Will & Patrick Wake Up Married (7 page)

“Pray tell, what will some little old granny in South Dakota be able to do about Mafioso business?”

“She’s my father’s mother. Eleanora Molinaro, widow of Max ‘the Ear’ Molinaro.”

“The Ear.”

“Yes. Do you know why they called him that?”

“I have a feeling you’re going to fill me in.”

“Because he was so highly placed and valuable to the bosses back in Brooklyn that he was never mentioned by name. They tugged their ear instead and that gesture was enough to terrorize a man.”

“Such a proud heritage.” Patrick wipes a pretend tear from his eye.

Will clenches his jaw. “The point is my grandmother may have left the mafia world when Max went to prison, but she still has connections.”

“Fascinating. Do tell.”

“God, you’re an ass.”

“No really, go on. I want to hear all about it.”

Will takes a deep breath. “Fine. My grandmother and my father, Tony, came to South Dakota when Max went to prison, and that’s how my parents met. As soon as the government’s attention turned from RICO laws to terrorism, Tony got back in, became a made man. My mom left him and my grandmother disowned him—ostensibly. But she’s still a powerful woman in her own right. She has money, connections, and if anyone can find out who has the power to change the rules of the Molinaro Trust, it’s her.”

“I see. So I’m supposed to put my future in the hands of a woman I’ve never met because of her supposed mob connections and good will towards her grandson?”

“I’m her favorite grandchild,” Will says softly. “She’ll help me. And she’s trustworthy. She knows how to keep secrets.”

Patrick shakes his head. “I don’t see how this is the best solution.” But his tone is no longer strident. Will is fairly sure he’s going to cave. He just needs to quell Patrick’s growing panic over his suddenly floundering career.

“We’ve already established you have no job in Atlanta, no boyfriend, and no reason at all to return, really. In other words, you have nothing better to do than come to Healing, all expenses paid of course—”

“I’m not going to Helling or wherever you’re from.”

“Healing.” Will wheedles, “Come on, that’s a name that’s got to appeal to a doctor, right?”

“I need to contact hospitals and let them know I’m available. They’ll all be scrambling for me.”

Will scoffs. “Full of yourself much?”

“I am the finest neurosurgeon in the country. That’s a fact. But you know what? It isn’t just about me. It’s about my patients. Many of whom have waited months to see
me
. Not Dr. Morris or anyone else. They’re in dire straits. Some are near death, and each requires the kind of help that only I can give them. Until I’m installed at a hospital, they won’t get well. You speak of lives ending if you lose your money, but I have patients who will lose their lives immediately if I don’t work. We’re not talking about hypothetical future deaths, but real ones. People who have jobs and children, and whose faces I’ve seen with my own eyes.”

“We can solve that problem. I promise.”

“How?”

“I’ll get to that in a minute. All I know is we can’t split up now. It’ll look suspicious.”

“And what? The Molinaros are gonna swoop in and take all of your money because we’re apart for a few days?”

“
Maybe
!” Will flings his hands up in exasperation. “I have no idea! They could do anything! That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you!”

“This isn’t
The Godfather
, you know. They aren’t watching your every move and I have my own problems to worry about.”

Will grabs fistfuls of his hair. God, Patrick could
not
be more impossible. Why did he have to marry someone so entirely obnoxious and stubborn? This situation isn’t exactly a picnic for Will either, and things will go so much more smoothly if Patrick will just stop fighting him on everything.

A wave of dizziness hits him, and he bends over. “Oh,” he breathes. “I think I’m going low again.”

Patrick helps him down to the bed. “Test yourself. What’s the number?”

Will sticks himself again, groaning as he reads the meter. “Thirty-eight.”

“It’s the stress and activity from last night.” Patrick raids the snack bar again, pressing fruit snacks into Will’s hand. “I’ll order something now. Burgers for us both.”

It surprises Will how quickly Patrick shifts into a caretaker mode. He still crackles with energy and mild irritation, but now it’s all focused on Will as a patient. He places the order and then sits next to Will on the bed, observing as he eats the fruit snacks. He takes Will’s blood glucose again and touches Will’s clammy forehead with gentle, cool fingers before taking his pulse. “You’ll be fine. Keep eating.”

Will smiles. “Gee, doc, didn’t know you cared.”

“I don’t.” Patrick gets up, grabs another orange juice from the mini fridge, and tosses it to him. “It’s just…” He stares at Will, his lips and eyes going soft for a moment before he frowns. “What kind of idiot drinks himself into a getting-hitched-in-Vegas stupor when he’s diabetic anyway?”

“The kind who’s an alcoholic who’s just been dumped. What’s your excuse?” Will stuffs fruit snacks in his mouth to keep from saying more.

Patrick’s eyes flicker. Will’s not sure if it’s compassion or disgust, but Patrick only says, “This morning, how was your urine? Did it smell fruity? Sweet? Any discolor—”

“I’ll be fine.”

Patrick narrows his eyes and presses his long fingers to Will’s forehead again like he’s feeling for a fever. He gets his medical bag and pulls out his stethoscope.

“Just lie back. I’m going to listen to your heart. After you’ve eaten the burger I ordered, you need to test your glucose levels. It’s important—”

“Patrick, I’m fine. I appreciate your concern, but I’ll be okay.”

Patrick shrugs and throws his stethoscope back in his bag. “When’s the last time you saw your Endocrinologist?”

“Last month.”

“And your last A1C?”

“Not that it’s your business, but it was five-point-nine. I’m pretty sure this adventure’s going to blow my next one, though.”

Patrick seems like he’s trying to decide if Will’s telling the truth.

Will sips more juice, eats another fruit snack, and then tries to get their conversation back on track. “Look, I should have thought of this before, but I didn’t realize the urgency in helping your patients. Good Works has funded an amazing neurology department in Healing. It’s going to be state of the art. A neurosurgeon’s dream come true. We have a lot of the equipment already in place and we’re cleared to start surgeries as soon as we have a surgeon on staff.” He smiles in a way he hopes is winning. “Why not come to Healing for a few days on my dime and check out what we’ve built? We’ll pay you for consulting with us. You can see if what we have is suitable for your work and maybe perform surgeries for whatever patients you feel our facility can handle. Then, before you know it, we’ll be divorced or annulled, and you can move on if you decide you don’t want to stay.”

“I don’t—” A knock on the door stops Patrick mid-sentence. “That was fast. Great, I’m starving.” Patrick opens the door with gusto.

“I’m looking for Dr. and Mr. Patterson-McCloud,” a man with dark hair and wearing a suit intones in heavily accented English.

Patrick’s face turns red and he sputters, but he steps back to allow the man to enter the room. The dark man smiles, crosses to where Will sits on the bed, and hands over a gigantic bouquet of brilliant red roses.

“This is for me?” Will asks.

The man bows his head and leaves again without waiting for a tip.

Patrick’s brow crinkles and his blue eyes cloud with confusion. Will’s sure his own expression isn’t much different. Maybe the flowers are from Ryan? Will’s heart skips a beat. Maybe he wants to make up after all? Still, this is extreme for him, and not his style. And wait, the delivery guy had said Dr. and Mr. Patterson-McCloud.

And this isn’t Will’s hotel room.

Heart thumping, he pulls out the card nestled among the flowers.

“Who are they from?” Patrick asks.

As Will reads the note, the blood drains from his face.

Congratulations on your marriage, Guglielmo.

We hope you and Dr. McCloud enjoy a long, happy life together.

The Molinaro Family.
 

Patrick’s gotta hand it to himself. He’s married well. It turns out, aside from being terrifyingly small, private jets are the schiznit. No lines. No security. Just walk right on up, get on the plane, and fly away. Patrick should ask for alimony in their eventual separation and demand full use of the Good Works jet for the rest of his life. No wonder his Little Lord Fauntleroy is afraid of losing his bucks. It would suck to give this up.

The pilot provides them with soft drinks and snacks. Will takes a sensible packet of cheese and crackers. Patrick takes three bags of chips and a cellophane-wrapped muffin. Then the pilot, whose name Patrick didn’t bother to catch, excuses himself to the cockpit. Patrick popped a Xanax earlier when he saw the tiny tin can they were going to fly into the sky, and it’s doing its job. He gets another journal out of his briefcase and takes a sip of Sprite before stuffing a handful of chips in his mouth. “There’s more where this came from, right? Because I don’t want to run out.”

Will cocks his head and looks at Patrick with a you’ve-got-to-be-kidding expression. “You ate before we left the hotel. It’s a four-hour flight. You’ll be fine.”

“So? I don’t like heights. Food comforts me. Unless you want to see me re-enact a scene from
The Exorcist
, you’ll keep me in chips and soda.”

Will’s eyebrow goes up. “Does the almighty Dr. McCloud suffer from human weaknesses?”

Patrick says nothing, turning to his journal.

He’s surprised when Will lets it drop. In the short (and yet epically disastrous) time they’ve been together, Will’s basically been like a dog with a bone about everything. Now he’s letting this go. Patrick can’t help but be a little suspicious.

Will leans forward, elbows on his knees. He drops his head into his hands and stays that way. Patrick looks down at the article—
Prioritizing neurosurgical education for pediatricians: Results of a survey of pediatric neurosurgeons.
Boring. He’s not in education. He does cuts, not talks. Still, Aldana, the primary author, is someone he doesn’t altogether despise, and he likes to keep up with his work. A survey, though? Please. Give him real science.

Will makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a sniffle.

Patrick flips to the next article.
Passive range of motion functional magnetic resonance imaging localizing sensorimotor cortex in sedated children.
Ogg is a good scientist, and Patrick would usually be a lot more interested in this. Pediatrics isn’t his primary specialty, but it’s a sub-specialty that he’s taken on willingly since he has the balls for it. Not many people have the confidence to cut into children’s heads.

Will sits up, wipes a hand over his face, and if there aren’t tears on his cheeks, then Patrick’s sure there are some standing in his stupidly pretty brown eyes.

He’s not asking. He’s reading. About MRIs and children.

Will sniffles again.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” Will leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his broad chest, and stares out the airplane window. His face is splotchy, and Patrick’s throat goes dry. Will should look ugly with his eyes red rimmed and his mouth all wobbly. Instead, Patrick fights an irrational urge to kiss him.

Grabbing the water bottle from Will’s armrest, he tosses it at him. “Drink. Airplanes are notorious for dehydration. So are tears.”

Will shrugs, his face all twisted up, and takes a big gulp of his water. He whispers, “Don’t see the point anyway.”

“Excuse me? Don’t see the point of what?”

“This,” Will says, shrugging his mouth up and shaking his head tightly. “The water, dealing with my diabetes, staying sober, any of it.”