Chapter Twenty-Seven

Graves carried Nick inside, doors held open by various crew, repeated “Welcome aboard, Lord Graves,” “Welcome home, sir,” and worried exclamations following them as they climbed stairs and pushed through teak and mahogany doors with glowing brass.

“Call Stephen,” Graves said, sending a steward running for the ship surgeon.

Nick was shivering with exhaustion and shock. Graves ignored the other stewards and carried him straight through into his own bathroom with its benches and rails.

“All right, darling, all right,” Graves said as he sat Nick down. “We were worried you had lost too much blood. But I think it was only shock.”

“Graves,” Nick said seriously. “Someone shot me.” His blue eyes were blinking in the light, smears of blood and ash marring his pale skin.

“Someone did,” Graves said. “Lucky boy, it grazed your bicep. Dug a nice little trench. Once we are all clean, Stephen will come to sew you up—that’s the ship surgeon. You’ll have an interesting scar.” Graves checked the bandage they had tied around Nick’s arm. It didn’t appear to be bleeding. He pinched Nick’s fingertips—plenty of color. So he was all right then.

Nick gave him a tired smile and Graves sat beside him. For a moment, they simply leaned on each other. Nick sighed and kicked off his shoes. Graves did the same. They helped each other strip, and when their clothes were thrown into a pile off to the side, Nick helped him out of his prosthetics. Graves jabbed a few buttons and turned on the shower.

Graves had been dreaming of his first night on Scimitar with Nick for months. He didn’t anticipate the grime and blood and injuries. But somehow it still matched his wishes. He and Nick scrubbed each other’s backs in companionable silence, keeping the water off his bandage as best they could. Everything was within reach since this was home.

“This really is your place,” Nick said, and Graves handed him a towel. His expression was fond, and Graves basked in it, unable to look away. He pulled himself up, the handrails helping him navigate out the door and onto his bed.

They exchanged kisses, and Nick rested his head on Graves’s shoulder as Stephen came and sewed Nick up, putting on a fresh bandage and giving him a shot. Graves and Nick smoked a joint together in the dark, talking softly about what had happened.

“I shot someone,” Nick said. “Holy mother of God, Graves. I shot that Mac guy.”

“You shot a man who was about to kill me,” Graves said. “You’ll forgive me if I am grateful and proud instead of appalled. But if it’s any consolation, I don’t think you killed him.”

“I am not going to think about that tonight,” Nick said. He let out a slow rattling sigh. He rolled gingerly to his uninjured side, peering at Graves in the low light from the windows.

“I’m sorry, Graves.”

“What for?” Graves propped himself up on an elbow, tracing slow circles on Nick’s chest.

“Everything. You came to Hong Kong. You all could have been killed,” Nick said.

“All of it is my fault, Nick. I lied to you. I was unbelievably stupid,” he said. “It’s a lesson I seem to need to learn over and over again. Even for a man with his brains bashed about, I have no excuses. Don’t blame yourself.”

“Don’t tell me what to do, asshole,” Nick muttered, feeling himself start to drift.

“There’s my Nick.” He laughed quietly and lay back, tucking Nick under his chin, careful of his arm.

“Can we talk about this tomorrow?” Nick said into his chest.

“Of course. Sleep well, darling.”

They adjusted themselves in silence, letting the breeze from the sea, the wind, and waves lull them to sleep.

*

Nick woke slowly, aware only that he was warm and safe and some nameless pain was gone—a fear lifted. He was stripped to his underwear under a big feather comforter. His arm was bandaged from elbow to shoulder, and it ached, hot and agonizing.

The smell of coffee came to him, and the sounds of sea birds. He was being rocked in slow swells. The ship. The helicopter. Graves. He had run off with Nelson Graves?

Nick sat up with a jolt, and the big boss was the first thing he saw. He was out on the gangway, looking over the side. He wore nothing but a loose pair of trousers and sunglasses and was leaning on the rail, drinking coffee. There was no denying Nick’s reaction to the broad tattooed back. Relief. Relief and surprise and want. He had run off with Nelson Graves, and he was relieved and glad. Yes, glad.

Nick got out of bed and stumbled out to where his man was standing. Graves sensed his approach and turned. His expression was closed off and cautious but when Nick ran straight into his arms his face lit up.

“Well good morning!” he said, sounding surprised and pleased. Nick pushed his face into Graves’s chest, oddly happy about how much bigger than him Graves was. Out in the wind, it was nice to lean into Graves’s wide shoulders. Nick peered up at him, catching his growing delight.

“Morning, big guy. Where are we? Can I have coffee? Did you sleep okay?” The words tumbled out as Nick felt a swelling joy, the sea air, the speed, the wide dark blue swells as far as the eye could see—no land anywhere— He felt free. He squeezed his man hard around the waist, drawing out a grunt of laughter.

“And to think I was worried you would be full of regrets and second thoughts,” Graves laughed.

“Nope,” Nick said with a grin. “I opened my eyes and saw you and I was happy.”

“Well you’ve just made my whole day, boy. Come have some coffee.”

As they stepped out onto the main deck, Nick whistled. He understood now why everyone had referred to the yacht in Singapore as a tub. Scimitar was huge. They were standing on the second highest deck, which Graves referred to as the “owners’ deck.” It had the bedroom and a living and dining room that could be closed in with sliding glass doors.

“You’ve seen the bedroom and bathroom. There is an office too,” he said. “It’s my home away from home.” Nick fought back a smile and gestured him to lead the way.

The office was at the front, with a magnificent sweep of sloped windows and the required power desk. Nick rolled his eyes as Graves darted forward and began needlessly tidying the papers on the desk, pushing things into piles and blushing furiously.

“You’re acting really weird, big guy,” Nick said, laughing at him.

This was clearly the big man’s space. There were photos everywhere. Children’s art framed as seriously as the—

“Is that a fucking Van Gogh?”

“Yes,” he said glancing up. “I, uh, borrowed it. Well. S-stole it, actually. Had it s-stolen.”

There were also guns mounted on the walls, a row of computer monitors and screens, an arrangement of ceremonial knives. Below, stood a case with a New Zealand flag and a display of medals and shell casings. It was the most intensely personal space Nick could have imagined. It was like being in Graves’s head. Which explained him standing there shifting foot to foot with a whirr of the servos in his knee.

Nick gaped at him, and Graves cleared his throat, his elbow knocking a green bowl off the desk.

“Shit!” he barked, just catching it. He cradled the bowl gently in his huge hands. “Davy would be furious if I broke this. He made it his first year in art school.”

“Your son is an artist?”

“He is,” Graves said, his smile melting a decade off his face. “A sculptor. He is only seventeen, but his teachers say he has promise.”

Nick did a slow pivot, seeing the room with new eyes.

“Maybe you aren’t a total lost cause,” he said softly. Pictures of children and presumably their mothers, a box of LEGO in a corner, a big armchair with a shelf of children’s books…

“Let’s go eat while our food is still hot,” Graves muttered and steered him back out to the sundeck.

“It’s a hundred degrees,” Nick laughed. “Our food is still hot— I guarantee it, but okay.”

He froze at the door. Stopped dead so that Graves bumped into him.

“Aw hell…” he whispered. A photo had caught his eye, on the little table by Graves’s armchair. It was Nick, smiling into the camera. He recognized it. It was from the first week, when he had helped Russ throw Tony into the harbor. It was printed on computer paper, crooked and bowed in the frame.

“You—” Nick said and turned and grabbed Graves’s ears to haul him down for a kiss. “You do love me.”

“Nonsense,” he muttered, kissing Nick again. “Slander and lies.”

Nick bit his lip and Graves grunted.

“Yes, all right, I’ll confess it. I do love you, my Nick.” He stroked Nick’s face, smiling down at him.

They sat on a cushioned couch overlooking the wake. The air was warm and soft even in the shade. There was not only coffee but toast and bacon and fruit and anything Nick could want. He lay in the circle of Graves’s arms,

“Scimitar,” Nick said.

“Home,” Graves added. “Your home now, as much as mine.”

“Home,” Nick said wonderingly. “Home.”