by Amy Lane
“Make yourself at home, Dusty,” Tino said dryly as Dustin sprawled in one of the offered chairs.
“Thank you, I will, Uncle Tino.” He smiled with all his teeth, being a smartass, and then relented, because his Uncle Tino was sort of the greatest. “And thank you, sir, for letting Quin use your lawyer. He was really sick—we wouldn’t have known what to do no matter what it was.”
Tino nodded appreciatively. “Anytime. I don’t know if Mr. Wainscott would know what to do with himself if we didn’t come knocking down his door once every year or so, would you, Mr. Wainscott?”
The Robbins-Lowell’s family lawyer was a bit player in every BBC television show, ever. Stooped, gray, with a bird’s nest of white hair, he wore a black suit at a long-term client’s home on a hot day in early September. He’d also been at Taylor and Brandon’s wedding—and Sammy and Cooper’s.
He smiled at Quinlan and shook his hand, and Dustin felt awkward enough to stand up again and shake his hand. Then Channing sat down behind them, and Dustin sat down and finally, finally, things got started.
“So, Quinlan,” Wainscott began, “you had no idea why your family lawyer visited?”
“No, sir—I didn’t even know he’d come by until this afternoon. I’d been out of state, and I got sick with a stomach bug—by the time I got home, I was in bad shape.”
Wainscott nodded. “Yes—and that’s good.” Dustin snorted, and Wainscott glared at him until he subsided. “Not that Mr. Gregory was sick, but I was able to petition the probate court for an extra month for him to make his decision, based on his illness. We asked young Mr. Grayson’s father for the EMT bills, if that’s okay. He paid out of pocket when your insurance refused.”
Quinlan groaned and rubbed his eyes. “Dustin, you could have told me that!”
“I don’t see why,” Dustin said without any remorse at all. “Keep going, Mr. Wainscott—you said something about probate. Who died?”
“Dustin!” Channing protested behind him, and Dustin turned to him and shrugged. Well, obviously somebody had.
“Mr. Gregory, I’m afraid your father passed away earlier this year—did you know that?”
Dustin froze and looked carefully at Quinlan.
Who looked carefully back at the lawyer.
Without another word, without posturing or making so much as a grunt, Dustin reached out and grabbed Quinlan’s hand, relieved when Quin squeezed back.
“I did not,” he said. “What does that have to do with me?”
“I take it you two were not close?” Mr. Wainscott had the air of a man who had to ask that question a lot.
“He kicked me out when I was eighteen and tried to steal my trust fund,” Quinlan answered, his voice uninflected. “I don’t regret his passing, if that’s okay.”
“It’s understandable.” Mr. Wainscott nodded. “What about your mother? Did you have a close relationship with your mother?”
“Not so’s you’d notice,” Quinlan replied. His hand in Dustin’s was ice-cold and sweating. “Why?”
“Because your father hadn’t taken you out of the will yet—but your mother is threatening to contest your portion. Apparently she had another child in the past ten years, and she would like the bulk of the estate to be left to her other son.”
Dustin took a minute and tried to absorb that.
And couldn’t.
“Douche. Bags.”
“Charming,” Channing muttered.
“No, I have to agree with him,” Tino interjected. “Quinlan, we’re so sorry you had to grow up with this. Would you like us to leave while Wainscott covers the rest of it?”
“No,” Quinlan whispered, clutching Dustin’s hand hard enough to hurt. He raised his voice. “No. Thank you for staying. Please go on.”
“Well, your mother has offered, in lieu of arguing over the will in probate, that you give up claim to the money—and the name. In return, she’s willing to sign over a cash sum of a little over a million dollars—not life-changing money, but enough to invest, to set you up soundly for the rest of your life. Your father’s lawyer—Mr. Corso—was supposed to get your signature three weeks ago, but, like I said, I petitioned the courts, and your mother—and you—have another month to make up your mind.”
“Fuck. Her.”
Dustin stood up, shaking with fury and grief.
“Yeah,” Channing muttered. “I mean, I’m pretty sure we have that much invested in Quin’s life insurance policy—he could cash that in and get the money if he needs to.”
“I have life insurance?” Quinlan asked, puzzled, like, oh yeah, that was the important part of this.
“Focus, Q,” Dustin muttered. “We’re telling your family—”
“I’ll think about it,” Quinlan interjected, and Dustin sat down again, the solid chair creaking under his new assault.
“You’ll what?”
“It’s a lot of money,” Quinlan said quietly. “And if it means I don’t have to go there ag—”
“You will,” Mr. Wainscott interjected. “Either way, Mr. Gregory, you’re going to have to see your mother, in the presence of her lawyer, and sign the appropriate papers.”
“Great,” Quinlan snapped. “I’ll go see my mother. When? When do I have to make this decision? And how much am I giving up by giving up my name?”
“Your father’s estate is worth close to a billion dollars,” Mr. Wainscott said quietly. “But given that he hadn’t set aside any money for the other boy….”
“This could be tied up a while. I get it.” Quinlan scrubbed his eyes again with his free hand. “You didn’t say when.”
“When would you like me to make the appointment, sir? Any time in the next month should be fine.”
“Okay, so a weekend—”
“Weekday,” Dustin said quickly. “I’ll get the day off. We’re not spending a weekend doing this, Q.”
“We?” he asked, but like he was dazed, not resentful.
“Yes. We.” Dustin’s tone brooked no argument, and Quinlan’s hand rested trustingly in his. We. Him and Quinlan. They were a couple already.
“Okay—but there’s your mom’s schedule, and the kids and—”
Dustin squeezed his hands and shook it. “Three weeks,” he said arbitrarily. “Three weeks from now, on Friday—what day is that, Mr. Wainscott?”
“October 14.”
“Awesome. So Friday, October 14—should we meet in your office?”
Mr. Wainscott nodded. “That would be fine—neutral ground, mostly, and….” He looked uncomfortable.
“What is it, Charles?” Channing asked kindly.
“Your father’s lawyer—Mr. Corso. His reputation isn’t… sterling.”
“He tried to steal Quinlan’s trust fund,” Dustin said baldly. “Quinlan….” He breathed out through his nose. “I’m gonna tell the story, okay, Q?”
Quinlan shrugged and looked away.
“Quin knew his family wouldn’t be great with the gay. So he packed all his stuff, changed his passwords to his bank account once his trust fund went through, and came out at Thanksgiving. He got in the cab, and the bank called because someone tried to pull out the trust fund money.”
“You remembered all of that?” Quinlan asked, a faint smile on his strained mouth.
“I remember everything you’ve said to me since the ninth grade. Keep up. But the thing is, that’s illegal. I know it—I’m sure the lawyer knew it. But they thought Quin wouldn’t be able to fight it, so they tried. So no. Not sterling. But that’s okay—me and Quinlan—”
“And Channing and I,” Tino added, “and I’m sure my sister and Jacob are going to want to be there too.”
“Should we just invite Sammy and Cooper and the kids and get it over with?” Quinlan asked dryly.
“Taylor and Brandon would come,” Tino deadpanned. “And so would my parents. But I’m not sure if Charles’s office would fit them all.”
“So, like, a bunch of us,” Dustin clarified, “are going to be there
.”
“Why?” Quinlan asked, sounding a little lost. “I mean, I’m going to sign some papers and—”
“And you know what?” Dustin’s eyes burned. “She thinks she’s buying you off. That she’s throwing you away. We want you. You know something else? I’ll bet Channing makes a fuckton more money than she’s getting. And you don’t care about that, and I sure as shit don’t—but she does. So we’re going to be there ’cause we want you. And nobody’s going to want her scrawny ass—probably not even the poor kid she’s trying to get money for. I want her to know that. I want her to know what she’s giving up. What she could have had. She coulda had a family. She coulda had love. She coulda had a Quinlan in her life, and she chose not to. So fuck yeah, we’re gonna be in the office. And we’re gonna be loud and we’re gonna be obnoxious, and you bet my mother is going to walk in there with her bitch shoes on. Nobody pulls this shit on her watch. Not with her kids. Not with you.”
He was snarling, and he passed a shaking hand over his eyes, feeling a little embarrassed. He was getting choked up when he wanted to pound something.
Fuckers.
How dare they. Not to Quinlan. Not to Quinlan.
“Well, then,” Channing said into the silence. “I think that covered it. Expect anywhere from six to a hundred people in your office in three weeks, Charles.”
“I’ll prepare for twenty, sir. Miss Elena and her husband will be in town, I do believe.”
Tino grinned, obviously pleased that Mr. Wainscott remembered Dustin’s Aunt Elena—and the new cousin she’d given birth to, six months earlier. “She wouldn’t miss it… but wait….”
“I assume Dustin’s sister will be bringing her young man? We’ve had to work on a visa this last month. We very much want him to stay in the country now that she’s expecting, don’t we?”
The shocked silence was interrupted by Dustin’s low, dirty laugh.
Mr. Wainscott looked particularly discomfited. “Miss Robbins-Grayson said she’d told her family. Was I mistaken about that? I asked specifically so I wouldn’t reveal a confidence, because I deal so much with this family!”
“Ooh!” Dustin chortled. “Belinda is gonna be in so much trouble!”
Tino face-palmed. “She’s not even through school yet. Dammit.”
But it was Quinlan’s reaction that made everybody in the room gasp. “Baby?” he said, his voice thick with yearning. “There’s going to be another baby?”
Dustin gazed at him, the strain, the hurt, the stupid anger of the last half hour falling away. He looked… transported. Ecstatic.
Thrilled.
“Yeah, sweetheart,” Dustin told him, heart sore in his chest. “This family? There will always be another baby. You will never not have someone who needs you.”
Quinlan nodded and wiped his eyes with his free hand, then gently disentangled himself from Dustin.
“If we’re done here,” he said a little desperately.
“Of course,” Mr. Wainscott said. “But….” He grimaced. “If you all could, perhaps, let Miss Robbins-Grayson reveal her little secret to you? I… I am appalled at my lack of discretion.”
Tino’s laugh was just as low and dirty as Dustin’s—Dusty had always wondered where that came from, and now he knew. “Oh, Charles. I’m afraid in this family ‘discretion’ isn’t a word. But we’ll keep Belinda’s secret as long as we can. Won’t we, Dusty?”
“If she starts popping out before she says anything, I reserve the right to tell her she’s fat. And she’ll probably get watermelon boobs. Runs in the family.”
“Classy,” Quinlan said. “You make me so proud.”
“Hey, this is what you had to work with. You and my folks did okay. Now come on. You need some privacy.”
He could see it in Quinlan’s eyes, the darkness of pain. For the first time he wondered—how often had Quinlan fallen apart? Dustin and his mother had been there once to catch him behind the pool house. Dustin had caught him their first glorious night making love. But how often had Quinlan’s eyes held that quiet pain in until he was alone and nobody would see?
It wasn’t ever going to happen again. Dustin swore it now—he’d sign the contract in blood for Mr. Wainscott to witness if he could.
“Dustin, I’m fine.”
Dustin looked at Channing and shook his head—no. No he was not fine. Dustin needed to go catch him now—it was that simple.
“Cooper’s old rooms,” Channing said softly. “They’re vacant for now.”
Cooper and Sammy had moved into the little house that had been their modest dream when Sammy had recovered. It was adorable, very unassuming, very quaint—and very, very taken over by Sammy’s baby grand piano, where he composed and held rehearsals for the weekly gig playing at Dodgy’s.
As Dustin stood and pulled Quinlan with him, making apologies to Mr. Wainscott and Tino, he had a passing thought that he’d have to go see Quin play, now that he was ready to perform again, and then he filed that thought and got down to business.
“Where are we go—oh.”
Dustin pulled him into Cooper’s rooms and locked the door that connected to the kitchen hallway. Then he looked around, a specific item in mind. Okay—converted to guest bedrooms, all Cooper and Sammy’s personal items had been removed, but the function remained the same. There was a bed in the room right off the kitchen and another one, smaller, in the study. Dustin dragged Quinlan into the study and sat him down. “Stay,” he ordered, locking the secondary bedroom door too. “Don’t move.”
C’mon, Sammy, c’mon…. They had to have some in here—Cooper and Sammy had lived in these rooms for four years as a couple. And the medicine cabinet—“Thank you!”
“You’re welcome?” Quinlan said from the other room.
“And you will be,” Dustin murmured, slipping the unopened packets of lubricant in his pocket as he walked out of the bathroom. They were sample-sized, easy to leave behind, and sealed. “C’mere.”
Quinlan squinted at him, obviously dazed and afloat in his own pointy head. “What?”
“Come. Here.” He stood, legs braced, and gave Quinlan a command, something he would understand, a thing he would do. Quinlan stood up, limply, like being pulled by strings, and walked into Dustin’s space.
Dustin cupped his chin. “Stay with me, Q. We’re not losing it yet.”
“I wasn’t going to lose it.” The words were without heat—or conviction.
“Sure. We’re not losing it. Not yet. After the meeting—then you can lose it. But not now.”
Quinlan recovered himself to pull back. “Really? You’re telling me how I should handle—”
Dustin kissed him. This wasn’t an argument. This was like sunblock and making sure he ate. It was care and feeding of Dustin’s favorite person.
Who opened his mouth and drank the kiss in like water, replenished, nourished—and, thanks to Dusty, dominated.
Dustin devoured him, making the kiss hard and fast, biting at Quin’s lips, urging him high with a rocket.
Quinlan gasped, shocked, probably, and then he shocked Dusty by leaping slightly, wrapping his legs around Dustin’s waist and ravishing him right back.
He needed.
Dustin provided.
He walked them over to the bed, supporting Quinlan’s backside with one hand and stripping the comforter with the other. Then he dropped Quin on the bed and yanked off his board shorts with one hard pull.
Quinlan made a protesting sound then, surprise probably, at finding himself naked.
“Shirt,” Dustin demanded. “Off now.”
Quinlan’s lower lip, held mutinously for an entire heartbeat, softened, and his eyes went wide and limpid and easy. But not dead. Not afraid. Not turned inward.
Completely on Dustin, which was where Dusty wanted them.
“Oh come on,” he said, not quite making the smile he tried. “We’re not going to—”
Dustin palmed a packet of lubricant, dropped his own shorts, and ripped his shirt over his h
ead. His cock fell forward, mostly erect, even with Quinlan’s upturned face.
Quinlan licked his lips nervously and stared.
“Shirt,” Dustin said softly. “Or I’ll rip it off.”
Quinlan wrestled it off in short order and then returned to his place, looking at Dustin with those wide brown eyes. He licked his lips again and then darted his tongue out nervously to taste.
“More,” Dustin graveled.
And Quinlan—oh God. Dustin had given this act over the past two weeks, taken Quinlan into his mouth and pleasured his inhibitions away.
But this—this was like Dustin had given Quinlan permission to sin, and Quinlan craved every decadent mouthful of wanton indiscretion. He licked Dustin’s head wetly, tasting, then licked his shaft from base to tip while Dustin gripped his shoulder, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to hold his balance, to keep his head from blowing right off his shoulders.
“Swallow it,” he begged.
Quinlan’s mouth, hot, dripping, wrapped around his cock, and the suction was… exquisite. A dirty joke crossed his mind then about trumpet players knowing how to blow, but he was too immersed in Quinlan’s mouth to even give it voice.
“God… yes…,” he panted. Oh, he could come like this, swathing Quinlan’s face with spend, and someday he might do that.
But not today.
Today, this instant, this stolen pocket of time in somebody else’s house, was about giving Quinlan his power. This man—seven years, this man had served Dustin’s family, putting others’ needs ahead of his own.
Today, the people who should have empowered him the most had reached beyond the grave and tried to rip away his identity. One more time.
Dustin was here to show Quinlan who he was.
“Here,” Dustin panted, fumbling for Quinlan’s hand at his thigh. He pushed the lube packet into his fist and looked at him, wiping his thumb over Quinlan’s glazed and dripping pink mouth. “Where do you want it, Q? You show me. Your body. My body. Your choice. Where do you want it?”
Quinlan’s eyes narrowed like he was thinking something evil, which was awesome, because Dustin was made of evil, had been since he was born.
