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Sweet Young Thang

A Theta Alpha Gamma Story

Riptide Publishing

"I'm probably going to die, aren't I?"

Eric Dixon fiddled with his patient's IV for a few seconds, collecting his thoughts. Mr. Siskin was on a fair amount of pain medicine, but his speech seemed clear. Eric met his gaze. "Do you remember what I said the problem was?"

Siskin grimaced. "Uh ... aneurysm in my abdomen, right?"

"Well, that's what I think, but we don't carry the equipment on the ambulance to know for sure." Not to mention he wasn't a doctor. Eric watched the pulsing swelling just below Siskin's navel and could only imagine that was one thing, though. "It's called a thoracic aortic aneurysm. It means your aorta—the main artery supplying blood to your body—is in danger of rupturing. If I'm right, and that happens, you'll bleed to death." So fast that even if he was already in surgery and opened up, they might not be able to save him.

"How much danger?"

Eric blew out a breath. "You hear the sirens?"

Mr. Siskin nodded tightly. Sweat beaded on his forehead.

Eric leaned forward to adjust the drip, giving his patient more medication. "We don't always go to the hospital code three, meaning with the lights and sirens on. Only when someone's in imminent danger of death or permanent injury."

Mr. Siskin nodded again, closing his eyes. Maybe he believed in the power of prayer. Eric hoped it'd work, because there was nothing he could do except keep the patient as comfortable as possible. This sort of call frustrated the crap out of him. In this case, Lincoln's job—getting them to the fucking hospital as fast as he safely could—was the more important one.

Lincoln's job was extra hard today, though, because the Siskins had been vacationing at their cabin up on the McKenzie River, right at the border of their ambulance service district. Eric glanced at his watch. Best-case scenario, ten more minutes to the hospital.

Crap, he should have fucking called for a helicopter. But no, it wouldn't have been any faster. He'd had Siskin nearly ready to go when the swelling in his abdomen had started. One of those cases where even though the patient had shown signs of a heart attack, the EKG hadn't backed up the diagnosis. Eric'd had a bad feeling, and he and Lincoln had to take the guy in anyway, so they'd been working fast.

Siskin flinched, grimacing again. Even though his eyes were closed, when Eric reached for the IV again, he said, "No."

Eric looked down at him. "How bad is the pain? Remember the pain scale? Give me a number between one and ten—"

"I don't care." Mr. Siskin waved him back. "I don't want to die while I'm stoned." He smiled for a split second. "More stoned, I mean."

"Gotta tell you, Mr. Siskin, in my professional opinion, you need to believe you're going to live." He'd seen some people who should be dead refuse to die, and he'd seen a few who had no medical reason to die go ahead and do it.

"Call me Bryson."

"I can only do that if you promise me you'll live."

Siskin's eyes opened again and he actually grinned. Not for more than a couple of seconds, but he met Eric's gaze and shared a moment of humor.

Humor is a good thing. Eric smiled back, trying to make it genuine.

"Okay, it's a deal." Siskin sucked in another breath. "What's your name again?"

"Eric. At work, people call me Dix."

"Okay, Eric, I'm a numbers man. My whole career is about numbers—I'm an actuary for an insurance company. What are my odds of living? Give me a number."

"I really don't know," Eric said, relieved he didn't have to lie. "We can't know how bad things are without a CT scan, and I couldn't guess how much time you have before it ruptures even if we did."

Siskin looked at him levelly. "If it ruptures while I'm still in this ambulance ..."

Crap. He nodded.

Siskin closed his eyes again. His breathing had evened out. Eric thought their discussion was over, but Siskin asked, "Do you have any kids?"

He knew—and hated—where this was going. "No, I don't. I'd like some, but it hasn't worked out."

Siskin grabbed his hand and gripped it tighter than Eric thought he could. "I have a son, you met him up at the cabin. If I don't make it, you tell him having him was the smartest, best thing we ever did. Tell him not to wait to give his mother grandchildren, more than one. Then tell him to take all the damned money I'm about to leave him and do something stupid with a little of it."

"I will. Promise." He craned his head, looking through the front seats to see out the windshield. "But we're nearly there. You can tell him yourself."

Siskin scrunched his brow. "Well, I can't tell him if I don't die, because I'm not giving him the damn money then."

Eric blinked. "I meant tell him how you feel."

Siskin nodded, and Eric could read the pain in his expression. Not the physical kind—the kind that made his whole face draw in, as if fighting to keep something from getting out. "I'll tell him, I gue—" He gasped, eyes opening wide and face paling.

Fuckfuckfuck. There was nothing he could do. Eric leaned closer, still holding his patient's hand. All Siskin's fear of dying that he hadn't shown before now welled up. Looking into his pupils felt like staring out into space. "I'll tell him, Bryson," Eric said.

Siskin licked his lips. "Do that."

"It's okay." Death. Death was okay, if you accepted it.

"Seems l-like it might b—" Siskin sucked in another quick breath, shaking with it, but he wouldn't ever get enough again. He was so pale now that Eric could see the black-blue voids under his eyes. He sucked in air once more, and squeezed Eric's hand reflexively. His body relaxed, and for a split second Eric could see the whole universe in his pupils, but all the stars were winking out one by one, until they dulled. Eric couldn't see in, and Bryson wasn't there to see out anymore.

Thank fuck. One of the better deaths.

Collin held his cell phone to his ear, but was listening to the thoughts in his head rather than to his uncle.

For a young gay man like himself, college should be the best time of his life, right? He should do things with wild abandon; he should openly—publicly even—experiment with his sexuality; he should do stupid shit like light articles of furniture on fire and push them out of second-story windows; he should fail a class. Not get put on academic probation or anything, just flunk one measly economics class.

Which he was in danger of doing if he didn't pull at least a C on the midterm. And no, the first week of the quarter wasn't too early to start freaking out about that. He sucked at Econ.

He should have the freedom to flunk that damn class—to do all those things, and then laugh about them later (probably in some embarrassment) with friends who'd done equally stupid things.

Well, he had the friends part down cold; they came with the fraternity membership. Okay, and he'd made inroads on being a slut, but mostly in secret. But his stupid, overdeveloped sense of obligation had repeatedly kept him from pulling a variety of crazy, college-student capers. Obligation to his family, particularly his uncle.

The uncle he should probably be listening to, rather than daydreaming about throwing his desk through the window, soaking it in gasoline, and sparking it up.

"Now, Collin, I know you registered for that International Business Communications class, and I've been thinking it might make an excellent final project if you—"

Never mind, he didn't need to listen to Monty yet. He slumped further over his desk, resting his cheek on his fist, staring out at the gray, drizzly day. January was such a horrible time of year in Oregon. The month would totally benefit from a pile of furniture blazing merrily on the lawn.

Yeah. A raging fire would be an excellent way to dispel the current drizzle of life.

Instead, he had his uncle yammering in his ear about this term's courses and how each one was important to his future in the family business, including Econ. Or whatever.

"I think I've found a replacement for Sooty as liaison to the Alumni Weekend Committee," Uncle Monty said, snapping Collin back to attention. Well, for a moment, until Collin started wondering why they called the corporate realtor from Delaware "Sooty." Probably because at some Theta Alpha Gamma bacchanalia, he'd pushed a flaming sofa out a window.

Now Sooty was pushing up daisies, or would be in the near future.

Collin hadn't earned a nickname in college, not even once he'd joined the fraternity. It was probably for the best—he'd have ended up with a nickname like Jeeves, the Theta Alpha Gamma Butler. Or they'd name him after that kid in the Dutch fairytale that had held back the sea by sticking his finger in a dyke.

Not that Collin had any intentions of sticking his finger in any dykes. Shudder. But there was no denying he was the guy who always stepped up to the plate when no one else would. He felt like he managed the whole damn frat sometimes.

Okay, not the whole frat, but a lot of it.

Thank God Kyle had run for frat president for their senior year or Collin might not have escaped that fate.

"Collin, are you listening to me?"

He didn't even bother unslouching. "Of course I am, sir."

Julian acted far more like a frat butler than Collin ever had. Although, come to think of it, Jules's butlery was sort of a hollow performance. He posed as the guy who had his finger on the pulse of the place by answering the front door and dusting off random picture frames or the odd piece of furniture, but he was more footman than head of staff. If it didn't happen in the entryway, Jules didn't have a clue. He wouldn't survive a second belowstairs.

"... I've made reservations for you to play golf with him on Saturday morning. Seven a.m. at the McKenzie Club."

Collin sat up straight and nearly dropped the phone. "What?" Him who? Jesus, not Saturday morning. "Is it necessary for me to meet him so soon?" But more importantly, was it necessary for Collin to meet him on Saturday morning? Everyone knew Saturday morning followed Friday night, and if things went as hoped, he'd be sticky, sated, and sleeping at seven on any given Saturday. "Isn't it disrespectful to Sooty's memory to replace him so quickly? He only died a week ago." He cringed at using a dead man as an excuse, but it was necessary. Hopefully Sooty would understand. Collin had never met him in person, but a man who lit furniture on fire must realize the importance of Friday night.

"Sooty would have wanted it this way," Monty intoned.

Collin rested his forehead in his hand—the one not occupied with holding his phone—and massaged his temples. Could he possibly find a way out of this? "I'm sorry, but what time did you say I'm meeting, um, him, again?" He could have heard wrong.

"Seven." Monty must have swiveled around to stare out the windows overlooking his olive groves, because Collin could hear his uncle's chair making that familiar squeak. "Collin, as you know, I have a limited amount of time and I would appreciate it if you listened to me so I don't have to repeat myself."

"Sorry, sir." It was better to apologize and move on; experience had told him that.

"It's only golf, son. I know how you are about your Friday nights, so I didn't commit you to a dinner, which is what Sparky suggested."

"His name is Sparky?"

Monty sighed, and Collin flinched.

"It's Donald, but he earned the name Sparky in college and it stuck. After all, Sparky Donaldson is obviously preferable to Donald D. Donaldson." Monty paused before adding pointedly, "And you'll be meeting him at the McKenzie Club."

Collin fell back in his chair, holding in a groan. "Um, yes, I caught that part. But thank you." For taking time out of your busy schedule to repeat it. He cringed at the thought—he shouldn't think such disrespectful things about the man who'd all but raised him.

It probably wasn't a good sign that Collin had started reminding himself of that every time they spoke. I love my Uncle Monty. I love my Uncle Monty. I lo—

"I'm expecting a lot of you, I know, but I wouldn't give you such responsibility if I weren't confident you were capable of it. Once you've finished this chapter of your education and you take your position within the company, you'll appreciate these experiences. It's why I wanted you as the Theta Alpha Gamma alumni liaison. The position is very high profile, and as principal organizer of Alumni Weekend, you'll have the opportunity to make many valuable business contacts."

"Of course," Collin said, nodding into the phone.

"Now, as I said before, Sparky is only going to be in the Eugene area this weekend, and since he's available, I think a meeting would be advantageous."

Collin knew his uncle was only warming up to the topic, so he needed to ask what he wanted to know now. "Do you know how he got that nickname?" He figured it was the most pertinent information about the dude. Nicknames seemed very telling.

"Well ... I shouldn't spread this around since it's unsubstantiated, but I've heard he was a bit of a firebug when he was younger. I've had quite a few business dealings with him, and he seems perfectly normal to me. Now, let me give you some more background—he's a very successful stockbroker, class of '86."

Collin's head began to fill with images of loud plaid golf pants, an engraved hip flask, and endless stories of a youngblood's early days on Wall Street. Groan. He couldn't keep his mind from drifting off again while Monty droned on, giving the socio-economic background of Sparky What's-his-name.

The dude sounded like a great time. Saturday morning was really shaping up to be lovely, wasn't it? Instead of sleeping off his bout of semi-anonymous sex, Collin would be blurry eyed on the golf course in freaking midwinter. "Sir," he said suddenly, seizing on that, "I'm sure you remember what Oregon can be like in January, are you certain—"

"I checked the weather report, and it's going to be clear. Brisk thirty-nine degrees, winds from the northeast. You'll be fine."

Shit, he was going to freeze to death. Dying at twenty-one, seated in a golf cart next to a corpulent moneychanger, wasn't how he'd imagined his death. He'd never imagined it, but if he had to, he'd prefer dying in his nineties, lying in bed beside a sexy, naked stripper in his twenties.

Monty cleared his throat, signaling an uncomfortable change of topic—one Collin thought he might benefit from listening to. "You should know Sparky is one of the alums who opposed the new membership policy."

Collin closed his eyes and counted to ten. "Uncle Monty ..."

"I didn't deliberately set you up, Collin. He found out about Sooty passing on—they were friendly—and contacted me about taking the man's place. You know we need someone on that committee. The Alumni Weekend is coming up quickly, and you increase your chances of having a successful event if you work with more alums. And we both know the more alumni you impress, the better it is for you in the long term."

"It's not for twelve weeks. You can't give me time to find someone who isn't a homophobe?" Oops.

"Opposing the new membership policy does not make one a homophobe," Monty said curtly.

Oh God, headache. Right between the eyes. "Yes, sorry, sir." He needed to end this conversation, because he'd just implied that his uncle was a bigot.

"One might oppose this new 'open' membership policy because one feels, as do I, that it makes the fraternity a target. Especially since your friend is so publicly gay and continues to be an active member."

Collin sat up straight, matching Monty's tone and formality. "Please remember that, in fact, the fraternity has always accepted gay members because the policy didn't specifically exclude them. It was simply a tacit Don't Ask, Don't Tell system. We voted to codify the acceptance of those members, and show them that being out is acceptable and safe here at TAG." Monty could never seem to discuss just the policy; he had to make it personal by bringing up Collin's friend Brad. His uncle had been poking him with the pointy end of that argument since Brad had come out last spring, and it had worn right through his need to placate his uncle.

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Excerpted from Sweet Young Thang by Anne Tenino, Sarah Frantz, Rachel Haimowitz. Copyright © 2013 Anne Tenino. Excerpted by permission of Riptide Publishing.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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