17 of Beautiful Beast

Typically, I prefer to drive myself, but that won’t work when I can’t look up. And a limo is perfect because the privacy screen prevents any chance of casual conversation with a stranger.

If it wasn’t for Uncle Dennis’ brutal diagnosis, I wouldn’t have even left the house and risked human contact.

Limbo is one of the worst feelings I’ve ever had, even worse than the physical pain of what happened in Syria. That was only the start of the nightmare and total mental anguish that my life has turned into now.

It’s like I’m free-floating through space, not really existing or able to engage with anything or anyone around me.

I’ve never been an especially smiley or overtly friendly-to-strangers guy. You can’t be when your station in life is being a Townsend and everyone wants a piece of you and your inheritance. But I’ve always been confident and self-assured.

Now I’m not myself anymore.

When the limo pulls over, I navigate to Uncle Dennis’ penthouse without issue despite staring at my feet the entire time. His presence immediately ensconces me, and I can tell he’s come to open the door himself.

No longer able to keep my gaze on the ground, I look up and meet someone’s eyes for the first time since returning to the city.

When you learn that someone you love is dying, you immediately expect them to be sickly, bedridden, and marked in some way. Everything about the trajectory of life has changed, so they should look different, too. A physical manifestation of the hell raging inside.

Uncle Dennis is none of the things I feared he would be.

The man who saved my childhood greets me with a smile, and he still looks exactly like himself – unlike me.

“My nephew,” he says, but then his eyes catch up with the sight before him and he gasps. “Jesus Christ, Adam, what happened to you?”

He’s talking about my face, but it’s the last thing I want to discuss, especially after my first meeting with the specialist when he told me that it’s too soon to help me.

My face needs to heal more before he can fix it.

Just fucking awesome.

Instead, I yank the hoodie off, tossing it aside. “Just got some new ink, that’s all.”

He steps aside with a frown so I can enter his space, and the door clicks shut behind us. His place is as familiar to me as my own because my father often dumped me here after my mom died and he didn’t want to be bothered with taking care of me.

“That isn’t what I meant, though you know how I feel about those… adornments… as well.”

Uncle Dennis is okay with tattoos that can be hidden, but even the most bespoke suit in the world can’t hide all of my ink, especially the pieces on my neck.

“I’m okay, don’t worry,” I reply. “Tell me everything about what’s going on with you.”

“Adam–”

“Please, Uncle Dennis.”

He knows me well enough to know that I won’t budge for now, so he sits on the couch with a sigh, gesturing for me to join him.

His long-time housekeeper, Ingrid, prepared coffee exactly how I like it – strong and black – and a tray of sandwiches and desserts.

Everything seems so – normal.

How can life be exactly the same and completely different at the same time?

“It’s a really aggressive form of pancreatic cancer,” Uncle Dennis explains. “I still feel okay. Better than okay. This is the strongest and healthiest I’ve been in years. Ironic, right?”

Uncle Dennis has always been a gym rat, and he instilled the same drive to achieve physical excellence in me. I’ve always taken care of my body and made working out a priority no matter how busy I am or what country I wake up in.

Moving my body has become so essential to my well-being that I feel like absolute shit whenever I’m stuck being sedentary. Thankfully, I have a home gym and as soon as my body recovers enough, I’ll start hitting the weights again.

“It will change, though, and I expect that my health will go downhill – fast,” Uncle Dennis continues. “Despite getting opinions and treatment options from top doctors all over the world, I’ll still be dead within six months. There’s nothing they can do for me.”

---