All Through the Night: A Troubleshooter Christmas (4 page)

“Fuck.” The word was heartfelt.

“She left me long before that,” Robin said. For years, he'd said those same words, but it was only recently, after going through rehab and fighting to stay sober, that he really understood what it meant.

Sam put his cowboy-booted feet up on a little side table. Clunk and clunk. “My mother pretty much checked out when I was…Hell, it was before third grade. I was, what? Nine?”

“I don't remember a time when she wasn't drinking,” Robin confessed. “I mean, I try, but I just don't remember. She must've, you know, been okay enough to take care of me back when I was a baby. I mean, obviously she fed me—I didn't starve to death.” Then again, he could remember getting his own dinner when he was in nursery school, so…

“I remember having corn flakes for dinner,” Sam drawled. “I knew when the breakfast cereal came out, I was in for a bad week or so.”

“Yeah.” Robin had been there, done that. “I think I learned to read so I could use the microwave and have something hot for a change.”

“Another sign that she was on a binge,” Sam said, “was the empty lunchbox. It'd be out on the kitchen counter, and I'd grab it and go and then…I still remember the feeling in my stomach when I opened it in the school cafeteria and realized it was empty…That sucked—that sense of unavoidable doom.”

Robin nodded. He could relate. “She hit you?” he asked.

“Nah,” Sam said. “That was my father's job. He traveled a lot, though.” He looked at Robin, and his blue eyes were actually warm. Sympathetic, but without pity, which was pretty remarkable.

Jesus, they had way more in common than Robin had ever dreamed.

“Did your mom hit you?” Sam asked him quietly.

Robin looked down at his sandwich, lying there on a piece of white deli paper.

“Mine used to just go upstairs into her bedroom and close the door,” Sam continued, “while my father was kicking the shit out of me. She never stood up to him. Parents are supposed to protect their kids—not the other way around.” He sighed. “Then, when I got a little older, I used to beat
myself
up for not being able to get her sober. It took me a long time to learn that not only was I a kid—what could I do?—but that
she
was the only one who could make herself stop drinking.”

Robin nodded. “That was one of the bonuses of rehab for me,” he told Sam. “I let go of a lot of guilt I was carrying about my mother. I should have been able to save her. Stuff like that.” He met Sam's gaze. “And yes, sometimes she hit me.”

His mother hadn't hit him often—just enough. And more damaging than the actual blows had been her inconsistency. Robin had never known when she might scream at him and knock him across the room. And then cradle him in her arms afterward, weeping and apologetic.

“I haven't, um, told anyone that before,” Robin continued. “Not outside of therapy.”

“Not even Jules?” Sam asked.

“No,” Robin admitted. He looked down at his sandwich again. His appetite was definitely gone, so he wrapped it back up. This was beyond strange.

“You should tell him.”

“Yeah,” Robin said. “It's just…That part of my life is over, you know?”

“I hear you, but…” Sam didn't sound convinced that it could be that easy. “It's still part of who you are.”

“It's just that Jules…He's so…” Robin struggled to find the right words. “Unbroken.”

“So…what? You don't want him to know how broken
you
are?” Sam was starting to look less friendly again.

“I don't want to ruin his day,” Robin corrected him. “He knows I'm crazy-glued together. He knows exactly who I am and…If you want to know the truth, I'm too busy being happy to dredge up old crap like that, okay?” He forced himself to meet the SEAL's gaze. “For the record, I like making Jules happy. And I do. I make him very,
very
happy.”

And now it was Sam who looked away. “I bet you do.”

Robin had to laugh. “I'm not talking about sex.”

Sam met Robin's gaze. “Maybe we should. Talk about sex. I mean, sure, we could sit here and ignore the fact that you and Jules have…that kind of relationship. We could go that way, if you really want, but I'd prefer to throw it out on the table, look each other in the eye, man to man, and acknowledge the fact that you're getting it on with one of my best friends, which, yes, freaks me out a little bit, but I'm a grown-up—I can deal.”

“Well, good,” Robin managed. “I hope things are going equally well for you and Alyssa.”

It was definitely time to stand up and go back into the hotel room, but Sam wasn't done.

“What I can't deal with,” the SEAL continued, and his eyes were arctic again, “is you stepping out, or messing around, or doing some backroom hustle with someone who isn't Jules. It's not just a matter of breaking his heart, it's an issue of health. You put him at risk, I
will
rip out your lungs.”

Son
of a bitch.

“With your pinky finger,” Robin said, as his outrage came to a boil. “Right? It's a little detail, I know, but it helps build the right amount of terror in me. I mean, because without that paralyzing fear holding me back, I just might go out and fuck random strangers.”

Sam was clearly a little taken aback at his vehemence.

But this time
Robin
wasn't done. He let Sam have it, death by pinky finger be damned. “Don't you have the tiniest clue, you fucking homophobic Neanderthal, how completely you just insulted me? I'm gay—I must be promiscuous, right? Oh, and you can
deal
with the idea of Jules and me making love—aren't you courageous to have to face that, you poor thing?”

“That's not what I meant,” Sam protested.

Robin pushed the deli bag toward him. “Here you go—just in case you need to
throw up
at the thought of—”

“Jules and I have been friends a long time,” Sam was getting mad now, too. “Way longer than you've known him.”

“I was unaware this was a contest,” Robin threw back in his face. “You've known him longer, but I've known him more intimately. Hmmm, I wonder who wins. I'm feeling pretty certain it's me, because
damn,
your good friend Jules? He's freaking great in bed.”

“If that's all he is to you—”

“Fuck. You,” Robin said, fumbling in his jacket pocket for the jewelers box he'd been carrying around for the past three days, since he'd gotten the crazy idea to…No. It wasn't crazy at all. It was the most sane idea he'd ever had. He put the fuzzy little box somewhat forcefully on the table in front of Sam. “And fuck your holier-thanthou bullshit, too. I'm the one who said I make him happy. You're the one who made it be about sex.”

Sam looked from Robin to the jewelers box and back. He picked it up and opened it and…

Sam looked at him. Jules was always saying that Sam was extra smart for someone who wore cowboy boots, and Robin could see from his expression that he knew exactly what he was holding.

Wedding rings.

“You can threaten to rip my lungs out if you want,” Robin told him more quietly now. “It's not going to change a thing. I want Jules. Only Jules. And I want him forever. I love him—I don't give a damn if you don't believe me. The only one who needs to believe me is Jules.”

Sam snapped the ring box closed. “I don't think you're promiscuous because you're gay,” he said just as quietly. “I think you're promiscuous because you're a drunk.”

Robin felt sick, because he knew that there wasn't much he could say in response to that. There was a seven-minute-long digital video, showing Robin on his final and most famous drunken binge, that was still enjoying a record number of weekly hits on YouTube and proving Sam's point.

“I also think,” Sam said, holding out the ring box for Robin, “that you really want to stay sober.”

“And we both know,” Robin couldn't keep himself from saying as he put it back in his pocket, “how well your threats will help me do just that.” He stopped himself. Took a deep breath and exhaled hard. “I know I've earned your mistrust. I understand that. I accept it. What I don't accept is your disrespect of Jules—as if you think he's unable to take care of himself, so you're going to do it for him.”

To Robin's surprise, Sam actually nodded. “You're right, I definitely crossed the line. I apologize.”

“That makes it all better.” Robin stood up, brushing the crumbs from the sandwich off of his jeans. “Excuse me. I'm going to go check on my lover.”

“I love him, too,” Sam said. “If that's worth anything.”

“Sorry,” Robin said. “You're hot, but I'm not into three-ways.”

“That's not what I meant, and you know it.”

“Yeah, well, I just thought I'd get that out on the table,” Robin retorted.

Sam actually laughed. “You're okay.”

And that was the final straw. “Oh, good,” Robin said. “I was worried that maybe you thought I wasn't okay. I'm so glad I passed your test. But guess what, asshole? You've got a long way to go before you pass mine.”

So Sam had really fucked
that
up.

The last thing he'd wanted was a serious rift between himself and Jules's significant other. And yet he
had
doused himself in some serious holier-than-thou during their little talk. Robin had gotten that right.

But Sam had lived through the final few months of Jules's relationship with Adam. He'd watched his friend get destroyed again and again as he'd discovered Adam's countless infidelities.

Jules had assured Sam that, despite living together, he and Adam had never reached a point of trust sufficient to go bareback—which was gayspeak for having sex without the protection of condoms.

Yup. That had been one hell of a conversation. Still, Sam had brought it up because he needed to make sure Jules was being smart and safe.

But that was then, and this was now, and Sam suspected that things would be different between Robin and Jules in terms of trust, and yeah, that scared him.

Less so now, though, after Robin's outburst.

Still, a drunk was a drunk, and if Robin slipped and relapsed, God only knew what he'd do.

But Robin
was
right. The decision to trust Robin—or not—was going to have to be Jules's. Not Sam's.

With a sigh, Sam turned off the light and went inside.

It was freaking dark in there, and he felt his way to the bathroom, where he relieved himself, washed up and peeled down to his shorts.

Then it was another fumble back through the pitch darkness to the bed where Alyssa was fast asleep.

Sam quietly slid in beside her, aware as hell that he could hear Alyssa breathing, and he could also hear Jules. The fact that he couldn't hear Robin meant the movie star was probably still awake.

And probably still pissed from their little heart to heart.

Maybe if Sam just said,
Look, I meant well, but I'm scared that you're going to hurt my friend, so I fucked it up but good, and I'm sorry about that. Can we maybe start over?

Alyssa shifted in the bed, spooning against him, which was nice, but would have been nicer without the other slumber-party guests in the room. And of course, since the option of having sex with his wife was completely off the table, Sam now found himself unable to think of anything else. He'd had similar trouble sitting across the conference table from Alyssa during Troubleshooters briefings, or riding in the elevator with her at the headquarters of one of their corporate clients. He had to work very hard to concentrate on anything besides how sweet it would feel to slide into her tight heat.

He'd told her about it once, and she'd laughed, thinking he was kidding. He'd managed to convince her that he wasn't.

“Robin?”

Sam froze as, in the darkness, from over in the other bed, Jules stirred.

“Shhh,” Robin's voice was gentle. “I'm right here, babe. What do you need? What can I get you?”

“Oh, God,” Jules said. “My mouth tastes like…pigshit.”

Sheets and blankets rustled, Jules said, “Oh, ew, don't—” and then there was something that sounded like…Yup, it was definitely kissing. If Sam could've squinted with his ears, he would have.

But then it stopped and Robin whispered, “I don't know about pig. Dog, maybe.”

Jules laughed. “Shut up.”

The bedcovers rustled some more. “Here, take a sip of ginger ale. Just a little one—we don't want to get the fireworks started again.”

That got another weak laugh from Jules. “God, I'm so sorry. This was supposed to be—”

“Shhh,” Robin said again. “We've got a long weekend, remember?” There was a clunk as he put the glass of ginger ale down and then…“Mmmm. Now you taste like dog crap with a zesty ginger sauce.”