Home and Away (5 page)

He wasn’t as sure about Rupert. When Callum hadn’t heard any sounds from the bedroom in a while, he ducked his head through the partially open door, expecting Rupert to be passed out or in some kind of catatonic state of anxiety.

Instead, he found Rupert completely naked except for an obscenely tight pair of black briefs that barely stretched across his fucking magnificent ass.

Holy sweet baby Jesus.

With a jerk, Callum stumbled back into the living room, taking deep, even breaths and thanking god Rupert’s back had been turned. And not just because of the view, which was—was—
holy fucking shit
. No, it was good that Rupert hadn’t seen him and had no idea Callum was standing here, practically hyperventilating, while trying to force his heart rate back to normal.

He reached down and rearranged his dick, absolutely without whimpering, then straightened his shoulders and rapped his knuckles against the door frame. He jumped when the door immediately opened to reveal Rupert in freshly pressed slacks and a tight white undershirt that hugged his biceps and pecs in ways that totally were not sexy.

Liar.

Jesus, how long had Callum been standing there if Rupert had time to get dressed? And how hard did Rupert hit the gym? He was leaner than Callum, but holy cow, he was really
fit.

Callum shook his head to clear it, then met Rupert’s enquiring gaze. “Do you need anything?” he asked inanely, like he was going to be able to do much for Rupert when they were standing in
his
apartment.

“No, I’m accustomed to travel,” Rupert returned, possibly even more inanely.

Poor Oliver. His rescuers were a couple of world-class idiots.

“Okay. I suggest you give Reese a call before he pops a major blood vessel.”

Rupert rolled his eyes. “He worries.”

Which was sweet, really. “And try to get some rest. I’ll arrange a taxi and wake you up when it’s time to go to the airport.”

“You need sleep, too.”

“I’ll take a nap here,” he said, waving at the couch that had to be at least six inches shorter than he was tall.

Miraculously, Rupert agreed without comment and disappeared back into his room. That, more than anything, made Callum worry. Rupert never did
anything
Callum asked without a comment.

A few very short hours later, the first hints of dawn brightened the horizon and Callum knocked on Rupert’s door. And again, it opened immediately, revealing a perfectly pressed Rupert. It was pretty obvious he hadn’t slept at all.

Worse, he seemed to be even more lost in that fog. Callum actually missed the bitchy, quick-witted, and silver-tongued Rupert. That guy got shit done, which would be really fucking helpful right about now.

Callum juggled their luggage while prodding Rupert out the door, into a taxi, and through the airport. Once they made it to the gate, he settled Rupert into a chair. Callum was sorely tempted to poke at him about being useless, but the slumped shoulders and enormous shadows under his pinched eyes killed the caustic remark on the tip of Callum’s tongue. He told himself to be patient.

“You need to eat something. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day,” Callum declared, because apparently he was going to deal with this by turning into his mother.

“I’m fine.”

“It wasn’t a suggestion,” he said, his well of patience and compassion running dry in under ten seconds. Possibly a new record.

Rupert frowned, but nodded grudgingly.

Callum considered it a victory of shut-out proportions when he successfully cajoled Rupert into eating a banana and drinking some tea.

As he took the last sip, Rupert made a face.

“What now?”

“Canadians have no idea how to make tea,” Rupert said petulantly.

Callum laughed at his pissy expression, relieved to see something other than blank shock on Rupert’s face. “We’ll get you some more as soon as we reach the motherland, okay, duchess?”

Rupert grimaced. “Are you ever going to stop calling me that?”

Callum pretended to think about it for all of two seconds.

“No.”

Rupert stuffed the stupidly small pillow between his head and the side of the airplane, trying to get comfortable as they reached cruising altitude somewhere above the Atlantic Ocean. He was well and truly exhausted, finally, and thought he might be able to sleep three or four hours before they arrived in London.

Callum was crammed in next to him, his broad shoulders laughably unsuited to the economy-class seat. Rupert’s shoulders weren’t a lot better, but if he leaned into his little corner, they could make it work. Jack had apologized for not being able to get them business class, but getting to London quickly was far more important than doing so comfortably.

All Rupert cared about at the moment was getting his brain to shut off. He closed his eyes, willing himself asleep and almost succeeding before Callum spoke.

“When was the last time you saw him?”

Rupert considered pretending he hadn’t heard, but doubted Callum would buy it. “Almost a year ago.”

“Was that for your father’s funeral?”

“No, about six months after, but I was back in London to take care of some things to do with the estate,” he said, intentionally vague. He wasn’t the least bit interested in explaining how he’d assumed his father’s mantle and all that went along with that. “In hindsight, I can see how easy I made it for Lydia—Oliver’s mom, that is. She had plenty of warning to be in town and to ensure she and Oliver presented a good picture. It was only later I learned that week was the longest she’d been in London in years.”

“Even before your father died?”

“Yes, even before. They weren’t really…” Rupert sighed. Callum looked at him curiously, not a whiff of judgment on his face. “When my father was diagnosed with cancer, he came to see me. He was, in some regards, very old-fashioned. When he learned he was sick, he was suddenly very concerned with his legacy.”

Callum remained silent, not questioning the seemingly random subject change.

“He wanted to talk to me about carrying on the family name and all that nonsense. And, of course, I had to tell him he was out of luck, what with me being gay.”

“How old were you?”

“I’m not sure. Thirty, maybe?”

“He didn’t know already?”

“No. Not that it was a secret or anything. I’ve been out to anyone who cared to know or ask for a very long time. My father never fell into either of those categories, I suppose, until he was diagnosed.”

“Oh.” A complicated series of expressions crossed Callum’s face before he managed to get control of it. It was likely hard for someone with a family like Callum’s to understand that not everyone had what he and his army of siblings had grown up with.

“Yes, well, I’ve never lived with him,” Rupert continued, not sure why he felt compelled to explain. “Not since I was a small child, and even then not really. He was very supportive once I told him, wished me well and all that. We had a nice visit, actually. Then he left. I never guessed he’d go off and do something stupid.”

“Which was?”

“Impregnate the first woman he could find who was willing to marry him in order to serve as his broodmare, I think.”

“Oh, wow.”

“Oh, yes. And thus we have
Lydia
.”

“Can I ask what happened to your mom?”

“Sorry. Yes, of course. She died when I was very young. I don’t even remember her, sadly.”

“I’m sorry.”

Rupert gave a stilted nod, always uncomfortable with the condolences people, even strangers, expressed over his mother’s passing. He’d never known what it was to have a mother, but their sympathy, their almost tangible sorrow over what he’d lost, made him wonder what they knew and he did not.

“Who did you live with?”

Rupert had lost the thread of their conversation in his wandering thoughts. “What?”

“You said you didn’t live with your father. And your mother died. Who raised you?”

Rupert shrugged. “A nanny or two until I was five, then I was old enough for boarding schools.”

Callum mouthed the word
five,
clearly struggling to comprehend a child being sent off to school so young, but his tone remained neutral. “That must have been hard.”

“It wasn’t what I wanted for Oliver. My father showed a remarkable interest in raising Oliver, even while he was sick and getting increasingly weak. I think he hoped to live long enough to see Oliver safely off to school. I had hoped they’d have more time together than that. I’m not sure my father could have shipped Oliver off, when the time came,” Rupert admitted, sounding embarrassingly wistful.

“Oliver was three when our father died, having taken a rapid turn for the worse when we’d begun to hope he was getting better. I’d agreed to be Oliver’s guardian, should anything happen, and Lydia had been given a lot of money to bugger off. Sadly, my father had not foreseen how quickly she could burn through her severance. Thus, I presume, her charade to keep Oliver so that I would give her additional funds after my father’s passing. And I let her get away with it. I thought Oliver had his mother, and the nanny who had been with him for years. That had to be better than coming to live with me. I never thought—”

His voice broke and he turned to stare fixedly at the seat in front of him. There was no reason to air every piece of his familial dirty laundry to Callum Morrison, of all people. Rupert collected himself before continuing.

“Not long after I left London a year ago, I got a call from Jessica, the nanny. Lydia was
never
home, would disappear for weeks or months and sometimes forget to make sure Jessica had access to money to feed and clothe Oliver, let alone be paid herself. When Lydia did reappear, it was for a day or two at most, and she rarely saw, or even spoke to Oliver. There was no one to cover for Jessica, so she’d been working around the clock since my father died, all with the promise there would be more help coming. Jessica wanted to know why I wouldn’t let Lydia hire anyone else. I immediately called Lydia, of course, who answered her cell, drunk or high, music blasting in the background. She hung up on me.”

The anger returned, as fresh and hot as the day it had happened. It felt good, now. Better than the maudlin fugue he’d been in since Callum had started asking questions.

“It all devolved quickly after that. I flew to London, but by the time I arrived, Jessica had been fired and Lydia and Oliver were nowhere to be found. I spent a week searching for them, then hired Nick to find them. That was almost six months ago.”

“We’ll get him back, Rupert. By tomorrow night, he’ll be with you. Safe. I promise,” Callum said with conviction, his deep voice soothing. Rupert knew better than anyone that it wasn’t a promise Callum could make, but he appreciated it nonetheless.

Callum’s gaze was sincere, if heavy with exhaustion. He hadn’t slept the night before either, and he’d been terribly kind to offer to come along at all. Kinder still to herd Rupert through getting ready for the trip.

Rupert smiled when, between one blink and the next, Callum fell asleep, his bright green eyes disappearing, leaving a thick fringe of dark lashes against cheeks that, from this close, Rupert could see still hinted at the freckles that must have once dusted his skin.

He looked younger like this. Rupert could now imagine what he must have looked like before he’d gotten the long scar across his forehead. Or done whatever foolish things he’d done to merit the bump across the bridge of his nose.

They gave him character, those marks. Not that he was short on that, Rupert thought with a wry smile. Loudmouthed, highhanded, and singularly annoying, Callum had more
character
than one man had a right to. How he’d ended up on this plane, haring off to London on no notice with a man he couldn’t stand, was a complete mystery to Rupert.

But he was grateful.

Callum blinked gritty eyes against the bright sunset pouring through the window. Sunlight Rupert didn’t appear to notice or care about, given that he was still asleep, his face pressed to the Plexiglas square. Callum had managed a brief nap after talking with Rupert, but had been woken by the drink cart banging into his shoulder not long after. He hadn’t been able to fall back to sleep, spending most of the flight staring at the map on the screen in front of him or watching Rupert sleep.

Callum could only imagine how heavily the search for Oliver had weighed on Rupert, all while he was moving to Moncton and successfully taking over the management of the Ice Cats. Rupert’s mini-meltdown over the past twenty-four hours seemed kind of understandable, given all that.

Callum waited until the landing gear was lowered before nudging Rupert awake. Callum’s stomach did a weird twisty thing when Rupert’s lashes fluttered, then two sleepy, light blue eyes settled on his face.

He could imagine waking up next to Rupert in bed in another life. A life Callum couldn’t have.

Amazing how the anger, the bitterness, could still sneak up and bite him.

“Rise and shine,
duchess
,” he said, because he was a jerk.

Rupert sighed and turned away, flipping two fingers in Callum’s general direction. Callum knew perfectly well that wasn’t a friendly “good morning.”

“Now, that’s not very nice.”

Rupert ignored him, staring at his tray table like it might hold a message from on high. Possibly he wasn’t much of a morning person, but it was more likely four hours of sleep wasn’t enough to make up for all he’d missed.

And also, Callum
was
an asshole.

The plane bumped down onto the tarmac and they were officially in London. Sort of. Barring any disasters in immigration or customs. Callum silently reviewed everything he’d packed, then looked at Rupert.

“You didn’t pack any sex toys or anything, did you?”

Rupert gave him a blank look. “What?”

“Nothing,” Callum grumbled, checking his wallet and the pocket in front of him for stuff. He ran a hand over his hair, felt how it stood on end, and hoped he wouldn’t frighten the other passengers.

Rupert had somehow spent the night smashed against the fuselage of an airplane and still had not a hair out of place. How the hell was his shirt not even wrinkled, let alone covered in drool?

“You suck,” Callum said grumpily.

“Only if he asks nicely.”

Callum blinked stupidly, struck dumb by the image that popped into his head, grateful that Rupert was temporarily distracted by dragging his laptop out from under the seat in front of him.

Then Rupert frowned at him. “Are you done insulting me, or do I have more of your scintillating repartee to look forward to?”

“Fuck you.”

“You are a terrible human being.”

Callum couldn’t argue. “Guess you shouldn’t have asked me along, then.”

“
I didn’t.
”

He had a point.

They took a taxi directly from Heathrow to the Marylebone neighborhood of London and the address Rupert had been given, but with the immigration and customs lines, and the always heavy traffic in and around the city, they didn’t arrive until after ten o’clock at night.

Callum had decided to take his mother’s advice about silence being the better part of valor and left Rupert to his own thoughts for most of that time. But as he chased Rupert through the door of 37 Chiltern Street and up three flights of stairs, he realized they probably should have come up with a plan.

Rupert knocked on the door of apartment 3b. Callum barely had time to pull Rupert’s bag from his shoulder and heft it over his own before a gorgeous, miniature Rupert answered the door.

“Rupert!” the boy cried, flinging himself against Rupert’s legs.

“Oliver! Oh, thank god.”

A muttered “oh shit” issued from the apartment a second before the television cut off. Rupert was trying to peel Oliver from around his legs when a frantic young woman, a girl, really, appeared in the doorway and grabbed Oliver by the collar.

Rupert curled around Oliver, protecting him. Callum wrapped a hand around her wrist until she let go.

“We’re coming in,” he said, forcing her back into the apartment and nearly toppling Rupert and Oliver in the process. This, at least, convinced Oliver to release his brother long enough for everyone to step into the apartment and close the door behind them.

Callum stopped short, taking in their surroundings. “How much money are you giving her?”

Rupert’s face was thunderous as he looked around at the shabby, ancient furniture and inhaled the unmistakable reek of cigarette smoke. It was a nice neighborhood, a nice apartment once, but clearly no love or attention had gone into it in a very long time.

The young woman jerked her hand in Callum’s grasp. “Let go!”

“What’s your name?”

She seemed surprised he cared. “Grainne. Who are you?”

It would be just Callum’s luck if she was one of the exactly fifteen die-hard NHL fans in England. “A friend of Rupert’s. How old are you?”

Grainne’s chin came up. “Eighteen.”

Debatable, at best. More like sixteen, he’d guess.

Rupert, now with Oliver wrapped around only one leg, said, “Call Lydia. Tell her I’m here.”

“No fucking way,” Grainne said succinctly.

Callum would be the first to admit he had a mouth like a trucker—or, more to the point, a hockey player—but he didn’t abide swearing in front of children, his parents, or the clergy. Grainne twisted her wrist and he realized how tightly he was holding on now. He immediately let go.

Rather than go for Oliver again, she spun and disappeared down the hallway without a word.

“What now?” Callum asked Rupert. Because yeah, a plan would have been a good idea.

Grainne returned with a backpack over her shoulder and made a beeline for the door.

“Where are you going?” Callum demanded.

“I’m just the night help,” she replied, as if that answered anything. “Mary will be here at eight. I haven’t any idea where his mother is, I haven’t any way to reach her, and I wouldn’t sign up for the abuse even if I did. You can have him.”

They could
have
him?

“Oh, and he hasn’t had his supper yet,” she added helpfully before she darted through the door and shut it in their faces.