You Can See Me (13 page)

As soon as Pres stepped off the elevator onto his floor, Ric’s spicy scent hit him hard. His knees buckled at the intensity of the pain in his heart. He’d most likely just missed him. He’d been telling himself over and over that Ric would stop overreacting and forgive him. He and Ric had been on an amazing date, shared meals, shared laughs…and made passionate love. There was no way it could end like this.

It’d been two weeks since Ric dropped him like a bad habit. Pres left more messages than he wanted to admit to, apologizing over and over for his stupid joke. He’d even apologized for his insensitivity if Ric had lost a loved one to drowning and Pres accidently dredged up painful memories. On another message, he swore he wasn’t mocking Ric because he couldn’t swim—he simply didn’t know. He begged for Ric to pick up and give him a chance to explain, but he never did. After message number twenty-five, the computer-generated voice told him Ric’s mailbox was full. Ric didn’t return a single message.

When Pres came home one evening last week, he stepped inside his entryway and heard the sound of bubble wrap pop under his feet. He bent down and picked up the thin envelope with the small square of bubble wrap taped to it. He knew right away it was from his Ric…who else? His heart leapt at the possibility of having his light back.

Thank God his maid was still there because he immediately had her open the letter to read to him. He didn’t care how personal or private it was. He had to know, now.

She told him it was a copy of Ric’s negative HIV test results, and nothing else. Pres’s mouth dropped open and his fingers shook with sadness when he took the single piece of paper back from her.

At first his brow creased with confusion. Then he remembered they’d made love without protection. Pres had filled Ric with his life’s seed without a second thought. This was the final straw, the last nail in the coffin. Ric was saying he was done with him, but he still had to do what was responsible. Maybe Ric was the one who was worried, since he thought Pres was so careless.

The next week, Pres spent hours preparing his famous salmon with orange fennel sauce. Unfortunately, he had to leave it on Ric’s doorstep when he refused to answer the door. Attached was a copy of his negative test results and a note saying: “I still owe you this meal. Please enjoy. I’m thinking of you.”

Ric still didn’t call. It killed Pres just a little bit more every night as he waited in the dark for the phone to ring or for a knock at his door. He imagined Ric coming to him in the middle of the night—because that’s the time he thought about Ric the most—and kissing away his hurt.

It was Friday night, and Pres was coming up from the bar in their building when he got off the elevator and was again attacked by Ric’s scent. It was after eleven at night, so Ric had to have just gotten off a shift at the hospital.

With four drinks coursing through his bloodstream, Pres was feeling pretty brave. He bypassed his door and counted down to the fourth door on the right and stopped. He poised his hand to knock but froze.

He dropped his forehead to the cold door and laid both palms flat against the smooth surface. After several minutes, he heard footsteps moving around inside.

With newfound energy to come face-to-face with Ric again, he tapped gently. The steps got closer and stopped right at the door…but it didn’t open. He figured Ric could either see him through the peephole or just knew it was him and didn’t open the door.

“Please open the door.” Pres meant to ask boldly, but it came out as a mere whimper. “I’ll give anything if you’ll just open the door and talk to me, honey.” Pres spoke quietly.

He waited a minute. No movement. No reply.

He huffed with frustration. “I swear. I never meant to hurt you, or scare you. I admit it was stupid, but come on,” he said, building confidence. “Can’t you get upset and talk about what the problem is instead of just walking away? You begged me to not quit on us so fast and to give this a chance, but at my first mistake, you storm off.”

Pres was getting worked up, and he checked his tone when he heard one of his neighbors’ doors open and close again.

“You at least owe me the chance to apologize face-to-face.”

He waited. No movement. No reply.

Pres was suddenly hit with the realization that Ric never wanted to see him again. He sucked in a deep breath as an agonizing wail threatened to break through his chest and retch out of his mouth. The tears fell silently. His body shook with the sobs. He didn’t care who may have been listening now. He was heartbroken, and he wasn’t handling it well. That short week with Ric was the happiest he’d been since his accident. How was he supposed to go back now? Back to lonely dinners, quiet rooms, solo trips to the bar…back to total darkness.

God, please.

“I swear on everything that I don’t have a death wish. If I kill myself, then I’m taking myself away from you. I’d never choose to do that.” Pres waited. Still no reply. “How could you do this? You asked me to open up, and I did. You said you wouldn’t hurt me. What do you call this? You know I didn’t mean to hurt you, Ric. Just give me a chance to fix it. Please,” he whispered into the crack of the door.

This was it. Either Ric truly wanted him or not. It was now or never.

Pres put his lips right up against the doorjamb and spoke in a hushed, desperate tone. “Sunshine, please. You’re the only thing in this world I can see…I’m begging you. Please open this door and let me back in. Let me keep falling in love with you.” He held his breath.

After fifteen torturous minutes, Pres heard Ric’s footsteps walking away from the door. His heart seized in his chest, and for a minute, he thought he might be having a heart attack. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to will his head to stop pounding. He kept his forehead pressed to the door, still desperate to hear any movement inside the condo. His right hand that Ric had cared for and stitched tenderly stroked the surface of the door. After countless more minutes, he accepted defeat. Ric wasn’t going to let him in…not now…not ever.

He slowly made his way back to his apartment. Josey met him at the door, surely needing to go for a walk by now, but Pres was too drained. “Just go on the floor, boy,” he groaned on his way past his kitchen.

He shucked his clothes, went to his pantry, grabbed a bottle of vodka, and closed himself in his bedroom. Typically he’d turn on the lights in his home, just because, but not tonight.
Why fuckin’ bother?

* * * *

“Fuck.”

Ric dropped his exhausted body onto his bed and let his heart bleed for the desperate man at his front door. God knows he wanted to open that door so badly. But every time he got ready to turn the handle, he saw Pres’s arms flailing wildly before splashing into the water.
That sound.
The same fucking sound Aaron made when he fell in.

Damn, he wanted to yank that door off the hinges and pull the pleading man into his arms…but he just couldn’t. He couldn’t go through life being scared for Pres’s safety. He was reckless. Ric should’ve known he lived a little too carefree when their building’s fire alarm went off and the man barely bothered to get out of bed.

Maybe Ric’s job had him a little more paranoid than the average person should be. As an ER trauma surgeon, he’d seen it all. Gunshot victims, car accidents, boat accidents, drownings, stabbings, bar brawls gone terribly wrong, and that didn’t even include the diseases and ailments of older patients. It was always the careless young ones who were his worst trauma cases, many of them under thirty and never making it out of the operating room, leaving their families torn and grieving forever.

“Pres,” he whispered painfully, “I just can’t watch you die like I did Aaron. I wouldn’t survive this time, baby.” Ric would rather be alone the rest of his life than suffer like that again. However, the pain he was feeling now, by leaving Prescott on his doorstep begging for light, was killing him slowly.

Ric tried to rest, but he hadn’t been able to acquire more than two to three hours of sleep a night. The chief had taken him off the surgery schedule until he got his shit together. Ric was actually shaking with fatigue in the operating room. There was no way he could cut into someone’s body with unsteady hands.

It was two in the morning, and again, he was restless. Ric dragged himself off his unmade bed and went to his refrigerator. There it was. The leftover salmon dish Pres had made for him. It was delicious. He’d damn near wept the entire time he ate it, until he finally decided to put it away. This was supposed to have been eaten with the beautiful man, preferably by candlelight and while being serenaded with soft music in the background.

He pulled the rest of the dish out of the fridge and ate it without even reheating it in the microwave. It was just that good. As he sat at the table eating a cold dinner and surfing the Internet on his laptop, his fingers instinctually typed “Prescott Vaughan” in the search engine. He saw thousands of hits from Pres’s various stages of his career. There was a multitude of sites showcasing his award-winning dishes and cookbooks, pictures of him teaching seminars at culinary academies all over the country. Ric read an article about him being the youngest chef to win the Beard Award, and raves all the way up to his very sought-after food-critiquing business.

So wonderful.

Ric clicked on another link and saw news footage of Pres’s accident on the bridge that left him blind for the rest of his life. He slammed his laptop closed and scrubbed his hands over his tired face.

“Pres, it’s been a month, honey. You have to let the doctor go now. I never would’ve thought things would go south so fast, but that’s the way relationships are. It’s hit-and-miss until you find the right one. There’s someone out there for you. You’re too wonderful for there not to be.” Janice patted his legs.

She came over—or more like kicked his door in—when he started ignoring her persistent calls after he’d canceled his last eight appointments with her. Janice would not have him walking around with an overgrown beard and wild, unkept hair. She’d dragged him to his bathroom and begun roughly taming his wild appearance.

“Why don’t you come over for my Halloween extravaganza this weekend?” she asked cheerily as she began edging his sideburns. “It’s going to be so much fun. There will be plenty of fine men and women there. My friend still wants to meet you. She’s a thirty-five-year-old woman, and she’s drop-dead gorgeous. She owns her own chic beauty salon and spa on Pacific Avenue. Ever since she saw your picture in the
Fine Cuisine
magazine, she’s been begging me to set up a date for her,” Janice said while nudging his back with her wide hips. “What do you say, hon?”

Pres winced at being set up on a blind date.

No pun intended to me.

He cringed even more at dealing with another high-maintenance woman. Owner of a chic spa? He didn’t think so.

“I’ll think about it. Thank you for the invite.” Pres spoke softly, his voice sounding raspy from hardly talking. There was no one to talk to. He went to his assignments, ate alone, recorded his reports from home, and sent them to his assistant by messenger. He hadn’t been into the office or seen his business partner, Adam, since he and Ric split. They also didn’t come to see him. They weren’t his friends—they were his colleagues. As long as Pres did his work and his name was on the letterhead, their business would be successful, and that was all his partner cared about.

Every blue moon, the little old lady who lived in the next apartment over would bring a bone for Josey. That was the only company Pres got.

“Okay, Pres. Well, just let me know if you want to come. Maybe bring that handsome driver of yours. He can definitely come. Tell him he doesn’t even have to dress up. Just wear his uniform. Yum-my,” she crooned, trying to coax a smile out of him. She eventually gave up and put the finishing touches on his hair.

Pres was sure his slight smile he tried to give her never quite reached his lips. “I’ll see,” he said again with even less enthusiasm than the last lie.

“Okay, all done. You look fabulous, of course. I put together some new pieces in your closet if you want to go out on a special occasion…or a date.” She sighed while hugging his neck.

Pres took the contact. He wouldn’t mind a hug or kiss—hell, anything—but Janice was under his employ, so therefore off-limits.

Pres raised one hand and patted his smooth face and trimmed goatee. “Thanks, Janice. This feels a lot better.” He spoke softly into her spiky hair.

“You’re welcome, honey. I’ll see you next week. If you try to cancel, I’ll do the same thing I did today,” she yelled on her way out the door.

Pres heard the door click shut. He went to the pantry and pulled down a bottle of tequila and closed himself in his bedroom.

It was Halloween night, and of course Pres didn’t go to Janice’s extravaganza, which was probably in full swing since it was almost nine o’clock. He was sure it would’ve been nice, since Janice didn’t do anything half-assed, but Pres just wasn’t into it.

He was nursing a Jack and Coke and stewing in his sorrow when a commercial on the television caught his attention. Actually, two words caught his attention.

Male escorts.

Pres didn’t play his television too often, but the daily silence was eating away at his sanity. He reached for the remote and turned up the volume.

Looking for a night of fun company? Call us to set up a date with one of our hundreds of escorts. Male or female are available right now to come to you. Give us a call. 555-344-5535.

Pres didn’t know why, but he picked up his receiver before he could talk himself out of it and called the number.

A cheerful female voice answered on the second ring. “Hello. Thank you for calling Illustrious Escorts. How may we satisfy you this evening?”

Pres froze. He thought he’d get some kind of irritating recorded prompt first. Who actually gets a live person on the phone anymore?

“Hello?”

Even though he was on his fourth drink, he had to clear his now-dry throat before finally speaking. “Yeah, uh, how much for one evening?” Pres squeezed his eyes shut at his forward question and hoped he didn’t sound like a horny weirdo.

“Well, depends. What city are you in?”

“Virginia Beach.”

“Are you wanting company to go out to a function or staying in?”

Pres thought about it for a couple seconds. “Staying in.”

“Male or female?”

Oh shit. Male or female.
Pres hadn’t thought about that.
This is fucking nuts. What am I going to do? Invite a complete stranger to my home and sleep with them and then pay ’em? I’ll feel like a loser. What if they try to rob me or someth—

Pres’s internal argument was interrupted by the woman. “Sir, male or female?”

“Umm…female… No. No. Male, please.” He rushed to correct himself.
Jeez, I’m an idiot.

“Oh, sure. We have a beautiful variety of men. I want you to go to our website and take a look at the men we have available and see what you like. I can give you the password to access the webs—”

Pres cut in. “I can’t do that.”

“I’m sorry. You can’t?” she questioned uncertainly, sounding confused. “You don’t have Internet access?”

“I’m blind.” Pres waited for her response, but nothing came. He wanted to scream at the silence he was met with on the other end. He huffed in frustration. “You know what, never mind. I’m sorry to have bothered you.” Pres moved to press the “end” button on his cordless, when he heard her shouting for him to wait.

“Sir, I can assist you. I can set up a profile with you over the phone. What day and time were you looking for company?”

Pres took a deep breath, and after a few seconds, he replied, “Your commercial said ‘escorts available now.’ Is that accurate?”

“Yes, of course.” Her demeanor picked up again. “Tell me your name first, and then I want you to tell me a little about yourself.”

Pres gave the lady all of his information, and she set up a profile with his likes, dislikes, hobbies, et cetera.

“If I may be so bold, I think I may have someone perfect for you. He’s thirty-four and has very similar likes and interests,” she replied jovially.

Pres gave himself a mental kick in the ass while he gave the bubbly receptionist the approval number on his Black Visa, and she gave him a date for the evening.

I’m fucking worthless…paying for a goddamn date.

Apparently, that perfect someone lived in the area and was set to arrive in one hour.

Forty-five minutes and three shots of tequila later, Pres was still a mess. He’d walked Josey first and gotten him settled in his room. Then he showered and dressed in casual black slacks and a charcoal cashmere V-neck sweater. He was going for sexy but comfortable—at least that’s what it said in Braille on the hanger he pulled. He was pacing back and forth in his spacious den when he heard a soft knock at the door.

Oh shit, oh fuck, oh damn, oh hell,
he fired off in one long run-on statement.
What am I doing? There’s a complete stranger at my door that I paid five hundred dollars to come and keep me company. Am I that desperate now? Damn you, Ric, for reducing me to this.

He was still facing the unopened door and almost jumped out of his skin when he heard the tapping again, this time a little louder.

Pres slowly opened the door and was instantly met with a deliciously clean soap-and-water fragrance.

I did ask for a man, didn’t I?

Pres didn’t have to question the gender of his company any further when the man finally spoke up in a slow, sexy baritone drawl.

“Well hello, darlin’.”

Damn. That’s one hell of an accent. He must be from the very Deep South.
It did funny things to Pres’s deep south.

Pres cleared his throat. “Hi. I’m Prescott Vaughan.” He stuck out his hand, and it was grasped in a firm grip. His company’s touch was sure, and bold, and when the shake was over, he didn’t release Pres’s hand.

“Yes, as I live and breathe. I know exactly who you are, handsome. I am a huge fan, Prescott Vaughan. I’m Blair McKenzie.”

Damn that drawl. Pres was kind of hoping he didn’t pop wood right there in his damn hallway.

“You know me?” Pres questioned while working on keeping his erection under control.

“I most certainly do. I’ve followed your entire career. I’m just finishing up my master’s in contemporary French cuisine at Le Cordon Bleu. I’m actually doing my thesis work now. This is my fifth year, and I’m about to graduate in a few months,” he stated with pride.

“Wow. That’s impressive,” Pres responded, overly aware that they were still holding hands.

“May I come in, darlin’?”

Pres jumped at the question. He realized he’d been standing there mesmerized by the man for several minutes. “Oh. Of course. I’m sorry.” Pres stepped to the side and allowed the man to come in. He moved to close the door, but paused mid-action when he heard a slight grumble from out in the hallway.

Pres froze and listened intently, but was taken aback at being hit with none other than Ric’s spicy-sweet fragrance.

“Ric,” he called out before he could stop himself. He hadn’t had the opportunity to face the man in over a month, not since he’d stormed off of his yacht.

It amazed Pres that the man could avoid him so easily when they lived on the same floor…just four doors down. Either Ric had turned into goddamn Houdini or Pres was not as sharp as he thought he was. No matter what he tried to do to catch Ric, it never worked.

“Ric, wait, please.” His date of the hour forgotten, Pres trotted down the hall, behind Ric’s determined steps that had sped up when Pres gave chase. “Don’t be a fucking coward. Face me,” he growled, coming to a stop at the elevators.

“I’m not a coward. Go back to your date, darlin’,” Ric sneered nastily, clearly mocking Pres’s date.

Was that jealousy Pres heard in the man’s voice? He sounded jealous, but more than that, he sounded tired.

“I’m not on a date, Ric. He’s a…” Pres didn’t dare finish that sentence.

“Looks like a date to me,” Ric stated casually now.

Pres could hear Ric repeatedly pushing the elevator button.
He can’t get away from me fast enough.

“Ric, please. I’ll send him away right now if you’ll give me five minutes.”

“I’m late for work.”

“After work.”

“Won’t you be busy?”

“No, I won’t, Ric. I told you I’m not on a date.”

“I’m not a fool, darlin’.” Ric spit his harsh words through clenched teeth.

“Stop calling me that, Ric. That’s not what you call me.” Pres felt his emotions betraying him. He would not cry right now. He’d cried enough to last him a lifetime. “Ric, I’m just asking for a couple of minutes. Is that too much?” Pres begged. He heard the elevator doors open. “Ric.”

“Bye, Prescott.”