Page 2 of Laying Low

“Straight?”Anthony asked.

“Apparently not but, you know….”Chance’s eyes darted to where his brother Dean stood with Marcus, both of them playfully tussling with Laure’s two teenaged sons, who regarded the two FBI agents with some hero worship.“Not who I was looking for at the time.”

Anthony had sighed with him, and that had been that.Both of them cemented in the unrequited corner of the Royal family singles club, the only difference being the object of Anthony’s unrequited seemed tolovespending time with Anthony.

He just didn’t understand why Anthony loved spending time withhim.

“So,” Chance had said at the time, “are you going to tell him?”

Anthony worried his lower lip, which was uncharacteristic of him, evenheknew that.Uncertainty?In Anthony McCauley?Naw… even Anthony’s ex-girlfriend had loved his confidence.

But then Anthony would have married her if she hadn’t been going out of state for an educational opportunity she’d worked her entire life for.What was the use of having confidence if you used it to strangle the people you loved?

I can’t do that to Reg, he’d realized that night.Reg has to know he’s worth it.

But the Royals only lived forty-five minutes away too.It wasn’t like Anthony was just going to leave him alone.

“We can be friends for a while,” Anthony said thoughtfully.“I think… I think he needs to… you know.Want to kiss me too.”

“You think he doesn’t?”Chance said, and to the little shit’s credit, he sounded doubtful.“I mean, you know.Look at you.”

Anthony didn’t preen.He knew he was tall and rangy like his father, with a long face and a square jaw, brown hair, and blue eyes—average white guy face.He worked out, and he fired at the range a lot, which when done right, involved a lot of core and arm work.Guns wereheavy, and to fire them with any accuracy and control, the person wielding them had to have the arm strength and center of gravity—abs, thighs, and biceps, oh my!

Not a troll, he knew, but given Reg’s thoughtfulness, he didn’t think it was looks that were at play here.

It was that Reg was used to being the least important puppy.But that wasn’t a sentiment Anthony was going to share with Reg’s brother right now.

“That’s not the problem here,” Anthony explained patiently.“I need him to look at me and think, ‘I really want to kiss him.’Not, ‘Hey, I wouldn’t kick him out of bed if he offered.’He needs to be… you know.Courted.”

Chance had stared at him.“Courted?Like with flowers and chocolates and promises you don’t intend to keep?”

Anthony had scowled at him playfully.“You work hard at that annoying little brother thing, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Chance said without repentance.“What do you mean, courted?”

“I mean,” Anthony said, staring at Reg as he picked up his littlest nephew, the baby in the basket, and smiled transcendently into the little rug rat’s eyes, “I need to find out the things he loves and see if I can love them too.”

“Hunh,” Chance said.“Okay.Let me know how that works.”

Anthony glanced at Chance, who was staring longingly at the tall, bronze-skinned hard-body who apparently threw himself into danger with impunity with Chance’s older brother.“Sure,” he said, trying not to let his own pity show.“I’ll do that.”

So every weekend for two months Anthony had shown up, and a lot of evenings gaming online too.Reg was a deadly player—absolutely deadly—but not even riding his coattails to a team victory inBloodbournewas as satisfying as eliciting a small quirky smile or a quickly contained laugh from Reg in person.

Anthony had taken him to movies, helped him take care of his brother’s house (which was now Anthony’s father’s house too) when they were out of town, and babysat his brother Prock’s children.He’d helped Reg water his mother’s garden, napped in the shade by the pool, and even, on a couple of miraculous occasions, been invited to Reg’s small, quietly understated apartment, which Anthony had achingly adored.

He’d had pictures of his family on almost every wall except for one.That one he’d painted himself, admitting he’d probably forfeited any remnant of his deposit, so he could gaze into a vast purple rainbow of a starscape, dominated by a swirling galaxy of crystal stars.

The artwork was wonderful, and Anthony had asked if Reg painted a lot.To his shock, Reg had turned a lovely shade of magenta.

“I, uhm, help the art teacher in the local high school run the art club,” he muttered.“Once a week.”

Anthony had stared at him.“Nobody told me that,” he said.

“I haven’t told anyone,” Reg answered with dignity.“It’s mine.”

And the way he’d said, “It’s mine,” had saideverything.When Anthony had been a kid, everything he’d surveyed had been “mine.”But for the second youngest of seven?

Nothing had been Reg’s—probably not even things that had started out as his, because Chance was the baby and had obviously been indulged as such.