by Amy Lane
“Feel better already,” he said with a smile. “Let’s set up, okay?”
Music stands, chairs, water, all of it was provided on a black drop cloth to the left of the portable altar, complete with flowers. Quin took a moment to think that for a little affair in the park, the wedding had sort of a streamlined class to it—the necessities, done well, and a buffet meal being set up in a covered picnic area that looked like it had just been powerhosed off within an inch of its life.
There was even a pop-up tent to keep the musicians from getting overheated in the sun, and an outdoor sound system.
Quinlan approved.
While they were setting up, Quinlan noted a knot of children—a lot of them—running around, trying hard not to get their good clothes dirty and failing to some extent. They ranged from a tot around three to an adolescent boy around fourteen or fifteen—enough of them looked alike to figure they were probably related in some way. The boys were wearing matching suits and ties, and the girls were wearing matching dresses, and the oldest boy, the one in charge, was sort of a prick.
That was the first thing Quinlan noticed about him. He bossed the kids under him to keep track of the youngest kids and stalked around the entire swarm of them like a little general, shouting orders.
“Melly, would you for Christ’s sake keep her from sucking on her fingers? The first place she goes with those is to the sandbox, and we haven’t even started yet!”
“Mom says you’re not supposed to swear where she can’t bop you for it,” the princess next to him said, a superior smirk on her face. These two were obviously brother and sister—their hair was different, with the boy’s being closer to blond than brown and the girl’s being a rich chestnut—but they both had wide hazel eyes and the narrow-lipped smirks of conspirator-antagonists since birth.
“When Mom stops squirting out babies, she can come bop me herself,” the kid shot back. “But you try to bop me and I’ll lay you out, Belinda.”
Belinda sized her brother up like a seasoned cage fighter. “I’ve almost got my black belt, Dusty. I think I can take you.”
“Third degree in two weeks, sweetheart. I could knock you out without tearing your dress.”
She snorted softly, conceding, and the two kids stalked off like enforcers to keep the rest of the swarm from spilling out of the lawn area and into the playground.
Quinlan turned to Sammy to see what he thought.
“Do you know those kids?”
Sammy smiled, all sunshine. “Yeah. They’re my cousins and siblings. Pretty awesome, right?”
Quinlan blinked, a little tickle awakening to remind him of something Sammy had said. “Wait—all those kids are the ones who need a nanny during school?”
Sammy shook his head. “Oh God, no—only six of them. Well, five of them, but also the baby.” He was reading sheet music, and he threw a distracted finger out to the altar, where a stunningly beautiful woman stood holding a tiny baby against her shoulder, smiling at a man with an eye patch and shoulder-length hair slicked back into a queue.
The woman had a mane of luxuriant dark brown hair and enormous brown eyes. She was wearing red velveteen to match the little girls in the kid swarm, and the baby was wearing the same color to match his mom.
“Who’s she talking to?” Quinlan asked, trying to sort out the people Sammy always talked about.
“Taylor,” Sammy said, like, Duh! “You know, the groom?”
“Wait—I thought you said this wedding was for the previous nanny! That’s why you thought the job might be open.” Quin was so confused.
“Well, yeah. That’s Taylor. He’s the previous nanny! He worked the job through school, and then a couple of other kids did it—but they graduated from college too. But Taylor’s the one they think of most.”
“So, six kids?” Quinlan said blankly, thinking about the terrifying swagger of the older two.
“Yeah. They’re good kids, though.” Sammy nodded, his pretty angel’s face as open and guileless as a sunny day.
“Those kids?” Quinlan repeated, just to make sure.
“Yeah! They’re great. I mean, Dustin’s sort of a handful, and Belinda keeps trying to be queen of the world, and Melly’s sort of a flake. Conroy’s… well, he’s scary good, so don’t worry about Conroy, and Princess T is spoiled rotten, but she’ll outgrow that, and, well, the baby’s a baby. St. Peter has had colic, which is sort of rough, but he’ll get over that. I mean, babies. Mostly they just scream and poop, right?”
Quinlan took a deep breath. “Look, Sammy… I mean, the hours are great, and the situation is good, but… you know. Me. Kids. I’m an only child.”
“So am I,” Sammy said, nodding, like “Yay, we have something in common!”
“Three of those little hellions belong to you. You claimed them, remember?”
Sammy rolled his eyes. “Well, yeah. But, see—you automatically accept them as my siblings, even though it’s not a traditional family unit. So, maybe Nica’s kids will accept you too. Now go away. I need to look at this, or I’m going to suck.”
Aw, Sammy. He was insanely talented—mostly at piano, but also at singing. Sucking wasn’t in his vocabulary. Well, maybe with his boyfriend, but after carrying a useless torch all summer while they’d toured together across the country for their college ensemble, Quinlan wasn’t going to go there. But boyfriend aside, Sammy’s cheerful humility made working with him a joy, and as their little quartet got down to business, starting with Journey’s “Open Arms” to gather everybody and then launching into Elton John’s “Your Song” as the grooms met at the altar, Quinlan couldn’t help but get lost in their chemistry, the one place where Sam Lowell would ever be his.
The wedding service was short and to the point—Brandon, the other groom, managed to be unintentionally hilarious during his vows.
“Yeah, we’ll be inside each other forever. I mean, not that way. That way would hurt. Oh crap. There’s kids. We’ll just be inside each other’s hearts. But, you know, not the gross corpse-eating way either.”
And Taylor, the guy with the eye patch, was direct and sort of a prick until he unexpectedly poked at Quinlan’s heart.
“I didn’t believe in love and then you made me believe in love, and you shoved family at me and now I can’t live without them. You’re stuck with me. I hope you’re happy. I know I am.”
And basically, as Sammy said after he sang the recessional—“Heroes” by David Bowie—the longest part was watching the kids go down the aisle.
Quinlan counted this time—including the baby on the shoulder, there were nine kids total, and those were just the ones in matching uniforms, er, wedding clothes. He didn’t know much about families, but he was pretty sure the matching uniforms meant he might have to captain everybody on that ship.
He was going to have to say no.
Had the speech all worked up in his head. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Sammy’s Aunt Nica, but I’m thinking that this is too many kids, and I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. I’m sure you could find Mary Poppins or somebody equally qualified on a dime, so good luck with that.”
And he might even have gotten speech out, if he hadn’t been guzzling water during the warmish day and had to go to the bathroom.
The bathroom was—thank God, since he was wearing a new suit—not a portajohn. A large, concrete-floored structure, with sinks and soap and paper towels and everything, it too had been powerhosed within an inch of its life, but not even the smell of disinfectant and air freshener could eliminate the smell of cigarette smoke from the far side of the building.
And the furtive sound of voices.
“Dustin, we’re going to get in trouble….” The words were followed by hacking, and then Dustin—the kid with the third-degree black belt—responded.
“For smoking or making out?”
“Smoking! Nobody’s supposed to know about making out!” More coughing from that voice, and then a deep inhale from Dustin, who obviously was not new to the cigarette thin
g.
“Well, the making out was why we snuck in here,” Dustin muttered. “Smoking’s overrated.”
“Then why are we doing it?” the other kid wailed.
“Here—put it out. Flush it. I just… you know… the making out was great.”
“My parents are gonna kill me.” No coughing this time. Wonderful.
“Not if you don’t get caught. Come on. Let’s wash up. They don’t smell it on you if you wash your hands and use breath mints.”
The door to the stall burst open, and two kids came out. One of them, sure enough, was the adolescent stunner with the bossy sister still wearing the family uniform. The other one had been sitting on Brandon’s side of the aisle, and Quinlan had no idea who he was. But Dustin. Sammy’s family.
A surge of protectiveness washed over Quinlan Gregory then, one that never receded. Sammy’s family.
“What are you looking at?” Dustin snarled as he washed his hands and then his face. True to his word, he popped a breath mint and then handed the pack to his partner in crime.
“You’re Sammy’s cousin,” Quin said, refusing to be intimidated by a fourteen-year-old. “He says you’re a good kid.”
A suddenly vulnerable expression crossed Dustin’s scowling features: he cared, cared a great deal, about what Sammy thought of him.
“You’re not going to tell him, are you?”
“About the smoking or the making out?” Quin asked.
“Well, neither are your fucking business,” the boy snapped, pulling his adolescent mask on again. “Just butt out.”
“Afraid I can’t,” Quin said. “I mean, I’m not telling your mom or your cousin about the making out—that’s your business, and it’s up to you to tell your parents that.” He flicked a glance at Dustin’s companion, a slightly older boy, it looked like, with limpid eyes, a lush mouth, and an expression like a soon-to-be-deceased possum.
“Butt out of all of it,” Dustin ordered sullenly. “Why you gotta tell my mom squat?”
“’Cause I’m about to become your caregiver, boy. And I’m not keeping secrets from your mother.”
Oh, he would treasure the blank look on Dustin’s face for years to come.
“Jesus. You’re Sammy’s friend. The musician.” Dustin clapped his hand over his eyes and groaned. “Fuuuuuuuuuck.”
“Who is this guy?” the kid next to him asked, giving Quinlan furtive glances under long black lashes.
“That, Gilbert, is the goddamned manny.”
Quinlan would later wonder what gave him the courage to grab Dustin by the elbow and frog-march the little hell-raiser out to the wedding party and meet Nica Grayson and the rest of her family—but that’s what he did.
Nica was unsurprised.
“Dustin, you little shit!” she muttered. Still a pretty woman, even after six kids, she pushed her dark wavy hair back from her high-cheekboned Italian face.
“Here, Mama,” Belinda said smugly. “I’ve got a rubber band now that the wedding’s over.”
Nica’s arms were busy holding the tiniest angel, and she submitted to her daughter pulling her hair back while glaring at her son.
“That’s sweet, Belinda,” she said, her dry tone indicating she knew her kid was sucking up in the worst way. “Now go get your father.”
Jacob, who had stood up during the wedding with Brandon, was a thirtysomething surfer guy—whose children swarmed over him at every chance. For a heart-sinking moment, Quinlan expected him to swoop in and say something stupid like “Oh honey, boys will be boys, give the kid a break!”
This was not the case.
“Smoking?” He stared at his oldest like he’d never seen the kid before. “At your cousin’s wedding.”
“It’s Taylor’s wedding too,” Dustin reminded him sullenly.
Jacob changed the angle of his chin and suddenly looked like a clinical psychologist making an assessment. “Which is why the acting out,” he figured. “Because you’re losing them both for good, you think. Even though Taylor hasn’t been your official caregiver—”
“He’s going to be teaching,” Dustin muttered. “And Brandon’s starting an internship. We’ll never see them.”
Oh. Quinlan pulled in a breath. He’d been a butthurt asshole often enough as a kid to recognize the symptoms.
“So you go and indulge your most hated vice in a fit of shitkicking.” Jacob nodded. “I get the motivation, kid, but ew. Smoking. Nasty habit. But then, you picked it up at the garage, so I guess that’s my fault.”
Dustin looked away, shamed for the first time during the exchange. “You don’t let them smoke around me, Dad. Not your fault.”
“So whose fault is it?” Jacob asked quietly. “And don’t say Quinlan’s, ’cause he’s done us a favor today.” Dustin’s father looked up and winked at Quinlan, who felt the little bit of fatherly praise down to his toes.
“Mine,” Dustin muttered.
“Yes, yes it is. So here’s how it’s going to work out. We brought two cars so I could stay with the guys and clean up afterward. You were going to go to Channing and Tino’s with your mother to spend some of the last good hours of the year in the pool with your cousins. But now you’re not. Now you’re going to stay with me and Taylor and Brandon and your uncles, and we’re going to take everything down and clean up. Now on the one hand, that’ll be good. You can talk to Taylor and Brandon about spending time with them, because they love you and they’re not trying to desert you. But on the other….”
Dustin looked like he was thinking through to the ultimate conclusion.
Quinlan knew exactly when he got there.
“Cousins?” he said. “So, Sammy?”
“Yes,” Jacob said gravely. “Sammy is going back to the house to rest, and Cooper’s going to be running the cookout. And you’re going to miss that. Because you can’t just endanger your health because you feel like shitkicking, kid. That doesn’t work.”
Dustin swallowed and—Quinlan could tell—tried not to cry.
And that’s when he got it. That where Quinlan got the courage was irrelevant. It was where Quinlan got the leverage that was important.
Dustin’s leverage was family. If Quinlan was going to follow through on this sweet deal—the place to stay, the hours for school and performance, summers free to tour—he was going to need every tool at his disposal.
Leverage. It’s what would get him through the day.
Dustin
“FUUUUUUUCK.”
“Sh!” Belinda hissed. “We’re in enough trouble already.”
They sat, side by side, in the principal’s office of the middle school where Dustin attended ninth grade and Belinda attended seventh.
Belinda was looking woefully at what used to be new acrylic nails that had been ripped off in the fight, and Dustin held an ice pack to his eye.
“Who cares,” Dustin muttered. “You know what this means, don’t you?”
“Suspension?” she snapped. “Spoiling my perfect attendance record? Mom’ll never let me get a manicure again? I’m not stupid, Dustin. But what choice did we have?”
“No! Not the school people. They’re going to have to call somebody to pick us up.”
“So?”
“So Mom and Dad are both at the shop today—and that means….”
“Oh God.”
“Yeah.”
“The new guy.” Dustin hated that guy.
For one thing, he didn’t know anything. Taylor had always packed the baby bag beforehand, so when they were going out the door, all he had to do was put the baby in the carrier and grab the bag.
Belinda and Dustin had been late twice in the last two weeks because Quinlan couldn’t get his shit together and get out the door on time.
For the first three days, St. Peter had squalled in his baby carrier, crying, while Quinlan rocked the carrier frantically, just shoving things—a pacifier, a bottle, his finger—into the kid’s mouth, until finally Belinda had taken pity on him and told him to just pick the kid u
p, for sweet God’s sake. (Belinda hadn’t used those words, but Dustin was good at filling in the blanks.)
This guy didn’t stay for dinner like Taylor, either. No, he just ran off to his own room during dinner, taking a plate quietly from Dustin’s mother and thanking her profusely. Taylor had balls, had barked orders, organized things, made everything shipshape. Dustin had respect for a guy like Taylor.
But Quinlan was different—right down to his looks. He had dark curly hair, dark eyes, which looked really dramatic with pale skin, which even Dustin could admit was pleasing to look at, and he had some width to his chest and some definition—but looks aside, he was just… so… so… quiet.
How was he ever going to survive in the Grayson/Robbins/Lowell family if he couldn’t speak up for himself?
Still, Dustin couldn’t quell the moment of hope when he saw Quinlan walk in, baby seat in one hand, Princess T’s hand in the other. Unlike Dustin’s mother or father—or Taylor—he wasn’t scowling, didn’t look thunderous, didn’t bark.
He surveyed Belinda and Dustin critically and walked over, letting go of Princess T so she could jump into Belinda’s lap.
“So,” he said, drawing out the syllable. “I hope you won.”
Dustin let a fierce grin pop out. “Two against three. You bet your ass we did.”
Quinlan let out a small smile. “That’s excellent. Now, was there a reason you were fighting, or did you just want some drama at the dinner table?”
“Oh, like you’d hang around our dinner table,” Dustin sneered and then could have kicked himself.
Quinlan’s eyebrows went up. “I wasn’t sure I was wanted,” he admitted. “But back to the topic at hand. Why are we here?”
Dustin caught Belinda’s sideways gaze and grimaced. God. She’d jumped right into the fray at his side when she saw her brother was one against three—first with her sharp tongue and then with her fists.
He needed to tell the truth.
“Well, Troy Castro went off in my face about faggots,” he muttered, “and all his friends got in on it.”
Quinlan nodded. “So that’s when you threw the first punch.”
