Sixteen

The last thing Ethan wanted to deal with was another goddamned reporter, so of course half a dozen swarmed around Reagan as soon as she stepped out of the car near the mortuary. Did these people have no shame? Someone had died, and yet they carried on as if the only matter of any importance in the entire universe was the question of who Reagan Elliot was fucking.

“Stop following me,” Reagan insisted. Her short heels clicked against the pavement as she trotted across the parking lot toward the enormous white building.

Ethan slammed his door and hurried after her. He’d told her to stay in the car until he could let her out—it was his job to guard her body, after all—but she’d mistakenly thought there weren’t any paparazzi around when they’d arrived. As they’d driven through the entry gate, she accused Ethan of being overprotective and silly. As soon as she’d set foot on the curb, however, several photographers had literally jumped out of the bushes. Others had climbed out of an SUV parked several spaces down the row. All of them were snapping pictures and shouting questions at her. He wasn’t sure how they’d gotten through the gate. Surely they wouldn’t claim to be guests just to get a scoop on a story.

“Are you and Trey Mills breaking up?” a woman with sleek black hair asked.

Reagan stopped trying to escape and turned to face the woman. “Why? Is that what he said?”

Ethan found himself behind half a dozen reporters surrounding Reagan like a swarm of flies on shit. And based on the devastated look on Reagan’s face, she was feeling like that particular fly attractant at that moment. He waved, trying to gain Reagan’s attention and prevent her temper from making her do or say something she’d regret. Ethan was positive that even if Trey was considering a breakup—which seemed impossible—he would never make that information public. She didn’t really believe Trey would break up with her—with them—did she? Yes, Trey had been distraught when he’d left the apartment, but he loved them both. Ethan would never doubt that.

“Maybe he did,” the reporter said. “How is Trey coping with the knowledge of your affair with your bodyguard?”

Ethan’s stomach sank as half the reporters turned disgusted looks on him. The other half were waiting for Reagan’s reply.

“It’s none of your business who I sleep with,” Reagan spat.

Ethan cringed at Reagan’s all-but admission of guilt.

“Trey was seen leaving your apartment an hour ago,” the black-haired woman said. “He was obviously upset. Maybe he’d feel better if you found a different bodyguard. One you aren’t having an affair with.”

Several additional disgusted glares were tossed in Ethan’s direction. He wondered how offended they’d be if they knew the truth. He was trying very hard to keep a handle on his temper. He’d lost it with that photographer waiting in front of their apartment building, but he was more prepared for the invasion of their privacy this time. With a little jostling—involving a bit of brute strength—Ethan managed to squeeze through the throng of busybodies and get a hand on Reagan’s upper arm.

“Excuse us,” Ethan said, his voice calm but authoritative as he addressed the press. “Miss Elliot is already late for a somber occasion. We appreciate your cooperation in allowing her to attend the visitation without further interruption.” What he really wanted to say was fuck right off, assholes, but he’d try a less combative tactic fist.

He tugged on Reagan’s arm gently to get her feet moving again. For a moment or two, Ethan thought the paparazzi were tactful enough to leave them be. No such luck.

“Miss Elliot,” the black-haired report said snidely. “Do you use what’s between your legs to control every man in your life or just—”

Ethan knew the woman was trying to goad Reagan into revealing something—and maybe Reagan realized that too—but he didn’t blame her for flying toward the rude woman in a rage. Ethan caught Reagan’s flailing body around the waist, lifting her feet off the ground as she reached for the woman who’d insulted her. Every camera around them was snapping successive shots. Photos of Reagan struggling for her freedom, her face contorted with hurt and anger. Photos of Reagan taking wild swings at the object of her fury. Photos of Reagan spewing curses so loud and blasphemous that deaf sailors in the middle of the Atlantic would have blushed.

Ethan leaned close to Reagan’s ear to talk soothing words of sense to her and got a head butt to the nose for his troubles. The damned thing had been broken more than once, so it didn’t take much force to make it bleed. Ethan supposed that meant there would be pictures spread across newsstands of him with a bloody nose as he struggled to control a small woman with an enormous temper without hurting her.

“Reagan,” Ethan bellowed. “Chill the fuck out!” She stiffened as if he’d head-butted her in the nose, and then covered her face with both hands. Her piteous sob squeezed his throat, choking off his airflow. He realized she was more hurt than angry and as pissed off as she’d been seconds ago, he could only imagine how her passionate heart ached.

He scooped her into his arms, probably revealing a bit too much of her thigh as his arm slipped beneath her knees. “It will be okay,” he murmured to her, fighting the instinct to brush comforting kisses to her forehead and temple.

He shifted her into a more secure position, and her arms went around his neck for stability. Her tears soaked the crisp black fabric at his shoulder as she sobbed uncontrollably. Ethan turned to carry her toward the mortuary, praying that the assholes didn’t have the audacity to follow them inside, and noticed the crowd emerging from the open front doors of the sprawling colonial structure. Sed headed the group. His strong face was such an angry shade of red, Ethan wondered if he’d kissed the sun.

“How did you get inside the gate?” Sed asked the nearest photographer.

“It was open, so we came in,” he said, nodding in the direction of the iron gate at the end of the drive. Ethan knew better. When he’d arrived he’d had to identify himself as a guest of Phillip Lionhearts’s visitation. Still, they hadn’t checked a list for his name. He assumed they were a little more careful about who got in to funerals for celebrities.

“See your way back out, you’re not welcome here,” Sed continued. The three members of his band flanking him nodded in agreement. Trey was conspicuously absent. Ethan had recognized Trey’s car when they’d pulled up, so he had to be around somewhere. He probably wanted to avoid the press.

“This doesn’t concern you,” the black-haired reporter told Sed. “We’re just trying to get Reagan Elliot to answer some of our questions.”

“It does concern me,” Sed boomed, his face now an alarming shade of purple. “Reagan is my guest. She came to offer her support to me as a friend. My father died unexpectedly two days ago, and I sure as hell don’t want to deal with this right now. This is private property, and you’ve been asked to leave. You can do so now or explain to the police why you’re trespassing.”

“Let me down,” Reagan said quietly to Ethan.

Ethan had been so caught up in Sed’s interactions with the press that he’d failed to notice Reagan had stopped crying and was tugging at her skirt to cover her thighs. He set her on her feet and dabbed at the blood trickling from his nose with a shirt cuff. Reagan smoothed her skirt with both hands before straightening. She approached Sed and gave him a huge hug—which inspired another flurry of photos.

“I’m so sorry this mess followed me here,” she said, staring up into Sed’s troubled blue eyes and laying a palm on his cheek amid additional shutter clicks. “Let’s go inside. Out of sight, out of mind.”

Sed smiled and nodded. He placed a hand on one side of Reagan’s head and pressed a gruff kiss to the opposite side. Ethan had seen Sed do the same to Trey and to just about anyone he considered a friend, but the excited murmuring among the paparazzi as they jotted their notes and took their fucking pictures worried Ethan. What twisted angle would they assign to Sed’s tender show of friendship? Ethan followed Reagan and Sed’s other guests into the mortuary fantasizing about grabbing a sledgehammer and destroying a truckload of expensive cameras. He was less inclined to admit that he wouldn’t mind taking the same sledgehammer to a few fingers as well. But he no longer solved his problems with violence.

As he stepped under the entryway’s roof, he noticed Trey standing in the shadows near the open front door. Reagan was caught up with offering her condolences to Sed, so Ethan broke off from the group to speak to Trey. Before he could reach him, Trey slipped around the corner and disappeared into an alcove just inside the front entrance.

Ethan’s heart thudded. Did that mean he didn’t want to be bothered? Too bad. Ethan wasn’t going to let him hide. Ethan had a whole lot of apologizing and groveling to do. He wasn’t sure this was the time or the place, but he needed to start now.

Trey stood against the wall—his back pressed to the smooth surface, his chin ducked so that his long bangs hid his expression.

“I really am sorry, Trey. I didn’t know you wanted to hide your affair with Brian from Reagan.”

Trey’s head lifted. His crumpled brow and set jaw told Ethan he’d gotten his apology all wrong.

“I don’t want to hide anything from Reagan.” He reached for a box of tissues and pulled a sheet free. Handing it to Ethan, he asked, “Why is your nose bleeding?”

“Reagan bumped it with her head. I thought it was accidental, but seeing as I’m a huge jerk, maybe she did it on purpose.” Ethan wiped at his nose, finding the bleeding had almost stopped.

“You are a jerk,” Trey said.

“I probably should have warned you about that before I made you fall in love with me.” Ethan had hoped his jest would provoke an ornery grin, but Trey merely sighed.

“You should definitely wear a warning label.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you. How can I make it up to you?” He reached for Trey, wanting so badly to touch him that his belly ached, but people were milling about everywhere, so he dropped his hand.

“Do you really want to know how to make it up to me, or are you just offering out of stupid courtesy?”

“I really want to know.”

“Kiss me.”

Ethan grinned. “If that’s all it takes, I’ll take you to bed and kiss you for hours.”

“Not in bed—here, in front of everyone. One deep, demanding, unquestionably sexual kiss. That’s what I want.”

Ethan glanced around, hoping by some miracle that everyone in the vicinity had been stricken with complete blindness. If he kissed Trey here and now, there’d be more than one witness. And he was pretty sure the unfamiliar person watching them from near a pillar was an incognito member of the press.

“I can’t do that, Trey. Not here.”

Trey closed his eyes and nodded. “I figured as much. You don’t even love me enough to claim me as yours.”

He pushed off the wall and brushed against Ethan’s arm as he passed. With his heart trying to crawl out of his throat, Ethan grabbed Trey’s arm and spun him to face him. One kiss was all he’d asked for. One kiss. And yet, as Ethan searched Trey’s troubled green eyes, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He was terrified of the backlash. An easy kiss had never been so daunting. A simple kiss had never been so complex. He had to trust that Trey would understand why he couldn’t grant his small request. “I’d die for you, Trey,” Ethan told him, squeezing Trey’s arm so he’d know how much he meant it. “I’d die for you.”

“Dying is easy,” Trey said. “Living with who you are is the hard part.”

He pulled away and before Ethan could regain his attention, Trey brightened and waved at his brother and parents, who’d just entered the building.

Living was the hard part, especially if he ever had to go on without Trey in his life. How would Ethan ever find the strength—the courage—to be the man Trey needed? Be the man Trey deserved?