Marco was the original photographer from the Calendar series. He's almost died more than once thanks to his ex-wife, Evan. It's been a struggle to survive, but Ezra, his best friend, has been by his side and isn't disgusted by his scars.
Quantum, Inc. was bustling, the employees excited about all the new contracts and projects in various stages of development. As the owner of the company, Ezra Harrington should have been just as excited, should have been celebrating along with his employees and enjoying the catered lunch he'd had brought in.
Instead he was sitting at his desk, wondering how long he needed to stay before he could leave without causing too much of a fuss. He was the boss, after all, and he used to be at Quantum, Inc. more often than anywhere else. His company had been his home, but all that had changed when his friend Marco Chacon had almost died.
"Often wrong." Ezra leaned back in his chair. "Not this time, however. Marco was in the hospital briefly. He came home six days ago and is still recovering, though he's doing much better. It wasn't pneumonia this time, but some bacterial infection that the doctors feared would lead to sepsis. Luckily, he's going to be fine." I hope. God, please let him finally get to recover. It had been one health crisis after another for Marco for almost a year.
"Any time I can be of help, let me know." Albert shook his hand, then left the office.
Ezra watched through the inside window, waiting until Daria got up and stood at a makeshift podium to start announcing the winners of the raffle drawings. The company holiday party was always fun to attend, but Ezra just couldn't hang around this year. He slipped away without anyone noticing and drove home a little faster than he should have. This wasn't the first time he'd been away from Marco—it wasn't like he could stay by the man's side twenty-four-seven—but the latest health scare had terrified Ezra. He felt like he'd been living on the edge of a deadly precipice for almost a year, and he was worn down in a way he couldn't describe.
Except that there was no security or certainty anymore. He used to think he knew how his life would go—very successful businessman, good boss, good person, adventures few people got to take and, eventually, a love that would last through thick and thin—but now he knew nothing was set in stone.
Ezra focused on driving. One car in the lane next to him swerved in his direction. Ezra hit the brakes and was almost rear-ended. The driver behind him honked a rapid staccato proclamation of ire. He waved a hand over his shoulder and moved over to the far-left lane as soon as he could manage to do so, all while keeping a wary eye on the car that had almost hit him.
While James was speaking, he leaned closer and peered past Ezra.
One of the reasons Ezra had chosen the security company he used was because of how thorough they were when it came to doing the job. They wanted to know about anyone and everyone coming onto the property, and if Ezra hadn't specified that a person or persons would be visiting, whoever was trying to get in wouldn't be allowed to.
"All by yourself, Mr. Harrington?" James asked, eyes sharp as he looked at Ezra.
"That I am," Ezra replied, the agreed-upon answer that let his guards know he was alone, and that there wasn't someone hiding somewhere—like in the trunk, he supposed.
"Have a good evening." James pressed the small control in his hand, and the tall silver and copper gate began to open.
That gate was one of Ezra's prized possessions. He'd had it made by an artist he'd met in the Pearl district. It was impermeable, solid and very heavy, not made from thin metal bars as so many were. The designs on the front and back were the same—a scenic display of the sun and its coppery rays caressing a mountainous landscape. Off to one side was the dark form of a cat stalking unseen prey.
The gate was priceless, and maybe someone else would have put it on display as art, but Ezra had bought it to use. He enjoyed the combination of beauty and functionality.
The driveway wound a half-mile down to his home. Rather than live in the most well-known and wealthy community in the San Antonio area, Ezra had opted to buy several acres north of the city and have his dream house built. He hadn't wanted to deal with homeowner's associations or anything else.
The two-story house had five bedrooms and seven bathrooms—he'd wanted two not attached to bedrooms. The basketball and tennis courts were to the left and right of the house, respectively, and the large pool behind it, as was the jacuzzi and sauna. A small golf course was set beyond those, and he had a stable, corral and horses not far from there.
There were no trees or shrubs lining the driveway—security had recommended the removal of those and Ezra had complied without hesitation. Marco's safety was more important to him than landscaping. There were a few oak trees elsewhere on the property, but nothing more than those and grass.
The garage door began to roll up as he approached it. Ezra parked his car and shut it off, unfastening his seatbelt before he cut the engine. He got out and made sure the garage was secured, then he stopped by the side door. It only took a second for the security device to scan his iris, then Ezra was finally inside and headed to find Marco.
Ezra paid little notice to the inside of the house itself except to note that it was clean. The white carpet and furniture were pristine and kept from being sterile by the splashes of color added here and there.
But Ezra was looking for Marco, and he wasn't on the couch or recliner. The TV that took up half the viewing room wall was off, and Marco wasn't in there, either.
No wonder. He just got out of the hospital less than a week ago. He's still recovering. Ezra hurried toward Marco's room, which was downstairs beside Ezra's temporary bedroom. Although, he'd been sleeping there for almost a year now, so it didn't seem temporary anymore. He'd wanted to be close to Marco, and a flight of stairs up to the bedrooms hadn't been something Marco could handle.
Before Ezra rounded the corner leading to the hall and the bedrooms, Danu, the night nurse, came around it.
"I was wrong in my assessment of the time I'd need to get things done." Ezra started to fold his arms over his chest, then stopped himself. He had no reason to be defensive.
"Of course. I'm going to check on him." Ezra moved past Danu and strode to Marco's door. The surgeries Marco had refused weren't all cosmetic. If he wanted to regain more mobility in his right hand—which was his dominant one—and arm, he'd need to have more skin grafts done.
But Danu was correct. Now wasn't the time to argue with Marco.
Ezra opened the door, not bothering to knock. He didn't want to wake Marco up. The room was dark, per Marco's orders. He didn't like any light creeping in when he slept.
Ezra was glad he had his cat's ability to see in the dark even when he wasn't shifted.
Marco was propped up until he was almost sitting, a position he often preferred. Ezra had slept very little the night before, listening for any sound from Marco, wondering if he should go check on him even though Danu had been there. Marco hated it when Ezra hovered, though, so he'd stayed in his own room.
But now he looked at Marco, at his profile, which Ezra had always thought of as regal, with Marco's high forehead, his deep-set eyes, long, down-tipped nose, full lips and strong chin. Throughout the thirty years they'd been friends, Marco had always been such a bright, loud person, one who radiated energy and determination even when not speaking.
Until Evan had tried to kill him. It was a higher level of betrayal than Marco had come to expect from his wives, and he'd been married close to a half-dozen times, from what Ezra could remember.
Evan had almost extinguished the spark that was Marco, almost ended his life and snuffed out the vital, talented man.
Marco tried to claim that man was gone, but Ezra didn't believe it. If Marco wouldn't fight for himself, then Ezra would.
Giving up on Marco was something he refused to do. Come hell or high water, he'd help Marco shine again.
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