Remy and Lane Complete Series Box Set

Chapter 5-2

Braden started as soon as they were on the road. “I’m hungry,” he moaned.

“We’ll get something to eat soon,” Remy told him.

Lane glanced over and smiled, both hands on the steering wheel. Remy wanted to feel Lane’s touch, something comforting on his leg or arm, but his son was in the back seat, so he kept his hands to himself.

Behind him, Braden started moving around. It was distracting, and if it bothered Remy, he knew it had to bother Lane, who was trying to drive. “Settle down back there,” Remy said.

Braden threw one of his bags against the passenger side door. The other followed a moment later.

“Hey!” Remy cried, half-turning in his seat. “Did you hear me? Settle down.”

In a low voice, Braden muttered, “I’m just changing places.”

Remy looked back between the front seats and, sure enough, his son now pouted in the seat directly behind Lane. For a moment, Remy thought that might be an improvement, but then he realized, from his new vantage point, Braden could only see the top of the back of Lane’s head. When he was sitting behind his father, he would have been looking at Lane in profile. So this wasn’t an improvement; if anything, it was a way to keep from seeing Lane at all.

Remy gave Braden a long stare, which his son ignored. With his arms crossed, Braden glared out the window beside his seat, simmering. When Remy turned back towards the road, Braden mumbled, “I don’t know why we can’t eat now. It’s dinner time already.”

“Because we’re not even out of the city yet,” Remy snapped. “Just zip it, will you? You’re acting horribly.”

From the corner of his vision, he saw Braden’s pout draw down deeper. Remy took a steadying breath and reached over to touch Lane’s leg. He didn’t care if Braden saw or not—he needed the comfort. What had gotten into that kid?

Eventually they exited off the road onto the interstate. Traffic was heavier than normal. Despite the fact that most rush-hour traffic should’ve thinned by now, it was the last Friday before Christmas, and many people were leaving on long weekends to enjoy the holiday. Lane concentrated on the highway, and Remy kept his hand on his lover’s leg, silent. The radio was off; he considered turning it on, but decided against it. The only sound was the whoosh of cars passing theirs and the steady hum of their tires on the road.

Just when Remy hoped maybe the worst was behind them, Braden announced, “I’m hungry.”

“I know.” Remy gave his son a withering glare, but Braden was still staring out the window. Still ignoring him. “We’ll stop at McDonald’s in Charlottesville, okay?” It was a good two hours’ closer than his original plan of dining in Roanoke, but at least it should shut Braden up.

Then he started kicking the back of Lane’s seat. The first time might have been an accident, but when Lane reacted by wriggling into a more comfortable position, Braden did it again. And a third time. A fourth. A fifth, both legs this time, and then he started alternating. The sound grated on Remy’s nerves. Thud, thud, thud. Thud thud. Thud.

“Stop it,” Remy said.

From the back seat, Braden asked innocently, “Stop what?”

Thud.

“That.” Stretching his arm across the back of Lane’s seat, Remy turned toward Braden. “Stop kicking his seat.”

Thud. “I’m not doing anything wrong,” Braden countered.

That was it. Remy had officially had it with his son. “If I have to tell you one more time,” he threatened, trailing off. Remy stared Braden down, daring him to disobey.

Softly, one final kick. Thud.

Remy whirled around. “Braden! Don’t make me come back there!”

Pouting harder, Braden pulled his legs up onto the seat and hugged his knees to his chest. He hid his face, his forehead pressed to his knees, then turned to look out the window again. At least the kicking had stopped.

As Remy turned back around, he saw Lane’s smirk. “What?” he asked, defensive.

He expected Lane to say something that might undermine his authority. “Oh, leave him alone,” maybe, or “I can’t even feel it. He’s fine.” If that happened, Remy would have to remember to tell Lane that, while he appreciated his lover’s position, he was the father. He was the one Braden had to listen to. Downplaying his anger would only confuse his son and possibly cause more arguments in the future.

Instead, Lane shook his head and said, “You sound like my dad.” He grinned and looked away from the road long enough to give Remy a wink. “When did we grow old?”

“I’m not old yet,” Remy joked. “Not until I turn forty next August. Then I’ll be old.”

Lane laughed. “Don’t make me come back there. That was always my dad’s favorite. That and, don’t make me turn this car around. And when my sister and I were fighting, he’d do this number.”

Taking one hand off the steering wheel, Lane slapped the air blindly behind him, as if breaking up an argument between two imaginary kids. Braden pulled tighter into himself, out of reach, even though Lane wasn’t aiming for him.

“My father did this number.” Remy held his arm out in front of Lane as if to stop him from flying through the windshield. “Who needed seat belts in the eighties? If my dad hit the brakes, his arm went right across my chest to keep me in place.”

“Are you sure we aren’t old?” Lane teased. “Because we’re sitting here reminiscing like a pair of old men.”

Remy’s laugh was interrupted by a small voice behind him muttering, “I’m still hungry.”

“Braden,” Remy warned. “Keep it up and you won’t get anything to eat.”

Then he had to turn away, his hand straying to cover the grin that tugged at his mouth. Lane was right. He sounded exactly like his own father. When had that happened?

* * * *

It was a little after seven when Lane pulled into the parking lot of a McDonald’s just outside of Charlottesville. Before he even turned off the engine, Braden was clambering out of the car. Remy leaned over to catch Lane’s hand as he put the gear into park. “Hey, I’m sorry he’s being such a pill,” he said.

Lane gave him a wan smile. “Maybe something to eat will perk him up.”

“If it doesn’t, we’re leaving him here,” Remy threatened.

Lane laughed and exited the driver’s side door. Remy followed suit from the passenger side door, only to find his son standing there waiting. Arms still crossed over his chest, pout still firmly in place. When Remy rubbed the top of Braden’s head, his son only frowned harder.

“Keep this attitude up, kiddo,” Remy warned, “and I’ll call Santa myself to tell him how bad you’re being.”

“Santa isn’t real,” Braden said, with just enough of a rise at the end of the sentence to leave it open for debate. “Mom didn’t call him and you won’t either.”

“Want to bet?” Remy asked.

Braden shrugged. “Mom bought me the presents, not Santa.”

Remy didn’t feel like getting into another argument with his son, not now. The smell of hot, greasy food made his stomach growl. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until he caught a whiff of French fries sizzling in oil. “Fine. Keep acting up and I’ll tell your mother, and she’ll take back all the things she bought.” When Braden opened his mouth to protest, Remy added, “Don’t push me, Brae. You know she will.”

Braden apparently knew Kate as well as Remy did, because he shut his mouth and didn’t argue. Instead, he hurried past Remy to the door to the fast-food restaurant. He held it open, watching Remy approach, but when Lane reached the door first, Braden ducked inside and let the door swing shut.

Lane held the door for Remy, who remarked, “Looks like someone doesn’t like you much.”

“Yeah, I have a little something to tell you about that,” Lane said.

Remy thought he was teasing, and didn’t think anything of it. Kate had warned him months ago, when he first broached the subject of introducing his son to Lane, that Braden was bound to take it badly at first. Remy had seen the silent treatment his son had given Mike for the first few weeks after they met, and he expected Lane to get something similar. Which was why he had wanted the first meeting to be somewhere neutral, preferably short, and involving ice cream on a hot summer’s day. If anything could make Braden like someone, it was ice cream.

But no. Now they were stuck with each other for a full two weeks, and any romantic notions Remy might have harbored for the holiday were gone. How would he be able to give Lane the ring he’d bought with his son moping in the background? Who in their right mind would accept a marriage proposal from a man whose child hated them?