Will & Patrick Wake Up Married (4 page)

“Excuse me? This was a drunken mistake, not a—”

Schaeffer talks over him. “If your moral fiber is so weak that a little alcohol and a night in Las Vegas are enough for you to give into poor decision making, and
then
you are willing to compound that lack of morality with a premeditated lie to a court of law to get yourself out of the resulting consequences of those actions, I can only imagine the lies you might tell the Georgia Medical Review Board to maintain your license.”

Patrick goes cold. “If you’re saying what I—”

“Oh, yes, I am, Dr. McCloud. If you’re willing to try to take a shortcut out of owning up to your responsibility here, I see no reason to believe you wouldn’t do the same during your recent disciplinary hearing regarding the death of Jake Taylor.”

Patrick can barely see through the fury. The cold helplessness that swelled in him when he realized he was losing the boy had haunted him for months. “I did everything I could to save Jake. His death was unfortunate, but not malpractice. I stand by my work and my choices that day. The board agreed with me at the hearing.”

“So you say, Dr. McCloud. So you say. We both know the rumors amongst the staff—”

“Are you really going to believe sordid gossip from a nursing staff that has it in for me over the findings of the board?”

Schaeffer shakes his head and then glances toward Will. “Frankly, I can’t see how someone who baldly admits to being so untrustworthy could possibly be expected to head up any department in my hospital. I believe you’ve just helped make my decision about who the new head of neurosurgery will be.”

“You have
got
to be kidding me,” Patrick shouts. “Do you have rocks for brains? My personal life has no bearing on my performance as a surgeon, and you can’t seriously consider Andrew Morris for that position. You may as well hire the local butcher.”

Will’s hand squeezes his arm, and over the rush of blood in his ears, he hears Will say his name warningly, like he’s trying to get Patrick to shut up.

“Morris is a fine surgeon, Dr. McCloud, and while he might not be as talented as you, at least I can trust him.”

“Trust him to what? Kiss your ass and bring malpractice lawsuits raining down on your head?”

“Patrick,” Will hisses again.

“Dr. McCloud, I will consider this conversation your resignation.” Schaeffer turns to the door. “I will not be willing to offer a letter of recommendation on your behalf, but somehow I suspect you won’t need one. Your reputation precedes you. God help the hospital that’s willing to take you on. They’ll need it.” He pauses and looks back at Will. “A prostitute? Absolutely disgusting.”

Patrick slams the door behind the pompous bastard. He stands staring at the bed in stunned silence for several seconds. Across the room, Will puts on his shirt, fingers clumsily fumbling with the buttons.

“Do you realize what just happened here?” Patrick points at Will. “I had that asshole in the palm of my hand until you seduced me into marrying you.” He knows that’s not even close to true. Schaeffer’s always been suspicious of him and the hospital staff has always wanted him gone. Getting the position of department head was going to be the ultimate fuck you to them all. Looks like the joke’s on him.

“What?” Will asks incredulously. “
You
seduced me.”

“Oh please,” Patrick scoffs. “You were throwing yourself all over me at the bar. You practically pulled me to the wedding chapel by my dick!”

That’s not even close to true either. Flashes of dragging Will toward the stairs that lead to the chapel while Will followed, flushed and laughing, burn in his mind.

Maybe Will remembers it all too, because his mouth opens and closes a few times, but no sounds come out. He stands there gaping like a fish. A very hot fish. With an attractive glow from arguing staining his cheeks.

“Screw you,” Will finally says, tucking his shirt into his pants and stalking toward the door. “I’ll meet you in the lobby in thirty minutes and we
will
go down to the courthouse and get this marriage annulled. Do I make myself clear?”

Bossy Will is sexy. Patrick salutes. “Sir! Yes, sir!”

Will scowls and slams the door behind him.

“Well, all righty then.”
 

Chapter Two
 

Standing under the shower, Will soaps up. His ass throbs insistently, thrusting memories of the night before into his head. The most horrible thing is how the memories aren’t horrible at all. He remembers Patrick sitting down beside him at the bar, and the initial rush of annoyance at the interruption in his drinking. But that was immediately overshadowed by Patrick’s flash of a smile, like a hidden thing Will uncovered by accident and then desperately needed to see again.

He’d
liked
Patrick last night
.
He’d leaned against him early in the evening just to feel his body, tight and firm against his own, and plummeted into rash, drunken affection that seemed so real at the time. So intense and hilarious, yet calm beneath its craziness.

He reaches around to wash his ass, touching his tender hole with his fingers. He shudders as a memory courses through him of Patrick’s tongue teasing him there.
Patrick had been so gentle, commanding, and in control. Will shakes his head, dunking it under the spray of the water. He works to get the dried come out of his chest hair and pubes, and ignores his hardening cock.

Lightning-quick smiles and great bedroom skills don’t change the fact that Will’s screwed a stranger, who’s turned out to be a complete jerk in the light of morning. Patrick isn’t charming at all. Or funny. Or even very nice. If Will needs a reason to recommit to staying sober, he’s married it.

With luck, the ’til-death-do-us-part vow is something he can delete like a drunk email he composed but never finished, passing out before clicking send. He gets out of the shower, shaves, brushes his teeth, and pulls on a pair of nice pants and a responsible-looking pale yellow, button-up shirt.

When his room service breakfast arrives, he checks his glucose levels again, calculates the amount of carbs he’s going to consume, and injects the right dose of insulin. He chokes down the food without any pleasure and then paces the room.
Yanking
open the curtains, he gazes down at the Las Vegas Strip. It looks less glamorous in the daytime: dusty, sun-pale, tired. Finally, he sits down on the bed and, with shaking fingers, digs his cell phone out of his bag to call his attorney, Owen Marsh.

“Will, I wasn’t expecting a call from you today. How’s Vegas? You haven’t gotten yourself into any trouble out there, have you?” Owen laughs, but Will can hear the worry behind his joke. It’s not as though Will hasn’t relapsed before and Vegas is a risky place for a drunk.

Will swallows against his shame. “That’s why I’m calling actually.”

Owen’s chuckle dies out softly. “Oh no.”

“Yeah. It’s bad. Please don’t lecture me, Owen. I need your help.”

Owen is silent for a long moment before asking, “What do you need?”

Will’s stomach tries to crawl out of his throat, but he manages to sound somewhat calm. “I need you to look up my great-grandfather’s trust stipulations regarding marriage, or, well, I guess divorce or annulment too? I can’t remember the particulars.”

Owen is silent for a very long time, and Will can just picture him, balding, rumpled in his suit, turning away from his computer and pushing his glasses up his nose. Will wishes he could be there with him now, safe in Owen’s staid, fussy little office in the Good Works building, surrounded by Owen’s leather furniture and boring law books. He would feel less ashamed if he could look into Owen’s calm, gray eyes while they talked.

“Give me a moment, Will. I’ll have Marcy grab the file.”

“Thank you.”

He’s put on hold for a second, but then Owen’s back. “Marcy will have what we need in just a few minutes.”

“Great.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Will shakes his head even though Owen can’t see him. “I can’t. Not yet.”

“Are you sober right now?”

“Yeah. Hungover as hell, but I’m sober.”

Owen’s soft sigh filters over through the connection.

There’s silence for a good forty-five seconds, and hot tears press against Will’s eyelids. His whisper is raw. “You’re not going to ask why I slipped?”

“You know I don’t ever ask that question. In all the years I’ve been your sponsor, when have I? You slipped for the same reason any alcoholic does. You wanted to drink. It seemed like the only option to make it through whatever moment you found yourself in. All the context around the decision is, for all intents and purposes, excuses.” Owen never bullshits. That’s one of Will’s favorite things about him. Owen sighs. “Also, I know you well enough to hazard a guess. Ryan again?”

“Yes.”

“Another break?”

“Yeah.”

“I know we’ve discussed this before, but Ryan can’t be your definition of recovery. It’s too much to put on him, and a dangerous place to put yourself. Your recovery should be defined by something you can control, Will. And you can never control another person.”

Will’s throat aches. “I know, I know. It’s just that I love him.”

Why does love hurt so much? Why does it never lay soft and easy against his skin like a comfortable sweater? It’s unfair that love is so hard.

“Is it because of that young man I’ve seen Ryan going around town with?”

Yes.

“No, it’s me. It’s always me. I’m weak and too needy.” His list of flaws and failures is long, but weak and needy is always at the top. “Ryan says if he stays with me I’ll drag him into addiction again. He’s been sober so long. Nine years this past fall. He can’t risk it.”

Owen’s silence speaks volumes. But he’s Will’s sponsor, not Ryan’s, and his loyalties are clear. “All right. Let’s talk about our first priority here: getting you to a meeting. Can you make it to one today? I can look up locations in Vegas. There have to be dozens of groups.”

“I can’t. I’ve got something else going on.”

Owen’s voice is like the granite steps of the public library in Healing after a day in the sun: warm but rock solid. “I feel strongly that a meeting is what you need most right now.”

“There’s no danger of me drinking again any time soon, Owen. There’s a bigger problem to solve.”

“The marriage problem,” Owen says with a twist in his tone that makes Will’s heart break with shame.

“Yes,” Will whispers. “I got drunk and married someone last night.”

“Dear God, Will.” Owen’s voice is raspy. “Who?”

“A doctor. A neurosurgeon I met, actually.”

“Was he someone Don encouraged you to ingratiate yourself with?”

Will wishes he could say yes. “No, I didn’t even know he was a neurosurgeon until this morning. Well, I don’t think I knew.”

“Were you drunk when you met him?”

“Already on my way.”

“I see.”

“Yeah. One thing led to another.” Will makes a helpless noise.

“Will, this is… I don’t know what to say. The consequences of this could be immense. You know the stipulations of the trust are ironclad in the legal sense and as rigid as they are absurd.”

“I know, I know.” The light from the window falls harshly over the hotel room carpet, illuminating the swirls in the design.

For a moment Owen sounds just like a real father when he asks, “What were you
thinking
?”

“I wasn’t. Obviously. I’d gone into the bar to look for a few of the neurologists on my list. I figured they’d be drinking in there and I was ready to be strong and just have club soda.”

Owen sighs.

“Then, while I was sitting there trying to put names with faces, Ryan called to break up with me. The next thing I knew I’d downed four shots of whiskey and was working on a cocktail of some kind or another. It’s all a blur.”

“Will, hold on. Yes, Marcy, thank you. Please close the door again behind you.”

Will hears Owen shifting the papers around. “There can be no divorce, not even one instigated by your spouse, or the money reverts back to the Molinaro family.”

“I know.”

“The criteria for annulment are tight. No fraud, no immoral grounds of any nature. We can discuss them in more detail, but there’s another stipulation that surely you haven’t forgotten. It’s the strictest of all. And, I have to admit, I’ve never understood how the Molinaros could possibly prove or disprove it, but it’s a doozy and a huge problem in your situation.”

Will’s throat is dry, but he manages to swallow. “Just tell me.”

After Owen spells out the terms in excruciating detail, Will sits on the bed, his chest tight and even his blood is screaming.

“I can fly out this afternoon,” Owen says. “You shouldn’t be alone.”

“No, I’m coming home today. I can’t stay here. I know that.”

“What will you tell Don? I take it you didn’t recruit any neurosurgeons for the redesigned unit? Or even discussed the hospital with any of them?”