Loving Edits

by Mickie B. Ashling

  Chapter 6

  TONO paced in Paul’s reception area, waiting to be admitted. He’d shown up without an appointment, sure that he could get in, but Paul had kept him cooling his heels for over an hour, and Tono was seething. He wanted to bash the door in but knew that it would be the end of any sort of relationship if he did, so he paced and cussed under his breath, grateful that no one understood Euskara. Linda watched apprehensively, not too sure that the gentleman in white wouldn’t force his way into the inner sanctum, also known as Paul Alcott’s office.

  Finally, Paul opened the door and nodded for Tono to enter.

  “It’s about time,” Tono bristled, striding into the office.

  “You can’t just show up here. I’m a busy man.”

  “This is important!”

  “Everything in my world is important, Tono. Just because we have something in common doesn’t mean you can waltz in here whenever you’re in the mood. You need an appointment like everyone else.”

  “¡Coño! I would think that Mick would be a priority.”

  “He is, and I’ve already spent a lot of time this morning trying to line up a doctor.”

  Tono looked puzzled. “He already has a doctor.”

  “I mean, my doctor. I want a second opinion.”

  “Bah! You are in denial like I was. Believe me, Pol. This is not a mistake.”

  “It’s Pawwl.”

  “And my name is TOH-NO, not TAHNO. It’s short for Antonio!”

  “Christ!” Paul rolled his eyes and turned his back on him. He walked toward his desk and stepped onto the platform, fully expecting Tono to follow suit. Paul sat and waited in silence. He rested his elbows on his desk and leaned forward, clasping his hands in front of his face. The Spaniard’s walk was as light and graceful as a ballet dancer’s. He never took his eyes off Paul, silently challenging him to be the first to look away.

  Paul studied him, slowly appraising each aspect of the man. His most arresting feature was his jaw line, which was strong and square, but it was softened slightly by the deep dimple on his chin. Tono’s amber eyes were heavy-lidded and hinted at his sensuous side. He wore a cream-colored shirt, unbuttoned halfway, giving Paul a clear picture of golden brown chest hair that covered finely-rounded muscles. The image of Tono hanging onto Mick’s ass seconds before entering him appeared quickly, causing all kinds of mischief in his nether regions. He hadn’t expected this reaction, even though they’d shared a few intimate moments the other night. Tono wasn’t really his type. He was much too hairy, for one thing, and way too cocky. The man’s confidence grated on Paul’s last nerve. He preferred dealing with men who were not quite as self-assured. He liked them a little softer around the edges, grateful to be in his presence. Tono was seasoned and tough. As an athlete in a fast and dangerous sport, he knew exactly what he wanted, and giving orders didn’t seem to be a problem with him. Yet, despite all that, Paul couldn’t help the physical attraction and the accompanying guilt. He had no business even going there.

  “What do you want, Tono?”

  “Your help.”

  “I don’t write novels, nor do I do much editing anymore. I let my people handle it. You should hire someone to help you or buy my software. You’d be amazed how easy it is once you learn how to use it.”

  “No.”

  Paul huffed out a laugh. “I’m afraid you’re barking up the wrong tree. I don’t care what you mean to Mick. You are nothing to me.”

  “You’re an asshole, sabes?”

  “Maybe I am, but I’m a successful asshole, and I don’t have time to clean up your mediocre novel.”

  “You haven’t even read it. How dare you presume it’s shit?”

  “Hey, your words, not mine.”

  “Read one chapter,” Tono insisted, reaching out and touching Paul’s arm. “Read it and tell me if it’s mierda.”

  “Did Mick send you here?”

  “No. Mick is at home, resting.”

  “How is he, really? Is this sickness as bad as he makes it sound?”

  Tono nodded and turned away, but not before Paul saw the glint of moisture in his eyes. Christ.

  Tono continued to stare out the window for a few minutes, and Paul didn’t interrupt. The man was obviously struggling to keep himself in check, and when he finally swiveled around to speak, he was in firm control of his emotions. His eyes were dry, and the look he gave Paul was determined. “I don’t give a fuck what you think of me. But you need to know that Mick is counting on you for some reason. He really thinks you are a nice man and will help. I told him he was crazy, but he finds some redeeming qualities in you that I have yet to see.”

  “Your accent sucks, Tono, but your command of the English language is quite good.”

  “Eres un cabron.”

  Paul smirked. “Isn’t that what they call a goat? Or is it a cuckold? In any case, Tono, it hardly applies,” Paul said, condescendingly. “I’ll read one fucking chapter. Only for Mick’s sake, mind you.”

  “Thank you,” Tono said, “and cabron, just so you know, does mean goat, but it can also be used to describe a man whose partner puts the horns on him. Regardless of the literal translation, Pol, it’s an insult, and one you deserve!”

  “It’s Pawwl,” the blond answered, unperturbed by Tono’s obvious anger. “Have a messenger deliver the manuscript.”

  “No. You come and get it. Mick wants to see you again.”

  “So we can have a repeat of the other night?” Paul smirked.

  Tono frowned, and a rosy flush bathed his face as he tried to keep from lashing out. He stood abruptly and turned to leave but paused midway. “By the way,” Tono said, turning back to face Paul. “Just because your desk is up on a stage doesn’t make you a king. Like I said before, Pol. You don’t count.”

  What the fuck? Paul was dumbstruck for once. He watched Tono walk out the door. He wasn’t going to put up with that arrogant bastard, no matter how hot the fucker was or how much he loved Mick. He could take his piece-of-shit novel and shove it up his Spanish ass.

  MICK was on his way home from Whole Foods on Seventh Avenue when he fell. He had a small roller bag filled with groceries, and it toppled over, spilling onto the sidewalk. Apples and oranges rolled around, bright colors against the gray and grime of the concrete. Mick waited for the thumping in his heart to stabilize. He knew this was going to happen more and more often. He’d been warned, but he chose to ignore the doctor’s words, believing that it wouldn’t be this soon. It had only been six months since the diagnosis, and so far he felt the same, most of the time. The only reminders of what was to come were incidents like this and the daily cramping and twitching of the muscles under his skin. Fasciculation was the medical term for the bizarre phenomena that felt like a million Mexican jumping beans buried in his leg muscles. It creeped him out more often than not. He’d taken to smacking himself in the leg with a rolled up magazine whenever the twitching would start, hoping to knock some sense into nerve endings that were short circuiting. The doctors said it would pass eventually, but by then he’d be paralyzed, so he didn’t know whether he wanted to rush that or not. He preferred to endure the discomfort rather than face the alternative.

  He tried to get up on his own but his legs weren’t cooperating with his brain’s command. It was getting more and more difficult to bounce back from the falls. Pedestrians walked around him without pausing to help. Fortunately, a beat cop walked by and helped him up, the navy blue uniform of the NYPD a welcome sight.

  “Are you alright, sir?”

  “Yes,” Mick answered. “I just stumbled.”

  “Would you like me to hail a cab?”

  “That would be great,” Mick acknowledged, although he supposed the cabbie would probably bitch that he was only going to be driving a few blocks. He’d give him a large tip, and maybe he’d carry the groceries down the stairs to the apartment.

  The driver turned out to be a surprise. Mick expected someone rude and unfeeling, but he was delighted by the
pleasant manner of the old man who turned out to be an Armenian and grateful to be living in America. He was sympathetic when Mick told him he had something similar to multiple sclerosis. Mick had discovered months ago that most people couldn’t or didn’t want to deal with illness, particularly one that was terminal. So he’d become quite adept at lying, being the natural storyteller that he was. He embellished on the truth, telling them what they wanted to hear, thus giving them the opportunity to help, without the added guilt of their own good health. Helping out a dying person was always much scarier and a lot less rewarding. The sad faces and slow headshakes were too much to deal with; pretending his illness wasn’t fatal was far easier.

  By the time Tono got home, Mick had fully recovered from his fall, so he never mentioned it. A good thing, since his partner wasn’t all that happy.

  “Hola.” Tono nuzzled him on the neck, embracing him from behind. “Did you buy anything good to barbeque?”

  “Steaks.”

  “Excellent. How about the avocado?”

  “I bought everything on your list including Jamon Serrano, which cost an arm and a leg.”

  “It’s only money, cariño. We have plenty to spare.”

  “You have.”

  “We. No arguing, okay?” Tono frowned. “I’ve already had enough for one day.”

  “Who’d you argue with?”

  “Pol. He’s a jerk!”

  “He’s not, really. You have to know him to understand him.”

  “What’s to understand? He’s insulting, and I don’t need his shit. I’m sure I can find someone else to help me.”

  Mick was quiet while he washed the lettuce and began to tear it into smaller pieces for the salad. He sliced tomatoes and cucumbers efficiently, happy that so far, his hands had not been affected by the ALS. He lived in terror of that moment, knowing he’d never be able to use his keyboard or prepare a meal, but he shook off the thought and continued with his slicing, all the while thinking about Paul and Tono.

  He wasn’t sure why he was insisting on Paul’s help with the editing. Was it just an excuse to get him back in his life? He could give Tono the help he needed, so why subject him to Paul’s forked tongue? Even he had difficulties getting past some of the acid remarks, and he’d loved him for years. Why risk the chance of the two men who meant everything to him coming to blows?

  Or was that the whole point? Did he need them both to get through this? He wasn’t quite clear on what he was trying to achieve; he just knew that he wanted them both around, and this was the only way he could do it. Having Paul in his arms the other night was like coming home. The relief was immense. His presence gave him the strength he needed to cope with his situation and with Tono’s emotions. He loved Tono passionately, but Paul was an intrinsic part of him. Not a day ever went by without some thought of Paul. Seeing him again after all these years only proved that time and distance had not broken their bond.

  He dropped what he was doing, wiped his hands on the kitchen towel, and moved toward Tono, who embraced him silently. “Promise me you’ll keep an open mind.”

  “Only if he’s respectful.”

  “I’m sure you can both manage to be civilized, at least while you’re working on the novel.”

  “We’ll see. Really, cariño, having your past and present lovers in one room isn’t a good idea,” Tono teased, finally cracking a smile.

  “I know, majo, but I have faith in both of you.”

  “You’re still a dreamer, despite everything.”

  “I’ve made a career peddling my dreams.”

  “And you do it so well. Are you going to let Pol edit the sequel, now that it’s done?”

  “Let’s take one step at a time. I’d rather he help you with your book.”

  “I have all the time in the world,” Tono reminded Mick gently.

  “No. We’ll have Paul look at your manuscript and forget mine for now.”

  “Okay. Bésame.”

  Chapter 7

  PAUL stood and reached for his jacket, which hung on the oak coat rack in the doctor’s office. He was pissed at Tono for backing him into a corner, at Mick for coming back into his life and making him sick with worry, and last but not least at the doctor who was looking at him placidly. Paul hated most doctors anyhow, so this wasn’t unusual. He felt that they were all fucking idiots who didn’t know what the hell they were doing half the time. The proof, of course, was in the fact that they’d let a perfectly healthy twenty-seven-year-old die of eclampsia, an easily preventable condition. His mother’s death at the hands of a famous Fifth Avenue obstetrician was still talked about in medical communities.

  Paul had forced his way into this specialty office, claiming an emergency and a referral from a close friend of the doctor’s. The neurologist saw through him as soon as he sat down, but he forgave Paul when he found out who he was and why he was there. However, he insisted that he couldn’t possibly take on a new patient as his schedule was booked for months.

  “Look, Dr. Jordan. I’m not above paying you to get bumped ahead in your line.”

  The doctor raised his eyebrows. “You can’t be serious.”

  “As a heart attack,” Paul snapped. “I’ll pay you whatever you want.”

  “Mr. Alcott, this is highly irregular and unethical as well. I suggest you have your friend call, and we’ll try to get him in through normal channels.”

  “Dr. Jordan, you don’t understand. My friend has just been diagnosed with ALS by some quack in Spain. I think that time is an important factor here, and if it’s a misdiagnosis, he’s obviously got some other illness we should be dealing with. What good would waiting six months accomplish if we were to find out he’s got a different disease that could be addressed now?”

  “Diagnosing ALS is not a simple matter, Mr. Alcott. Its symptoms mimic many other diseases, and it’s more a process of elimination before arriving at the sad conclusion. If your friend does indeed have ALS, there is nothing I can do for him. If it’s a brain tumor or any other neurological disease, there might be hope.”

  “And you want to postpone this?” Paul raised his voice. “You want us to wait six months until your schedule frees up? Dr. Jordan, with all due respect, this is bullshit! I will do whatever it takes, but Mick Henley moves up your waiting list immediately.”

  “Mick Henley, the writer?”

  “The one and only.”

  “I’m a big fan of his.”

  “So we have a deal? You’ll bump someone?”

  “I will see Mr. Henley without bumping anyone. I’ll come in on my day off.”

  Paul raised an eyebrow. “I’m impressed. I suppose you’ll want double your rate.”

  “Mr. Alcott, one more word out of you and I’ll walk away from this. It’s not always about money.”

  “Really.” Paul’s voice dripped sarcasm. “I’ll be sure and remember that when I’m presented with your bill. When can I bring Mick in to see you?”

  “Thursday, at eleven o’clock.”

  “This week?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fine.” Paul swung his jacket over his shoulder and walked out.

  HE SPEED DIALED Mick from his car and apologized for running late. He’d promised Tono that he’d pick up his manuscript tonight, but the drive across town was turning out to be worse than he thought it would be.

  “What? Your clock broken?” Mick teased, throwing back Paul’s constant refrain whenever he’d shown up late.

  “Fuck off. You know how much this irritates me.”

  “Sweetheart, you really need to lighten up. You’re far too rigid for someone so young, and so hot, I might add. You look great, Paul,” Mick flirted lightly, referring to the other night.

  “Thank you,” Paul purred, secretly flattered by Mick’s attention. “Did you expect me to be bald and fat?”

  “I wasn’t expecting you to look exactly the way you did seven years ago. What’s your secret?”

  “It’s not clean living, that’s for sure. I sti
ll drink like a fish on occasion, and my visits to the gym are sporadic. I guess I just have good genes.”

  “Must be nice.” Mick’s reply was subdued.

  “Hey, come on, none of that, okay? How are you feeling today?”

  “I’m fine,” Mick answered quickly.

  “You’re not in any pain?”

  “No. There isn’t that much pain, Paul. It’s more mental than anything else. Knowing that my body will start shutting down bit by bit is what keeps me awake most nights, not so much the physical discomfort. I can deal with that part.”

  “How are you coping with the mental stress?”

  “Tono.”

  “Whatever, Mick.”

  “Paul, he’s been incredible, and I know that I would have killed myself months ago if I didn’t have him in my life.”

  “And now you have me too.” Paul’s answer was muted. He wished that the circumstances of their reunion had been different. Age and distance had tempered the ill feelings, and all that remained was his desire to make Mick happy. If he could turn back the clock, at whatever price, he would. Knowing that someone else was providing the comfort that rightfully should have been his responsibility filled him with regret. Mick was the love of his life; the opportunity to hold him at night and ease some of his fears was something he’d lost because of childish anger and jealousy. He hated the thought of Tono taking his place. He hated to hear Mick say the words that someone meant more to him than he did.

  “Paul?”

  “I’m here. Listen, do you want me to stop and get anything?”

  “No, we’re barbequing steaks. Why don’t you join us?”

  “Won’t he mind?”

  “Not if I ask him.”

  “Then I will. By the way, I made a doctor’s appointment for you.”

  “Why? I already have a doctor.”

  “Mick, this is one of New York’s top neurologists. I would feel better if he examined you and told me in his own words that you have this thing.”

  “ALS.”