“Thank you.”
Stefan turned to go. He put his hand on the doorknob, pulled it open, but then stopped, his back to Frank. Frank wanted to ask if something was wrong, but was afraid to. He really didn’t want to hear that Stefan was quitting now.
Still in the room, Stefan closed the door with a quiet click. He didn’t turn around. “Can I ask something personal?”
Frank pretended his heart hadn’t jumped into his throat. “Go ahead.”
Now Stefan turned. Not all the way around, but enough to make eye contact. “What was his name?”
Frank’s heart stopped. “I . . . what?”
“Your partner.” Stefan moistened his lips. He’d always seemed so ballsy and cocky, but suddenly he looked his own age. Maybe even a little younger. Boyish. Innocent. “What was his name?”
Frank found some air. “Andrew.”
Stefan nodded. “I was just curious. I’m sorry again for your loss.”
And with that, he was gone.
And why had Frank wanted to share the name, when most of his days, he managed to not even think it? Eighteen months. He’d moved on, had pushed it all to the fringes of his mind. He no longer woke up thinking Andrew wasn’t in the bed because he’d gone to the kitchen or to the toilet. When he woke up alone now, he knew why.
That’s the problem with the daddy kink, boy. Old guys have history. And some of it is horrible.
He was rattled, though. His heart had skipped a few beats, and he rubbed his face. Sexual attraction was one thing. Chemistry. Whatever you’d call it. Kink compatibility. Mutual admiration when it came to shooting paint. He’d enjoyed the banter, too.
Hell, these days he was so desperate for a touch that he could fully understand the johns that came here for a few moments or hours of relief from loneliness or an itch that they couldn’t scratch otherwise. Simple loneliness could drive a man to act in strange ways. For three weeks after the funeral he’d been a wreck, unable to even feed himself for crying. The soul-wrenching misery of it all, the mealymouthed life goes on, and God is thy shepherd, and he’d always heard what people thought inside their skulls: your insatiable lust has made you both ill, and he’s only the first to be punished.
It probably wasn’t fair. His therapist had told him he was projecting, but the whole your recklessness will kill you vibe, that had been impossible to deal with on his own. If not for Geoff and Mike, he’d likely have walked into traffic or a train, blind with tears.
And worst of all was that the anti-virals kept working on him, and working fine. It had been Andrew who’d lost weight, Andrew who’d had horrible stomach trouble, who couldn’t go to work for weeks while every change of his pill cocktail kicked his scrawny arse all over the floor. And then the worst: wishing for death so the suffering would be over.
Frank wiped at his eyes and forced himself to get up. Facing this shit always brought it all back. All he wanted was to keep people safe and at a distance and keep his goddamned dignity in the face of all of this. Keep the respect of the people working for him, and not have to deal with whispers and rumours and panic when he sneezed or had a cold or was a bit under the weather. He had enough on his plate without all that. Things like staying sane and healthy and enjoying life while he could. And if that meant reffing a game rather than dealing with all the fucking baggage, then that was his goddamned right.
He grabbed his jacket from the chair and left the office.
Downstairs, he waited for Raoul to have a moment.
Raoul whipped a cocktail together for a john, and once the guy had left, sauntered over to Frank. “Boss?”
“Don’t think I don’t know why you dug up the new guy.”
Raoul lifted his pierced eyebrow. “He’s a top and hot?”
“Careful, you.” Frank lifted his finger in warning. “That said, I’m out for the night. Call me if there’s anything requiring attention.”
“Will do.” Raoul shook his head, as if offended for real. “As long as you trust me with that.”
Frank turned around and lifted a hand, half fuck you, half see you later.
Geoff’s email came as a relief in the middle of the week. Somehow, Stefan’s and Frank’s schedule at the club never intersected, but maybe that was because Frank dropped in late and usually left after about half an hour. Easy to miss anybody on a schedule like that. In any case, it was good that both of them had space to retreat to—Stefan did his job, and Frank stayed out of the way.
You up for some ball busting Sat?
Frank emailed back that he was.
How many?