Page 8 of The Muse’s Undoing (Doormen of the Upper East Side #2)

8

MATTHEW

I show up at #1107 on Saturday morning with a bag of bagels, a coffee for Fischer, a tea for me, and a blueberry muffin for Vaughn, whenever he shows up.

It takes Fischer a while to open the door, I’m assuming because of the cane, which was new to me when I saw him Monday night. He’s mentioned in our emails that his leg has gotten worse over the last year. After all he’s gone through, it doesn’t seem fair, but it isn’t surprising, either. I’m just glad to have him home—safe—even if he does move slower these days.

Fischer is freshly showered, wearing gray sweats and a black zip-up hoodie. His face breaks into a wide grin when he sees me, and it’s contagious. For someone who’s not a smiler, when he lets one loose, it’s blinding.

I wrap an arm around him, and he pulls me into a tight hug, which I guess I can let myself get used to now that he’s back. “You brought me coffee.”

“I did.”

“That’s amazing.”

We hang onto each other a moment longer before I need to breathe.

“Thanks for coming.”

“Yeah, no problem.” My pleasure, in fact.

Fischer leads the way down the gallery hallway to the living area. The apartment has been scraped clean of most of its personality, and the hole in the stud features prominently.

“Damn,” I say when I see it.

“Yeah—drywall guy should be here tomorrow.”

“What’d you do to piss her off?” I ask as I set the drinks and bagels down on the coffee table.

“I’m not sure it was malicious. More a factor of her boyfriend’s incompetence.”

I laugh as I sit on the couch and notice the cushion has almost no give. “Dude. This couch sucks.”

“It doesn’t,” he argues.

“It looks like it doesn’t, but it’s hard .”

He sits beside me and leans back, propping his cane on the coffee table. “It’s a perfectly fine couch. Expensive, too.”

“Like I said…it looks nice…”

Fischer digs into the bagel bag and finds the one I got for him with lox. I grab the sesame seed for myself and try to make myself comfortable, dragging my thigh onto the cushion and facing him, once again trying to take in the fact that he’s really home.

It’s one thing to stay in touch with someone—to know you’re never too far from their thoughts, but having him on the same continent is an intense relief, one I hadn’t realized I’d been so stressed about. I put my hand on his shoulder and give it one, long, firm squeeze, trying to communicate all of this. He gives me a smile like he gets it, too.

I’m curious to know where we’ll go from here in terms of our relationship. We started off as adopted brothers who didn’t grow up together and were never close, then we became two grown men who shared a bed platonically for nine months while he was in the worst mental and physical pain of his life.

We have a bond, for sure, but it’s hard to know what it looks like anymore, given all the time and life that’s passed. It’s not like I have nothing to do but pour all my attention into him like I did back then, not that he would want that anyway, but I wish I had more time to get to know him again. “Glad to be back? Or are you hating it already?”

“I already said it’s good. I want to be home.” He puts a hand on my knee, giving me a squeeze, too. “Tell me what you’ve been up to.”

“I mean…you know everything. I told you about Valentine.”

“And how’s that going?”

“Great.” I lean my head on the back of the couch and sip my tea. “She’s perfect. I wish I could see her more often.”

“What’s she inspiring for you?”

“She’s got an ethereal face,” I tell him. “Like, angelic. It reminds me to be delicate. I’ve started working with glass.”

“Glass, huh? Do I get to meet her?”

I scowl. “Why?”

“I don’t know, I thought—you make her sound special.”

“They’re all special.”

He gives me a confused look.

“I’m not sure I can explain it.”

“You don’t need to,” he says, letting me off the hook.

I relax. “So, what about you? What have you been up to at all hours?”

He lifts his brows, giving me a man of mystery look, which quickly dissolves into, “You don’t want to know. But I told her she needed to be out of here by nine, so you’ll get the gist.”

I check my watch, but before I can even register the time, Ravenna Gallo—#907—emerges from Fischer’s bedroom in one of his button-down shirts and walks over to stand behind the couch. She drops her sex-mussed blonde hair like a curtain between Fischer and me, and I hear the distinct sound of a kiss. “Coffee?” she asks.

Fischer makes a show of checking the time on his phone. “Kitchen,” he says when he sees she’s got half an hour.

She makes a pouty noise and stands upright, glancing down at me while I try to remain expressionless. “I know you.”

“This is Matthew. The doorman,” Fischer says. “My brother.”

“Your brother? I had no idea. Good morning. Matthew.”

I nod at her before she struts to the kitchen on the balls of her feet like she’s wearing heels.

I give Fischer a look.

He leans toward me and says in a low voice, “I ran into her the other day. Then she came up last night…”

“Is this gonna be your thing now?” I ask.

His silver eyes narrow. “You wouldn’t have been able to say no either…”

I wave my hand between us. “I don’t need the details.”

“You weren’t gonna get the details.”

As Ravenna rattles around in the kitchen in search of a mug, something like disappointment creeps in, but it’s quickly replaced by an unwelcome wave of exhaustion. My schedule takes a toll, even on my twenty-eight-year old body. I yawn and rub my eyes before I take another sip of tea and try to rally.

“Is this a good idea?” I ask. “She’s friends with Nicole.”

“Assuming you have sex more often than a few times every four months, I feel like you can give me a little latitude here.”

“I’m just saying, I can come back another time if you?—”

He clamps a hand on my thigh. “You’re not going anywhere.”

My quad tenses beneath his hand, and my heart rate picks up. I should have expected this. Not the hand on my leg, but my reaction to him being strong. He’s always seemed to have direct access to my limbic system.

He starts talking about whether we should take Vaughn to the zoo or something, but I’m not listening. Splitting my attention between his hand on me, his voice, and the hot blonde in his shirt is too much for my ADD. Especially now that she’s coming right for us.

“What are we chatting about?” she asks, literally wedging herself between me and Fischer on the cushion and snuggling into his side with her cup of black coffee.

She crosses her pale legs in his direction and runs her foot up his shin. I scoot back, not interested in being part of the Ravenna sandwich.

Glancing at Fischer, I gather he’s not a fan of it, either. There’s a telltale stiffening in his upper body I recognize from my childhood. It happens anytime anyone tries to touch him.

Anyone but me.

“I was just asking Fischer how he was settling into his new job,” I pull out of my ass.

“Oh, yeah,” she says. “You like being in prime time?”

“I’ll get used to it,” he says.

“I can’t imagine it’s any harder than interviewing the head of a terrorist organization,” I say.

He comes back with, “Have you met any of our current U.S. senators?”

I smile faintly. “You’re such a fucking badass.”

He raises his brows. “Badass, huh? You don’t think the cane is emasculating?”

“I think it’s elegant,” I tell him.

“I think it’s hot,” Ravenna says.

I scowl at that, and Fischer grimaces. “Raven, Matthew and I have a lot of catching up to do. And my son’s on the way.”

“Am I interrupting boy talk?”

“A little.”

“Fine. Fine.” She gives him another kiss on the cheek and sits up, leaving the couch to return to the bedroom where she closes the door.

I give him a look that probably reads as judgmental because it probably is.

He gets defensive. “Like I said—I ran into her—shit happened.” He puts an arm on the back of the couch and closes the gap between us again, shifting to face me. He pulls his leg onto the couch, too, and our knees touch. “Nicole has her boyfriends, and I’m single now. Don’t judge me.”

“I would never.”

“You sure? I’m getting a vibe.”

I reach out and tuck a wild strand of hair behind his ear. His silvery eyes soften at the gesture before I realize I’ve never done that before. I’ve wanted to more times than I can count, but I never let myself. “No judgment,” I tell him, able to let it go easy enough.

To my surprise, he catches my hand before I draw it back and hangs onto it. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“Me too.” I drag my gaze away from his intense silvery eyes. “How’s your leg?”

He shrugs. “Some days are better than others. Feels fine right now.”

“Were you not able to keep up with your PT?”

“They said it’s all expected changes. But now that I’m back, I’ll see what the doctor says. Hopefully I can get it to stop locking up.”

“Would massage help?”

“You offering?” he asks with a grin.

“I could learn. I got pretty good with all the exercises they prescribed you back in the day.”

“You did. And you had a nice touch, too.”

“Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe I didn’t go hard enough on you.”

He laughs.

The bedroom door opens and I let go of his hand. Ravenna emerges wearing a white tank top, no bra, pink pajama shorts, and still no shoes. Assuming that’s how she showed up here last night, I can see why Fischer had trouble sending her away at the door. Although, he could have invited her… I don’t want to think about this.

Once again, she comes between us, giving him a kiss inches from me, complete with a porn-worthy moan before she turns to me looking like she wouldn’t mind taking us both on. “Nice to meet you officially.”

I give her a flat smile. I’m in charge of exactly two things when I’m on duty at the Eastmoor: the door and discretion. She seems to be assessing whether I’ll abide by the second rule in my off hours. Hopefully my feigned disinterest reassures her. She caresses Fischer’s face, managing to fuck up his hair again. “Call me.”

“Thanks for stopping by,” he says.

“Anytime.”

She pads down the hall and finally the door shuts behind her. Fischer’s wiping his lower lip while I fix his hair again.

“Jesus. Sorry,” he mumbles.

“So this is gonna be a thing?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “Maybe.”

“Because you like her, or it’s convenient?”

“Because she’s good in bed, and she’s convenient. Am I the asshole?”

“Maybe.”

He leans his head on his arm and seems to study my face. “Unless you have time to keep me company.”

“I wouldn’t want to interrupt.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“I didn’t hear one,” I point out.

“Do you have time for me anymore?”

“What do you want with me ?” I ask, mirroring his position.

He strokes his thumb over the side of my hand. “Keep me out of trouble?”

His hand feels nice. His presence feels nice. I do want to make time for him. Soak him in until it feels more real—not like one of his brief visits where I’d get to see him for a few hours at our parents’ house—or the ones where he’d let me know he was in town, but our schedules never worked out to be able to meet up. It’s made me wonder over the years if I had as big of an impact on him as he had on me.

Doubtful.

I was impressionable back then. He was already jaded. I can’t remember a time Fischer didn’t seem jaded, even as a teenager.

“I work a lot,” I tell him, “but it sounds like our schedules are gonna line up well.”

“What about your muse?”

“I’ll always make time for her, and I have a sculpture I’m working on, but coming up here before or after a shift is easy enough,” I tell him.

Fischer grins. “Good. So, how often do you see Vaughn? Any tips?”

I laugh. “Sorry. No. Unless you have a padded room. Actually I don’t get to see him that much. I have shitty hours.” I work evenings mostly, 2pm-10pm, and every other weekend I work deep nights. Making time for my nephew hasn’t been possible. The truth is, Vaughn is wild, and he makes me nervous. I’m terrified he’s always one furniture leap away from breaking his arm. “I’m surprised Mom and Dad aren’t coming over.”

“Oh, they tried.” Fischer’s thumb grazes back and forth over the edge of my thumbnail, and I try to ignore the chills erupting on my arm. “They might need to take a vacation for a couple of months and distract themselves some other way.”

“You want me to talk to them?” I offer.

“If you think it could help,” he says.

“Can’t hurt. I don’t want you feeling bad about wanting to spend time with your kid.”

“I feel bad about everything.”

“I know, but you shouldn’t.” I fold his hand into mine. Our fingers interlace like they used to in the middle of the night. “You were just doing your job.”

“My job that lost me everything.”

“Not everything,” I remind him.

He takes a deep, shaky breath.

“Hey—he’s six. You talk to him every day. And you’re back. It’s not like you ever abandoned him.”

He runs his other hand down his face and sighs heavily.

“He’s got the attention span of a goldfish,” I say. “In two weeks, he’ll think it was always like this.”

“What if I suck at this? I’ve never been alone with him for more than a couple of hours.”

I put my coffee down and scoot closer, resting the hand he’s not holding on his warm neck. “Hey—you’re his fucking hero. Do you know how much street cred that kid has just for having a dad who’s on TV?”

I can tell he tries to smile but doesn’t quite accomplish it.

“If you need to let something out, it’s just you and me, you know?”

His grip on my hand tightens and he leans toward me. I catch him against my chest and hold him while he does what he always used to do when the nightmares came. Tries not to cry.

As his body goes through all the physical motions of sobbing without making a sound or shedding a tear, I hang onto him. I smooth my hand repeatedly over his wild waves, and I keep him close with an arm banded around his back. It’s nice to see how finely tuned we still are to each other. Our movements like a well-choreographed dance, making space for each other.

It was a stupid question he asked earlier. Of course I have time for him.

Now that I know we’re not going to pretend those nine months never happened, or that we don’t know each other down to the raw bones, it might be hard to make time for anything else.