Page 69 of Pieces of Me

“That you are, Mr. Ashworth, that you are, but rules are rules.”

Scott winked at him and said, “George, this is Rylan. He’s my friend, and I’m adding him to my approved visitors’ list.”

George made a few clicks on his computer keyboard, asking politely to see Rylan’s driver’s license. Rylan fished his Florida one out, and George scanned it in, typing busily for a moment before handing it back. “You’re on file and all set, Mr. Mahoney. You won’t have to show ID again, just give your name to whomever is at the desk when you arrive.”

“Got it. Thanks, George. And please call me Rylan.”

“Mr. Mahoney. Mr. Ashworth.” George nodded a dismissal and turned his attention to the people who’d come up behind them. Scott gave Rylan a rueful smile and headed toward another bank of elevators, pressing the button for the Fourteenth floor when they were onboard.

“George is ex-military,” Scott explained, leaning back against the wall and crossing his arms. “By-the-book kind of dude, you know? Likes everything ordered and in its place. Good guy, though.”

The ride was swift and smooth, and when they stepped out into a carpeted hallway, they ran into a pleasant-looking, middle-aged woman waiting to get on.

“Oh! Scott!” she exclaimed. “I’m so glad to see you. Hold on!” She moved quickly toward an apartment door, unlocked it, and rushed inside, reappearing with a foil-wrapped baking pan. “I made extra lasagna last night,” she said bashfully. “And I know how much you like it.”

She handed the pan to him, and Scott took it with a dazzling smile. “Thanks, Elizabeth,” he said warmly. “Your lasagna is out of this world. I can’t wait to have some.”

“Young men should eat good, hearty meals,” she lectured, “not junk on-the-go. Well, enjoy!” With a wave of her hand, she disappeared into the elevator car.

Rylan gave a soft snort. Scott glanced at him as he unlocked his apartment door, juggling the baking pan and his duffle precariously. “What?”

The pan tipped, and Rylan rescued it just in time. “I’m trying to imagine you eating ‘junk on-the-go’ and looking like you do,” he said, his voice dry. “Those aren’t French-fry abs.”

Scott laughed. “True. I have a pretty regimented diet,” he admitted. “But Elizabeth is newly divorced, and her son is in college in another state. I commented once in passing that whatever she was making smelled delicious, and a couple of days later, she brought me over a casserole. It makes her happy to have a man to cook for again, and I don’t mind.”

They stepped inside Scott’s apartment, and Scott tossed his duffle to the floor and took the pan from Rylan. “I’ll freeze a few pieces of it and save them for carb day, and the rest I’ll give to Teena for her and her roommates. None of it goes to waste.”

He moved away, and Rylan forgot all about the lasagna and stared around him in awe. The apartment seemed small, but it was beautifully decorated in desert colors: rich browns, sage greens, and rust reds. The floor was highly polished wood throughout the entryway and living room, the furniture that was visible a buttery-soft brown leather.

“This is gorgeous, Scott,” Rylan said, following Scott into the gourmet kitchen. Scott looked up from the stainless-steel fridge where he was stowing the lasagna, and took out a couple frosty bottles of water.

“Thanks,” he said. “Come a long way from my trailer-trash days, huh?” He tossed one of the bottles to Rylan, who caught it reflexively. “Look around a bit if you want. I’m going to change, and then I’ll find you something to wear.”

He disappeared into what was presumably the bedroom, and Rylan wandered around, checking out the artwork on the wall, most of them lush photographs of desert landscapes. The whole place was truly beautiful, but stark, a little sterile. There were no personal touches that he could see, nothing that said “Scott Ashworth lives here.” With a pang, he remembered Scott’s room back in Florida, the posters hung with such loving care, the way he kept it so clean and precise―his space.

This place was immaculate to be sure, but it had the feel of a hotel room; Rylan wondered if it had once been the model home shown to prospective buyers.

So he was curious about Scott’s bedroom when Scott finally emerged and said he’d found some things for Rylan to try on. “I laid them out on my bed,” he commented. “Should be able to find something.” He waved Rylan into the room and grabbed his cell phone off the kitchen counter. “Take your time. I need to make a phone call.”

He disappeared out onto the balcony, and Rylan was disappointed to see the bedroom was much the same as the living room, devoid of anything personal. Until he spied a small shelving unit over in the corner and caught his breath. The unit was one of those ladder-type things with graduated shelves that started out wide and narrowed as it went up. Rylan walked over for a closer look. He noticed some framed pictures on the upper, smaller shelves, mostly of Scott with Corey, Teena, and various others Rylan could only assume were VIPs visiting the club.

But toward the bottom, on the lowest, widest shelf, sat a pair of battered old running shoes, the once-bright blue faded and stained. They were unmistakable―the shoes Rylan’s dad had bought for Scott that first day as a new family so long ago. Rylan dropped to his knees and picked them up carefully, turning them over and over. They were stained but clean, totally free of dust. The treads were worn away to almost nothing, the inside fabric ripped in several spots. These were shoes that had obviously been worn hard and had seen a lot.

Rylan ran his fingertips over them, wondering at the story they could tell, curiosity burning through him. Why had Scott bothered to keep them all these years? What could they possibly mean to him? The sound of Scott’s raised voice on the balcony outside the bedroom window jolted him out of his reverie, and he put the shoes back on the shelf, standing up and moving toward the clothes piled on the bed.

“I told you, Lance, I have a friend over right now. And I gotta get several hours’ worth of workout in today, plus the club. It’s not really a good time to talk. Maybe tomorrow when I don’t have club duties.” He paused to listen, blowing out a breath. “Oh, Jesus Christ, don’t start this.” Scott sounded close by now, like he was back inside the apartment, his voice loud and impatient. “I’m not blowing you off, and I’m not fucking anyone else! I’m just goddamn busy! Don’t be such a needy little bitch. Hello?”

Rylan could hear the clatter of the phone being tossed to the counter, Lance obviously having hung up on Scott. “For fuck’s sake, grow up!” Scott yelled, and Rylan jumped when he suddenly pounded on the bedroom door. “You ready?”

“Yeah.” Rylan swung open the door, and the anger darkening Scott’s face melted away as he looked at him, his eyes starting to twinkle.

“Well, that’s the Rylan I remember,” he drawled, leaning against the doorjamb. “In your face and fucking fabulous.”

“Huh?” Rylan looked down at himself, almost groaning aloud. He’d been so distracted by thoughts of the shoes and Scott’s fight with Lance that he hadn’t paid attention to the clothes he was grabbing. The nylon running shorts he had on were neon pink, and the microfiber shirt a bright, sunshine yellow.

Rylan clapped his palm to his forehead. “I―I―” His first inclination to go change drifted away when he saw the delighted smile on Scott’s face, and he squared his shoulders, putting one hand on his hip and striking a pose.

“Damn right I’m fabulous,” he declared. “And you can write that on my tombstone after I die on this stupid mountain.”