Will & Patrick Meet the Mob (2 page)

“Why? No one wants you here.”

“Son, we need to let bygones be bygones. It’s been far too long since we spent any time together.” He turns his deceptively soft, pained gaze on Patrick. “Besides, I want to get to know your husband.” His grin is sharp, though. “What father wouldn’t want that?”

Patrick doesn’t know what’s happened to his brain, because he knows there’s a snarky, obnoxious answer to that question somewhere inside him, but he can’t spit it out. Snow starts to fall in earnest, and they’re all standing staring at each other, their breath puffing white and smoky in the air around them.

“I’m done with you.” Will pulls his phone from his pocket. “May I speak with Sheriff Goombs, please? This is Will Patterson calling.”

Tony sweeps his fedora off, presses it to his chest, and rolls his eyes up to the sky, shaking his head. “Will Patterson. It lacks music and rhythm,” he sighs.

“Sheriff, I’m sorry for bothering you so late. Thank you for taking my call. I’d like to report a crime.”

Patrick’s stomach tenses, wondering what Tony’s going to do to stop him.

“My father, Tony Molinaro, held a gun on my husband and threatened—” Will frowns. “I see.” He glares at Tony. “A joke.” He looks like he’s going to dive at his father and bite a hunk out of his shoulder in rabid rage. “Yes, obviously. It was
hilarious
.” He disconnects the call. “You have the sheriff in your pay, don’t you?”

“I don’t need to pay her. Mary Goombs—the sheriff,” he clarifies for Patrick’s sake. “Has always had a soft spot for me.” He leans forward and whispers as though only Patrick can hear. “She was my first. Taught me all the wonderful ways to please a woman.”

Will screws up his face. “She’s in her sixties.”

“She wasn’t back then.”

Patrick doesn’t ask what Will thought a female sheriff in her sixties was going to do against his violent and deadly mobster daddy, anyway. Instead, he contemplates his half-eaten doughnut on the ground near where he’d been forced to kneel. The rest of the doughnuts from the bag are scattered halfway down the street.

This is what love looks like, Patrick. You end up with no doughnuts and so-called “toy” pistols pointed at your head.

Patrick starts to laugh.

“Your husband, at least, has a good sense of humor,” Tony says. “You shame me by being such a party pooper.”

“Sorry if I don’t find scaring the crap out of people funny.” Will wraps an arm around Patrick’s shoulders and rubs a soothing hand down his chest. Patrick can’t stop laughing and Will tugs him even closer, tucking his head against his shoulder. Patrick lets him because his knees are wobbly with shock and he knows he’s a genius, but he’s having a hard time parsing this. “Shh, baby. Calm down. We’re okay. You’re okay.”

Tony eyes them for a long moment and then mournfully goes on, “I have no one but myself to blame if you’re a dull knock-off of Kevin. I should’ve stayed closer, been more involved. Introduced you to the life—”

“I loathe you,” Will says quietly and he sounds so cold that the crazed, uncontrollable laughter dies in Patrick’s throat. “I don’t think you understand how much. You’ve always assumed my anger was just adolescent rage, or grief after Roger died. You always dismissed it. But, no. Let me tell you one more time. Up close and personal. Face to face.” He releases Patrick and grabs hold of Tony’s coat lapels, looking into his father’s eyes. “I
hate
you. I have no space in my life or heart for you. I don’t want you here. I don’t want you near my husband, or my sisters or my brother. I want you to stay away from Mom, and I want you to get the hell out of Healing for good. None of us ever want to see you again. Do you understand?”

Tony stares at him and says nothing.

“Do you understand, Dad?”

Tony’s smile makes Patrick’s balls tingle. It’s disturbing how handsome the man is, and the edge of danger amplifies his sex appeal. “I’m so proud of you. Standing up to me. Speaking your mind. You’re becoming a man. Your own man. Bravo, Guglielmo.”

Will glares at his father, then turns toward Patrick, a grim and determined expression on his face. He grips Patrick’s arm and starts to lead him down the street. They’ve only taken two steps when Will whirls around. There’s a crunching noise and a gasp.

“Will!” Patrick rushes forward, but there’s nothing he needs to do. Will shakes out his hand and hisses. Ryan taught Will one useful lesson at least: how to sucker punch an asshole.

“I’m fine,” Will grits out.

Tony stares at his son with a glint of admiration in his eyes as his tongue snakes out to lick his bleeding lip. “Good to see there’s some Molinaro in you after all,” he murmurs. “That’s my brave, angry boy.”

“I’m not like you,” Will says, but his speech sounds a little slurred. “I’m not like any of you.”

“Come on. Let’s go.” Patrick’s got soggy underwear and he’s afraid of where this is going. He doesn’t trust Tony not to pull that gun from his shoulder holster and put a bullet in his son. Or his brilliant neurosurgeon son-in-law. And Patrick really wants to live. Preferably with Will. Somewhere far from the horror show that is Healing, South Dakota.

Will spins on his heel and Patrick follows. He’s dizzy and his entire body shakes. The snow sticks to the newly cleared streets and sidewalks, and Patrick’s so overwhelmed from the pants-crapping fear of a gun against his head that he almost thinks the snow-crusted concrete is rising up to meet him, only to realize it’s Will who’s going down. Patrick gets hold of him just in time to cushion his fall.

“Will!” Scanning the sidewalk and street for Will’s murse, he curses under his breath. “You didn’t bring your kit?” And damn himself for being so distracted by his own pity party over the Hammond lawsuit and his lovesick state he hadn’t noticed to insist.

Will rubs at his head and pulls off his gloves. His eyes are glazed as he checks his pockets and comes up empty. “Had this coat dry cleaned last week,” he slurs. “Usually keep tube of cake frosting in the pocket.”

Patrick pats down his own coat looking for Life Savers or hard candy, wishing to God he had juice or fruit snacks. He throws a glance at the maple-ginger doughnuts all over the street, but those are filthy and not going to get the glucose into Will fast enough. He needs to know how quickly Will’s BG is dropping.

“What’s happened?” Tony says from Patrick’s elbow, on his knees next to Will, worry thickening his smooth baritone.

“You happened, asshole. Stress and fear burned through his glucose.” He scans the area, trying to gauge how far to the closest restaurant. “I need to get back to Brown Gargle for juice. Watch him. If he passes out, call 911.”

“Here.” Tony reaches into his pocket and pulls out a butterscotch hard candy. “Suck on this.”

Will’s glassy eyes fade as his father places the candy on his tongue.

“You stay with him,” Tony says. “I’ll get the juice.” Tony stands and tips his hat at Patrick.

“Run,” Patrick commands. “Go as fast as you can.” Patrick holds Will against his body and slides his hand under his coat and shirt to press over Will’s heart, feeling it beat against his palm. It’s reassuring. Tony’s feet slap on the pavement and Patrick turns his attention to Will. “Don’t pass out.”

“Don’t plan on it.”

“Good boy.”

“Sorry.” Will’s words are garbled and his eyelashes flutter. “I shouldn’t’ve…oh…” His body goes slack as he loses consciousness. Patrick fishes the hard candy out of his mouth so he doesn’t choke and throws it across the sidewalk, where it cracks into tiny pieces. After slapping Will’s face and calling his name, he digs into his coat pocket for his cell phone.

“911. What’s your emergency?”

“This is Dr. Patrick McCloud.” He quickly gives their location. “My husband is a Type 1 diabetic. He’s passed out and is unresponsive. Suspected hypoglycemic episode. Send an ambulance and a stat IV bolus of D50.”

“Copy that. How long has he been unresponsive?”

Patrick knows it’s only been a moment or two, but it feels like way too long as he clutches Will and rambles on to the 911 operator about Will’s condition. Time ticks by slowly and he presses his face against Will’s neck and waits, hoping Will doesn’t start to seize. Sirens break into the vibrating silence of night, and cold snowflakes land wetly on his cheeks and hair. He disconnects with the operator, sits up, and brushes the wet flakes from Will’s face. As the ambulance pulls onto the street, he bends to kiss Will’s lips. They’re warm and soft and his heart calms with the arrival of help.

Tony returns, huffing with exertion and clutching two bottles of juice, at the same time the EMT team is bundling a newly conscious and vaguely protesting Will into the ambulance. He’d responded immediately to the D50, much to Patrick’s relief, and is now in the grumpy stage of recovering from a sudden and severe low.

“You’re too late. They’re taking him.” Patrick shoves Tony aside and follows the bearded EMT with a tight ass into the crowded space in the back of the ambulance.

“I don’t need to go to the hospital,” Will snaps. “I’m fine.”

“Look, Dr. McCloud wants you checked out,” bearded EMT says anxiously, glancing toward Patrick. “His reputation sort of precedes him, dude.” He leans forward and whispers, “Let’s do what he wants or your husband’ll make our lives hell around the hospital.”

“Patrick, I’m fine. It’s a waste of time and—”

Patrick squeezes Will’s knee and sits down on the small bench. “No. You’re going in. You’ve had too many episodes lately. Something’s not right.”

“I’ll make an appointment for next week. Don’t make me go now. Please, I want to go home.”

“No. I’m sorry. But you’ll be seen by an endo tonight, and that’s final.”

Will groans, falling back on the gurney and giving up the fight.

Out of the corner of his eye, Patrick sees Tony try to get into the back of the ambulance too.

“Sorry, sir. Only room for one in the back with the patient.”

“He’s my son.” Tony’s eyes are wide, earnest, and scared. He almost looks like a loving dad. His fat lip where Will punched him is the only indication that everything’s not kosher.

“Too bad.” Patrick holds up his hand, displaying his wedding ring. “He’s my husband.”

Tony narrows his eyes, backing away from the ambulance, a hint of threat in his bearing.

Turning to Will, Patrick takes hold of his hand. The ambulance doors slam shut as the EMTs get in position. He can only imagine
The Hurting Times
gossip about this incident tomorrow
.
Fine. Let them talk. What does he care? The only person he cares about is right here.

He squeezes Will’s hand again, and his heart aches when Will’s lips tilt up in a smile just for him.

Will’s grateful he doesn’t have to stay the night at the hospital. Dr. Anastasia, his endocrinologist, comes in despite the hour. Finding the crisis resolved, they make a follow-up appointment for two days out. Will’s amused when Dr. Anastasia ends up spending most of his time reassuring Patrick who, in his worry, is all bluster and blow.

“Calm down,” Will tells him when Dr. Anastasia finally leaves the room. “He doesn’t need you barking at him to do his job. He’s a good doctor.”

“He’s an idiot.”

“You know he’s not, and it was way beyond the call of duty for him to come back in tonight to check on me.”

“Whatever.” Patrick huffs and shifts around in the uncomfortable chair by Will’s bed in the ER bay. “How’s your hand, slugger?”

“It’s fine.” He holds it up. “Not even bruised. I’m no Mike Tyson. I’m surprised I bloodied his lip.”

“It looked pretty fat when we left him behind.”

Will smirks, pride glancing through him like light bouncing off walls. “Thanks for not letting him in the ambulance.”

“He’d have had to shoot me first.”

Will’s eyes crinkle at the edges. “You’re a good friend.”

Patrick looks away and shrugs.

“What am I going to wear home?” Will says after a long moment of silence filled only by nurses’ voices in the hallway and groaning from a patient in the next bay over. Will wears an open-backed hospital gown, and the clothes he arrived in are wadded up in a plastic bag given to him for his personal effects. “I pissed myself when I passed out.” His cheeks heat.

“That’s going around.”

“Huh?” Will frowns and then remembers how Patrick had slipped out of the room and come back wearing scrubs while nurses were settling Will in the ER bay and before Dr. Anastasia arrived. “Oh, did you really? Because, you know, the gun?” He waves at his own temple.

Patrick glares at him.

Will’s stomach twists, guilt dropping on him like a blanket. “Don’t be embarrassed. It’s normal.”

“I’m aware. Urine is nothing new to me, puddin’-pop.”

Will laughs bitterly. “So my dad scared the piss out of both of us. Literally.”

“All in a night’s work for Daddy Mob Boss.”

“He’s not a boss, he’s…” Will scrubs a hand over his face. “You know what? Let’s not talk about him. For tonight, let’s pretend he’s dead.”

“Okay by me.”

Will grabs his phone and checks the time. “It’s almost midnight. Screw this day. It’s been the worst.”

“You won’t hear me arguing.” Patrick lifts a hand and rubs it through his hair. His long fingers are steady, always steady, but fragile-looking in the florescent lights of the ER.

Will’s heart hurts. He wants to hold him and go back in time to this morning when everything had seemed so fresh and raw, yet full of possibility.

“Patrick? Break me out of this joint.”

Patrick nods and leaves the curtained bay. When he returns, he has scrubs in his hands and some paperwork. “Hop into these, puddin’-pop. Let’s go home.” 

An hour later, wearing only his coat and the too-tight scrubs Patrick scared off a nurse (Will hopes not literally) and eating a protein bar to keep his BG stabilized, he walks through the nearly empty Tallgrass lobby, past Beth at reception, and gets on the elevator with Patrick right behind.

He’s relieved Tony doesn’t ambush them in the lobby and isn’t waiting by their hotel room door. He’s a little surprised his father hadn’t followed them to the hospital, and even more surprised Tony didn’t notified Kimberly. Making it out of Healing Regional without her swooping in tearfully, vindicated in her accusations that he isn’t capable of taking care of himself, feels like a kindness. Or maybe a bribe.

Still, he knows it’s only a matter of time before he’ll be forced to see Tony again, and there’s no way his mother won’t know about his visit to the hospital by morning.

“Stop borrowing trouble,” Patrick says. “You worry too loudly.”

Will sighs in relief as Patrick keys open the door to their room. It waits for them like a beautiful gift. Always clean, always private, and three stories up from the random street noises below, the Tallgrass is probably his favorite place he’s ever lived. The value of ease and comfort can’t be underestimated. Despite his father’s comments, Will’s not in any hurry to move out.

After Patrick downs a bag of peanut M&Ms and Will eats a small microwavable pizza, they take a mutual, but purely functional shower. Once he’s dried off, Will pulls on faded navy sweat pants and a soft T-shirt, and falls back on their bed, turning his head to casually watch Patrick dry himself in the bathroom. They’re both exhausted, and Will’s ready to chalk the day up as one of the worst in his life. Right up there with the time he nearly died from DKA. He hates being diabetic.

Stretching against the soft sheets, he wants to down a bottle of wine like he wants to breathe, but he shakes it off when he realizes that he wants Patrick to get in bed next to him, fold into their usual position, and hold him even more.

Like he’s read Will’s mind, Patrick drops the towel, pulls on a pair of boxer-briefs, and does just that. His wet, curly hair tickles the underside of Will’s chin, and Will kisses the top of his head, smelling lemon-zest shampoo and eucalyptus soap. His chest aches with affection and he wishes their situation were different. It was Patrick who’d told him that a person will grow to hate anything if free will isn’t part of the equation. There’s nothing free about their marriage. His father’s appearance on the scene with his guns drives that home all over again.

“So that was Tony Molinaro,” Patrick murmurs. “He’s an insane asshole but, holy hotness, his face isn’t.”

Will almost chokes on his own tongue. “You think my dad’s hot?”

“Obviously. You’ve seen him, right?”

“He’s my dad.”

“Yeah, well, you get the sex-on-legs thing from both sides of the family, puddin’-pop.” Patrick’s voice shades darker. “Plus, he’s a real charmer. Bet he wins over all the ladies with that hilarious gun joke.”

“Patrick—”

“The Tony Molinaro motto: ‘Hold a gun to her head and she laughs right into bed.’” He clucks his tongue. “Gun jokes and that face? C’mon, the man’s a dreamboat.”

“Patrick.” Will’s pretty sure Patrick’s sarcastic about that last part of his commentary.

“Yeah?”

“Dead, remember? Just for tonight. Let’s pretend he’s dead.”

“Right.”

With his hand trailing up and down Patrick’s back, it strikes Will how selfish he’s being. Patrick’s the one whose life was threatened. Seeing him on his knees like that, helpless and wild-eyed, has awakened something in Will he’s never known before: a violent possessive protection. If his father had hurt Patrick—no, if he
ever
hurts Patrick, Will’s not sure what he’ll do, but he knows it’ll be ugly and no one involved is coming out alive. Turns out he has Molinaro blood after all.

It scares him.

But he shoves that aside. “You know what? Never mind. We can talk.”

“I hate talking.”

“Yeah. But—”

“I’m good.” He nuzzles against Will’s T-shirt like he’s instinctively burrowing in. “Take this off.”

Will isn’t in the mood for sex. He knows some people experience life-threatening situations as a sexual rush, but he’s spent. Between the crisis with the Hammonds, his father’s “joke,” and then his low followed by the exhausting visit to the ER, he doesn’t have even a tiny bit of energy to spare for getting laid.

“Shirt off,” Patrick insists again, and Will pulls his tee over his head and tosses it onto the floor, deciding to give Patrick whatever he needs no matter how he’s feeling. But Patrick pushes him back flat again and collapses on his chest. “That’s better.” He rubs his cheek against Will’s chest hair and sighs. “That’s the stuff.”

They cuddle silently for a long time. The lights on the nightstands seem too far away, so he doesn’t bother trying to turn them off, staring up at the ceiling and holding Patrick tight. “I’m surprised you’re not packing your bags,” Will whispers.

“Where would I go?” Patrick slurs sleepily. “He’d find me anywhere. And there’d be no you.” He stiffens in Will’s arms, but after a few seconds, he relaxes again.

“But you thought about it? Leaving, I mean?”

“Here’s what I thought about,” Patrick says, more awake now. “I thought, ‘what kind of idiot leaves their kit at home when they’re a Type 1 diabetic?’”

“I didn’t think we’d—”

“You didn’t think. Never make that mistake again.” He rubs his face against Will’s chest and mutters, “Never. Got it?”

“I promise.”

“If you up and die on me, we both know Mobster Daddy’ll bring his toy back around. The one
with
bullets.” 

Will rolls his eyes. “So you agree we’re in
The Godfather
now?”

“And
Scarface
and
Mean Streets
. Throw in some
Reservoir Dogs
.”

“You know he wouldn’t actually kill you if I died, right?” At least, Will doesn’t think Tony would have Patrick offed. He’s pretty sure tonight was just a test, but he’s not sure what it was designed to prove. “Neither of us is going to die, Patrick.”

Sitting up, Patrick stares down at him narrowly. “That’s bullcrap. You can’t promise that.”

“Do you want reassurance we’re both going to be okay or not? I’m trying here.”

“Well, stop. You’ve failed. All you’ve done is remind me you can’t make that promise. No one can.” Patrick tosses the covers back and begins to pace by the bed. “Holy crap. It’s too risky.” He tears at his hair and rambles, “I can’t expect, how can
anyone
expect…? Because, look, if I let myself go there and feel that? It all comes to an end one day.”

“What ends?”

“Us. You, me. Everyone. Humans just stop. There’s no preventing it.” He waves wildly in Will’s direction. “It’s tick-tock, tick-tock, boom. And then it’s over. You lose everything you invested in. It’s stupid.”

“You’re not making any sense, baby.” Will says, grabbing Patrick’s hand to hold him in place.

Patrick stares at him again. “This is a mistake.”

Of course it’s a mistake—everything since Vegas has been a massive, insurmountable error, but they’re going to be okay. So long as they stay together, they’ll make it through just fine. Nothing’s changed. His father isn’t anything they can’t handle. Hopefully.

“Get in bed.” Will tugs him closer, relieved Patrick doesn’t resist. “You’re scared. That’s all. Everything’s going to be okay.”

“I’m not scared. I’m terrified.”

“We’re okay. It’s all right.”

“You don’t understand. I don’t make mistakes.”

Will frowns, lost. “Everyone does. Even the almighty Dr. McCloud messes up sometimes.”

“Not like this. Not on purpose.” He looks like a child who wants someone to tell him the monster under the bed isn’t real. He tears a hand through his auburn curls, glistening in the low light. “Feeling this way is stupid.”

“You’re not stupid.” Trauma messes with people, and the day’s been nothing if not traumatic for Patrick, who likes his regular routines, his predictable meals, and his squeaky-clean hospitals. “Get in,” Will says, offering up the space in his arms again.

Patrick crawls in reluctantly. He straddles Will’s hips and slaps a hand over Will’s mouth. “I know you can’t promise. It’s all bullcrap. But I mean it, Will, no dying. Do you hear me?”

“Mmfph.”

“Ever. If I’m going to do this—this—
insane
situation with you, we’re both going to live for a very long time. Understand?”

“Mmpmk?”

“Don’t talk. Just nod.”

Will’s rebellious dick doesn’t seem to understand that he’s too tired to be aroused, because Patrick’s hand over his mouth, his weight on his crotch, and his commanding words are getting him hard.

“That means no drinking. No forgetting your kit. No getting sick. No car accidents. No mafia hits. No
dying
. Understand?” Patrick meets Will’s gaze head on, staring into him like he can see truth on his retinas.

Will nods.

Patrick’s pupils dilate and he whispers, “Green means go. Uh-uh-uh is stop.”

Will mumbles “green” from behind Patrick’s palm, and Patrick shifts his hand up to cover Will’s nose. Patrick’s nostrils flare as he takes control of Will’s breath. Will relaxes against the bed, going limp and compliant, letting Patrick have it all. A vulnerable emotion twists over Patrick’s face and his lower lip tenses like he’s working hard to hold something in.

Will rests a hand on his own chest and feels his heart glug-glugging peacefully. Trust fills him, there’s not an ounce of doubt in his mind that Patrick will take care of him, and he sinks into a deep calm. The shadows of the day and night vanish beneath Patrick’s penetrating gaze. Liquor never does that for him. Just Patrick.

Patrick’s breath slows too, and he relaxes against Will where they touch. He releases his hold and leans in to whisper against Will’s lips, “No dying.” Then he kisses him gently, tasting his tongue and sighing softly before collapsing to press his cheek against Will’s chest again.