Falling Together (All That Remains #2) (5 page)

Goose
bumps cover my body. Could I ever love this man more than I do at this moment? After
the last verse, he props the guitar beside him, and I dive into his arms.
Everyone claps as he embraces me, and for once, I make no attempt to hide the
tears that streak my face.

“I’d
be nothing without you,” I whisper.

“No,
my sweet girl. You’re everything,” he murmurs, holding me tighter while I
attempt to reign in my emotions. Damn, he made me cry in front of everybody.

“Why
is Abby crying?” Walker pipes up. “It wasn’t
that
bad.” You can always
count on the youngest to break the awkward silence.

“Oh!”
Julie exclaims, covering her mouth as they all burst into laughter.

“Don’t
worry,” Jayla reassures him. “Sometimes girls cry because they’re happy.”

“That’s
weird. Play the boom boom song again.” Airen acquiesces, and after a few silly
verses Walker begins to yawn.

“I’ll
go in with him,” Carson says, and Jayla accompanies them, volunteering to stay
the night and watch Lane.

“Would
you mind playing another song, Airen? You have a lovely voice,” Julie declares.
He nods, and as the first notes ring out, Joseph tugs Troy to his feet.

“Dance
with me.” Troy looks eight shades of embarrassed, but he allows Joseph to lead
him a few feet away and they hold each other close, swaying to the music. Julie
and Eric excuse themselves after the song.

“This
was fun, you guys, but I’m beat,” Eric slurs .

“I
believe you mean, drunk,” Joseph corrects, grinning. Eric smiles widely and
shakes his head. He’s trashed.

“I’m
ready to go too. I’ll walk with you,” Troy offers.

Joseph
glances at Troy. It’s obvious he doesn’t want to leave yet. “Let me finish this
drink, babe, and I’ll come with you.”

“Stay.
Have fun. I’ll take Walker home and get him to bed.”

“Are
you sure?” Joseph asks, wrapping him in a hug.

“Mmm
Hmm, but you better wake me when you get home,” he murmurs, and gives Joseph’s
ass a quick squeeze. They head off into the woods while Joseph, Airen, and I
return to the fire. We talk and drink and laugh and drink. Needless to say, we’re
all feeling way too good.

“Are
you too drunk to play?” Joseph challenges, gesturing to Airen’s guitar.

“Are
you planning to sing?”

“No.”

Airen
strums the strings lightly. “Then I’ll play.”

My
suppressed giggle escapes and Joseph shake his head, amused.

“Don’t
encourage him,” he scolds.

“What
do you want to hear?” Airen asks, his gaze bouncing between us.

“I’ve
had my song.” I smile, knowing I’ll never forget tonight. “Play something
Joseph will like.”

Airen
nods and reflects for a few moments before his strong fingers return to the
strings. I don’t recognize the song, and I don’t think Joseph does either, but
even with Airen slightly slurring his words, the lyrics hit their mark.

It’s
Joseph’s turn to fight his emotions and his eyes well as Airen’s voice fills
the night. His voice is thick with emotion as he sings of missed opportunities
and regret, of words unsaid and needs and wants left unfulfilled. His eyes meet
Joseph’s when he sings of his desire to have all the wasted moments to do
again. Joseph swallows audibly and looks away as Airen finishes the song and
sets the guitar aside quietly. They can’t look at one another.

“That
was a beautiful song. I’ve never heard it before. What’s it called?” I ask
softly, attempting to break the awkward silence. The crack in my voice doesn’t
help, but I’ve never seen Airen like that with Joseph, and it’s so sweet. So
totally unexpected.

“This
Woman’s Work. It’s by a British singer named Kate Bush.” He shifts
uncomfortably in his seat.

“It
was perfect,” Joseph murmurs, poking at the fire with a branch. He stands and
stretches. “I should go. I’m going to have one hell of a hangover tomorrow.”

“You
and me both,” Airen says with a chuckle. After I hug Joseph, he heads off down
the path toward his house.

“Hey,
watch out for those mountain lions!” Airen teases, and shines his flashlight up
in the treetops. “They hide and pounce on you when you least expect it.”

“I’m
sure your singing scared away all the wildlife,” Joseph retorts. Airen slings
his arm around my neck and we walk inside. What am I going to do with these two
exasperating men?

Joseph

“Thank
you for inviting us to lunch.” Abby smiles sweetly when I lean to kiss her
cheek. She always smells so good, like coconuts.

“Thanks
for coming. I’m dying for some adult conversation.” The table is set for six
and there’s a wonderful smell emanating from the kitchen.

“Then
you should have invited some adults,” Airen quips. He pulls his boots off and
deposits them on a rug apparently set aside for that purpose. Lane squeals at
the sight of him, and waves his chubby little arms. Airen sweeps him up and
tosses him in the air before blowing on his belly to make him laugh. “What’s my
boy been up to, huh? Driving mommy crazy?” he asks, kissing his chubby cheeks
and settling him back into his high chair.

“Hey,
Eric…Troy,” he greets, nodding at them. After the usual exchange of
pleasantries and good natured teasing, we gather around the dining table to
enjoy Abby’s delicious chicken stew.

Airen
and Eric debate the pros and cons of different types of fishing tackle while
Abby and Troy discuss her recipe for the stew. Apparently, Troy is impressed.

“Joseph?”
Carson addresses me in a hushed voice. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of
course.” I’m not typically the first person he comes to for advice so I’m
curious. His question is unexpected.

“Do
you know if your biological parents survived the plague?” He gazes at me
uncertainly, concerned I may not appreciate the inquiry into my difficult past.

“No,
buddy, I don’t know. I don’t think the odds are very high, though. Why do you
ask?”

“It’s
just something I’ve been thinking about.” His gaze travels to land on Troy, and
he whispers, “Did Troy’s parents die in the plague?” Staring at the table, he
fiddles with his spoon.

“His
mother died of breast cancer before, and he doesn’t know his father,” I reply,
trying to puzzle out where he’s going with this.

He
nods, a pensive look on his face. “Are you wondering about your father?” I ask
softly.

“No.
Well…yeah, but not just him.”

“What’s
on your mind, Carson?” Airen asks. He’s been following our hushed conversation.

“It’s
not important. It’s just a theory.” Carson is a bright kid. He loves anything
related to science and he has a wickedly logical mind.

“Tell
us about it,” I encourage.

He
glances doubtfully around the table before he replies, “It’s just an idea. I’ve
been thinking about why we survived the sickness. You know, why
us
?”

“We
all wonder about that, honey,” Abby assures him.

“No,
I don’t mean in some existential way. What is it, biologically, that saved us?
It has to be a hereditary immunity because Walker and I both have a surviving
parent, and that’s just too much of a coincidence to be irrelevant. Still, both
of Julie’s grown children died while she’s immune.” He glances around the table
expectantly, waiting for us to connect the dots. “Don’t you see? Both parents
have to be immune to pass it on to the offspring.”

Abby
smiles at him. “Carson, that’s brilliant, but there’s a flaw in your idea.”

“Such
as?”

“Airen’s
parents both died of the plague.” His face falls as he processes the
information.

Airen
glances at Abby with a guilty expression, and murmurs, “Not exactly.”

“Isn’t
that what you told me? That they died during the plague?” she asks, a frown on
her face.

“They
did. My mother was sick and waiting for a kidney transplant. She was on
dialysis and once the power failed and the rioting began she couldn’t receive
her treatments. That’s what actually took her.”

“I’m
sorry,” Abby whispers. “What about your dad?”

“He
did die from the sickness, but there’s a good chance he wasn’t my biological
father. Mom confessed to me just before she died that she cheated on Dad with
her yoga instructor. Her dark haired, dark eyed yoga instructor. Both of my
parents were blond and blue eyed.” Abby takes his hand and he smiles at her.
“It’s fine. It doesn’t matter now, but my situation doesn’t negate Brainiac’s
theory.” He winks at him, and Carson grins.

“It’s
not impossible for two blue-eyed people to have a brown-eyed child because
recessive genes come into play. And while your eyes look black, a study
suggests people whose eyes appear black really have very dark brown pigment.”
After pausing for a moment to think, Carson continues. “Immunity could be
affected by recessive genes as well, or some other factor I haven’t considered,
so I could be wrong, but it makes sense. I’ve been thinking about this for a
long time. Jayla doesn’t know her father, and her mother was incarcerated when
the plague hit. They could both be immune. Joseph is immune, but you don’t know
whether Walker’s surrogate survived, do you?” he asks.

“No,
I don’t.” We had no contact with the woman who carried our twins after the
birth.

“If
you both survived, you and the surrogate passed the immunity to Walker, but
since your husband wasn’t immune then Walker’s twin wasn’t immune. He didn’t
have two immune parents.”

We
thought it was a miracle when we found out each of our sperm donations managed
to fertilize its own egg, resulting in fraternal twins with two different
fathers. The odds of that are astronomical, even with the help of fertility
drugs. When I allowed myself to think of Mason’s death, I’d assumed he’d died
because he wasn’t my blood, and Tim wasn’t immune. I figured Walker had gotten
his immunity from me, and was even more convinced after meeting Abby and
Carson. I never considered it took two immune parents, or wondered if the
surrogate survived. No wonder there are so few of us left.

Carson
goes on. “My grandparents died before the plague and so did Julie’s parents, so
they could’ve been immune. That leaves Eric.” Carson turns to him hopefully.

“My
mom died in a car crash years ago, and I haven’t seen my father in a few years.
I don’t know if he’s still alive. So, technically, yes, they could be immune.”
Carson grins.

“If
it does prove to be true, Carson, what difference does it make now?” Airen
asks.

Carson
stares at him incredulously. “Are you kidding? It means your biological father
could still be alive, not to mention mine, Troy’s, and Eric’s. Joseph and
Jayla’s parents could’ve survived. Plus, mom’s brother Brandon. If my
grandparents were immune and they passed it to Mom, it follows that he could
have inherited it as well. We could have family we didn’t even know existed.”

Christ.
He’s right. My parents could be alive. Despite the fact that they threw me away
when I was only fifteen, a part of me wants to know. We’re all somewhat subdued
as we finish eating. The thought of my parents and their fate weighs heavy on
my mind, and it seems I’m not the only one struggling to absorb Carson’s
bombshell.

“I’m
sorry,” he volunteers, glancing around the silent table. “I didn’t mean to
upset anyone. I get carried away when I have an idea.” His face is pinched with
anxiety.

“It’s
okay,” Abby reassures him. “It’s better to know the truth. If you’re correct,
honey, you’ve given us a lot to think about.” He certainly has.

In
an attempt to lighten the mood, Airen spends a few minutes teasing Carson about
his brain growing too large for his skull.

“That’s
physiologically impossible,” Carson replies, rolling his eyes.

Airen
grins and pokes him in the arm. “Nuh uh, it’s a theory…and…studies suggest it.
So factor that into your…hypothesis.”

“Two
points for the big vocabulary word, but any credibility you may have had disappeared
when you said nuh uh.” Everyone cracks up and Airen flips a piece of bread at
Carson. We can always count on those two for comic relief, and by the end of
our meal, we’re all in a better mood.

I
grin at Troy as we start down the trail towards home. “I see Abby loaded you
down with leftovers.”

“And
her recipe. It’s surprisingly simple.”

“Walker’s
going to spend the night at Carson’s tonight, you know.”

“Hmm.”
He smiles at me with feigned innocence. “What can we possibly do to entertain
ourselves for an entire child free night?” His palm is warm against my cheek
when he slips his hand into my back pocket.

“I
have a few ideas,” I murmur, stealing a quick kiss.

“I
thought you might.”

* * * *

Both
sated, we fall naked into bed, and I cuddle up in Troy’s embrace. My hope we
would take things further tonight was dashed, but a blowjob from Troy is
nothing to turn my nose up at. We lie silently for a few minutes before Troy
reaches for his boxers.

“Don’t.”
I grab his hand, and he glances at me, surprised. “Do you trust me, Troy?” I
ask softly.

His
gaze becomes cautious. “Yes.”

“I’d
never do anything to hurt you.” He blinks and looks away.

“I
know that.”

“Please,
just let me try to help. If it’s too much for you, I’ll stop.” He can’t go on
this way, always trying to hide.

“What
do you want me to do?” he whispers, fear evident in those wide brown eyes.

“I
just want you to relax.” I reach over to the nightstand and select his favorite
slow playlist on the iPod docked in the speaker. “All you have to do is tell me
to stop and I’ll stop.” Fearful eyes settle on mine, and he nods, resigned. His
lips twist into a grimace when I pull his shirt off over his head, and I’m
tempted to stop, but he needs this.

“Look
at me.” We sit side by side, our shoulders touching. “It’s just the two of us,
love. You’re safe.” I stroke his face, my eyes never leaving his, and the pain
reflected there makes my heart ache. He tilts his head and presses his cheek
into my hand, his stubble rasping against my palm.

“Relax.
This isn’t about sex,” I whisper. “I just want to touch you.” His eyes widen,
but he nods, biting his lip. The scent of vanilla fills the room as I coat my
hands in lotion, and softly massage his chest. He sighs when my fingers follow
the path of dark hair that grows across his chest and down his abdomen,
thinning into a happy trail. This is the easy part. It’s only where his body is
scarred that he can’t bear to be touched. His back, his thighs, and his behind
have all been off limits.

“Breathe.
Close your eyes and listen to the music. Feel my hands on you,” I murmur,
slowly shifting to face him. “Try to let it go.” When I lightly brush my lips
across the frown lines on his forehead, his eyelids flutter in response.

My
hands slide slowly around to his lower back, spreading the sweet smelling
lotion over his skin and the raised scars that cause him so much anguish. I
pause when he gasps and his muscles tighten. His jaw is clenched, his teeth
gritted, and the look of agony on his face is heartbreaking. My poor broken
boy. What I would give to undo the abuse he’s suffered.

Keeping
my hands against his lower back, I murmur, “It’s okay. I’m with you. I’m right
here. Just relax and breathe. Focus on the music. Don’t think, just feel.” I
work my way up from his lower back to his shoulders, murmuring comforting
words, telling him how sexy he is, how much I love to touch him. When I plant a
light kiss on his shoulder, he falls apart, his face crumples and his body
shakes with sobs. Shit. Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea. The last thing I
want is to hurt him.

I’ve
never seen him cry. Not once in the ten months since our escape from the cult.
I didn’t intend to make him so upset, but I think he needs this. He needs to
grieve. “I’ve got you, honey. It’s all right, let it happen,” I croon, embracing
him. He sobs on my shoulder, his arms tight around my neck. We cling to one another
as all the fear and pain he has tried so hard to repress pours out of him.

After
a few minutes, he pulls away and mutters, “I’m sorry.”

“You
have no reason to be sorry. I’m sorry I pushed you too far. The last thing I
want is to hurt you. It was too much.” Holding him as if he may float away, I
weave my fingers through his soft hair. “I thought if you could relax, if I
could make it feel good, maybe you wouldn’t be afraid. Forgive me. We don’t
have to do this again.” I kiss his warm damp temple.

He
shakes his head and stares at me with red rimmed eyes. “It does feel good. You
have no idea how bad I want you to touch me, Joseph.” The bottle of lotion is
thrust into my hands, and my eyes tear up as he lies face down on the bed. I’m
overwhelmed by the trust he has in me.

Desperate
to put him at ease, I begin at his feet, paying special attention to them since
he loves a good foot massage. He groans when my thumbs run firmly up and down
his arch. “Feels good, Angel,” he mumbles. I work my way slowly up his calves,
kneading and rubbing.

“Do
you want me to stop?” I ask quietly when I reach the first of the scars on his
thigh. I don’t want to make him cry again.

“No.”
He tenses, but not nearly as much as the first time.