Love And The Real Boy - Coming About, Book 2 by J.K. Hogan

Rich was no longer just the caustic, entitled rich boy Patrick thought he was when they met. He was a man with surprising depth—most of it filled with hidden pain, the source of which Patrick had no idea.
    “You loved your brother, didn’t you?”
    Rich paled and looked away quickly. “Of course, but that’s different…I don’t want to talk about him. This whole thing with the PI has stirred up all kinds of shit I can’t deal with right now.”
    Patrick wasn’t going to let him get away with that this time. Rich had so much pent-up angst inside him, he was liable to detonate at any moment, and Patrick had a feeling when Rich blew his top, it wouldn’t be pretty for anyone. Better to do it here in private, with only Patrick dodging the shrapnel.
    “Why can’t you talk about him? He’s your brother, for chrissake…” Patrick knew he was pushing, but he really did want to understand. Coming from a big Irish Catholic brood…well, he was raised to believe that family was everything—life’s only constant.
    Rich turned back to him; his expression had hardened, and color suffused his face where the pale had been. “That is none of your fucking business.”
    Patrick shrugged, determined to stay impassive. Rich had uttered those words before, but he always talked in the end. “Well, I don’t much care, do I then?”
    Glaring daggers, Rich started to stand, but Patrick stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “I’m just trying to understand. You’ve got a long-lost brother you haven’t seen in ages, and he’s looking for you. Why don’t you want to see him? That’s kind of cold, mate.”
    Rich began to shiver; Patrick could feel the fine tremors under his hand still on Rich’s shoulder.
    “You’d never understand. I couldn’t make you understand.”
    “Try.” Patrick kept his voice calm and his presence neutral. He didn’t know why he suddenly felt the need to be a safe place for Rich, where he could talk all of this stuff out—but he did. He wanted that very much.
    Rich’s muscles tightened all over before his posture visibly deflated on a sigh. It was like the man had just given up control and permitted himself to settle down.
    “Our mom was a junkie,” he said, in barely a whisper.
    That was probably the last thing Patrick had expected to hear. He realized that they were about to have a very different discussion than what he’d thought. Leaning back into the sofa cushions, he turned his body toward Rich.
    Rich stared off into the middle distance, there but not really present . “She wasn’t abusive…at least not on purpose. I believe she loved us in whatever way she was capable of, but she was a train wreck. She was more into drugs than alcohol—meth and oxy mainly, but sometimes she’d combine them.”
    “Christ,” Patrick hissed under his breath.
    Rich nodded absently. “She’d have brief periods of sobriety…but then she had problems staying motivated—keeping it together. We’d end up homeless after a while, living in the van…until we moved in with whatever guy she was fucking, and he’d get her hooked again.”
    Patrick could feel his eyes bugging out, but it was a reaction he couldn’t control. Who knew so much had been lurking beneath Rich’s polished veneer. He didn’t want to make a sound, afraid it would stem the flow of words and Rich would shut down again.
    “We never had any money. If Mom wanted to keep the lights on and food in our mouths, we pretty much had to do without everything else. I was bullied all the time; we were always dirty…especially when we were homeless. Our clothes were old and ratty…that’s why…” His voice broke. He had to clear his throat before continuing. “That’s why I work so hard to have nice things—the car, the house, the suits…”
    “Suits?”
    The corner of Rich’s mouth tipped up in an almost-smile, a heartbreaking contrast to his story. “Ah, that’s right. You’ve only seen me out at the marina. I have