Measure of a Man Page 3

  “Trey. Hmm, that’s a nice name. Well, it’s been good talking with you. Hopefully, I’ll see you soon.”

  “You got it.”

  The bathroom door opened and Lincoln disconnected the call.

  “Who was it?” Flex asked.

  Lincoln tossed him the phone and gave him a wide smile. “It was a wrong number.”

  * * *

  Peyton jumped to her feet and performed a victory dance, despite her sore feet, in the middle of the room before she called her sister Michael.

  “You’ll never guess who I just talked to,” she squealed.

  Michael’s voice perked with excitement. “Who?”

  “Flex’s new boyfriend.”

  Chapter 4

  “What?” Michael’s voice leaped a few octaves. “He already has a new boyfriend? Are you sure?”

  “A man answered his cell phone and introduced himself as Flex’s new friend.” Peyton plopped back onto her sofa. “And that’s not all. He sounded sexy as hell.”

  “Now that’s funny. Our baby brother’s been back on the market a couple of months and he’s able to find a man before you.”

  “Ha, ha, ha.” Peyton rolled her eyes at the barb. “This is a good sign, don’t you think?”

  “I don’t know. It’s sort of soon, don’t you think? What else did the guy say?”

  Peyton tried to recall the conversation. “He said that Flex could do no wrong and that he knew all about us— Oh, he also knew about Morgan.”

  “Flex told him about Morgan?”

  “Yeah. This is great news, we need to get the other girls on the phone.”

  “I agree.”

  After performing a series of conference calls, all the sisters were on the phone. Peyton quickly told them about her conversation with Trey and the line was abuzz with squeals and laughter.

  “Do you think he knew this guy before he left California?” Sheldon asked. “I mean, it’s sort of fast, don’t you think? Flex isn’t the type to move so quickly.”

  “You know, I was just thinking the same thing,” Frankie cut in. “It would make sense if he knew this guy before he left.”

  “And how would he have met him before he left?” Joey asked.

  “There’s all sorts of ways,” Sheldon said with strained patience. “Oh, what if he’d met him online? I hear the internet is the new singles bar of the millennium.”

  “An internet hookup?” Peyton drummed her fingers against her lips. “I met someone online once.”

  “When?” Four voices replied in unison.

  Why did she open her big mouth? “It was a few months ago. We only met for drinks. No big deal.”

  “No big deal? What happened?” Michael demanded.

  “Nothing. The guy was a total loser. He weighed about a hundred pounds more than he said, he wore a bad toupee and he still lived at home with his mother.”

  The girls gasped, and then filled the line with, “You poor thing,” and, “He could have been a mass murderer.”

  “It was just that one time,” Peyton reminded them. “But I tell you, this Trey guy sounded hot. I mean he had this deep, smooth baritone going on. If he’s half as good-looking as he sounds, Flex has to be in hog heaven.”

  “I think we should find out more about his guy,” Frankie interjected. “The idea of Flex meeting some stranger on the internet and uprooting his whole life to be with this man isn’t sitting too well with me.”

  “I have to agree,” Sheldon chimed in. “This doesn’t sound like Flex. He hasn’t so much as hinted that there was someone new in his life.”

  “Then why would this guy be answering his cell phone?” Peyton asked. “And when I asked him if he liked Flex, he said that after last night, Flex could do no wrong.”

  “Sounds like a love connection to me,” Joey agreed. “I’m happy for him. He deserves it after that creep Morgan.”

  “I thought he was putting out a fire last night,” Michael said.

  “That was early this morning or maybe this guy likes dating someone who gets their name in the paper. How should I know?”

  “I still think someone should go there and check this dude out,” Michael insisted.

  “I’m going,” Peyton said. “Trey invited me down. He claimed that he wanted to meet some of Flex’s family.”

  “Trey,” Frankie repeated. “I don’t know if I like that name. It sounds—slick. He isn’t a playa, is he?”

  “Seems like I heard that name recently,” Michael mused.

  Peyton rolled her eyes. “I like it. It sounds sexy.”

  “The article,” Michael said. “Wasn’t Trey something or another the name of the other firefighter Flex rescued?”

  Peyton rushed over to the article she’d printed. Her eyes scanned down the page until she read the name. “You’re right. It says so right here that ‘Firefighter Flex Adams raced back into the burning apartment building in search of his missing colleague and returned within minutes with Fire Lieutenant Trey Carter draped over his shoulder and six-year-old Ariel Porter in his arms. When asked why he risked his life after everyone had cleared out of the building, Mr. Adams smiled and said that Lieutenant Carter is important to me and the men at Local 1492. I would risk my life for him any day of the week.’”

  Peyton and her sisters sighed and cooed, “Oh, how romantic.”

  * * *

  “What do you mean it was the wrong number?” Flex said, flipping open his phone. “I heard you in here talking.”

  Lincoln smiled.

  Flex read the name of his last caller from his cell’s screen ID. “Peyton called?”

  “Damn technology.” Lincoln laughed. “Yeah, she called, and if you don’t mind me saying, she sounds pretty hot. Is she dating anybody?”

  “I thought we agreed that you weren’t jumping back into the dating scene so soon.”

  “Did I say that?” Lincoln frowned. “I don’t remember that.”

  Flex just laughed and walked around the empty chair to grab his leather jacket. “I’m heading out. You make sure you take care of yourself and try not to drive the nurses crazy.”

  “Ah, you’re going to leave me hangin’ like that? I wanted to know some more about your sister.”

  “Forget about it,” Flex said, heading to the door. “If you date one sister, then you’re dating all five of them. Trust me, you’re not ready for that kind of aggravation.”

  “Hey!”

  “Catch you later.” Flex waved and then left the room.

  “Fine. Be that way, Francis!” Lincoln laughed and then fell back on the bed pillows. But within seconds the itch on his leg grew worse and he had to finally call a nurse for help.

  Never being a television sort of person, Lincoln quickly grew restless. It was hours after he finished his hospital dinner when his best friend, Tyrone Ellis, finally paid him a visit.

  “Hey, Dog. I thought that you would never get here.”

  “What can I say? I had to come and check on my boy, right?” Tyrone’s face lit up as the men’s hands slapped together. “I have to admit I thought I’d never see this day. Badass Lincoln Carver, a man able to leap burning buildings in a single bound, is laid up in the hospital.”

  “Yeah, me, too. Guess I’m going to have to retire my blue tights, huh?”

  Tyrone, a short man of five-two, slid into the empty chair beside Lincoln’s bed. “I read what happened in the newspaper, Carter. I don’t know how you continue to eat smoke for
a living, but—”

  “Since when is being a cop a safer job?” Flex cut him off before his friend could get going. “How many times have you been shot at this year?”

  “Are we including the shots fired by my ex-girl?”

  Lincoln shook his head. “Face it. There’s something wrong with both of us.”

  “You might have a point there.” Tyrone leaned back in his chair and looked his friend over. “So who’s the dude that pulled you out?”

  “New guy. Name is Flex Adams. Don’t know too much about him, but he seems like a decent guy. I’m thinking about asking him to join us and the guys next Thursday.”

  “A new inductee to poker night? Wow, this guy must have made some impression on you. We haven’t had a new guy since our days at Morehouse.”

  “He saved my ass. As far as I’m concerned you can’t make a better impression.”

  “Good point. I’ll let the guys know.”

  “Plus,” Lincoln added, “I have another agenda.”

  Tyrone’s brows rose inquisitively. “A woman?”

  Lincoln nodded. “You know me so well.”

  * * *

  Flex entered his apartment, happy to be home for the next forty-eight hours. The first thing he wanted to do was call his family—let them know how he was doing; however, a part of him wasn’t up for the task.

  He loved his family. Truly, he did, but being the youngest of six children came with a heavy price. His career moves, financial decisions and personal relationships were all open for discussion at family meeting and gatherings. Everyone, in their own loving way, had an opinion about what was going on in his life.

  Which was why when he decided to move two thousand miles away from his family, the grumbling was probably heard clear over in China. Though his family was one variable in the equation—ending a ten-year relationship was the other.

  “Everyone needs a fresh start,” he mumbled and headed toward the kitchen. No sooner had he grabbed a beer than his phone rang. Undoubtedly, it was one of his sisters. He reentered the living room to hear his answering machine tell the caller to leave a message at the beep.

  “Flex, it’s me—Morgan. If you’re there, pick up.”

  Flex froze in the center of the room.

  “Well, I just read an article about you and I was worried. When you get this message, please give me a call. All right. Bye.”

  Minutes passed before Flex shook off his stupor and took a swig from his beer, however, it wasn’t enough to dull his senses, so he drained the bottle with one long chug. When that didn’t help, he decided to stay busy by hanging the rest of his pictures up on the wall. But no matter what he did, Morgan’s voice floated through his mind. How did he get this number? What makes him think I want to talk to him?

  Flex took a shower and then grabbed another beer. And still he was obsessed over Morgan. He kept drinking while his thoughts chased each other. Though Flex considered himself a strong man, physical strength failed to give him the tools to handle emotional abuse—and Morgan Ramsey wrote the book on head games.

  When the room began to spin, Flex collapsed onto his monstrous king-size bed. As he floated in an emotional stupor, he had a sudden urge to talk to someone—someone who understood better than anyone.

  “Hello.”

  “Hey, P.J., it’s me. Did I call at a bad time?”

  Peyton rolled over in bed and glanced at her clock. “Isn’t it two in the morning there?”

  “I don’t know. I—I can’t sleep.”

  She frowned at his slurred words and she sat up. “Is something wrong?”

  “No, no. It’s nothing like that. I…just—just.” He sighed. “I miss talking to you, that’s all.”

  Peyton knew something was definitely wrong. “You know I miss you around here. Sunday dinner hasn’t been the same since you left. Not to mention Dad— Well, we all miss you.”

  “How is Dad doing?”

  “He’s a little hurt, but you know he loves you, don’t you?”

  “Is that what he said?”

  “Do any of us have to say it?” she asked gently. “But maybe you…we shouldn’t have kept your secret for so long. I mean, I think he feels foolish for being the only one who didn’t know. That’s all.”

  A long pause hung over the line before Flex responded. “Maybe he just didn’t want to know.”

  “Perhaps you didn’t want to tell him,” she said, and then waited through another long silence. Peyton liked to think that her relationship with her brother was good. Especially since they were the last two in the clan. She tried her best not to fuss over him or put her nose where it didn’t belong. Mainly because she hated it when her sisters pried into her life. However, there were times, like now, when she wanted nothing more than to rattle the truth out of Flex. Why did he feel as if he had to run from the family, and why so far?

  “If there’s something really troubling you, you can talk to me,” she said, and then held her breath.

  “I know,” he said, but there had been a slight pause before he answered.

  She held the phone and listened to him breathe. Had there been a fight between him and this new guy? Or worse, had this Trey character told Flex that she was planning a surprise visit and he was trying to figure out a way to tell her not to come?

  “Morgan called here tonight,” he finally said.

  Peyton released the air pinned in her lungs. “Did you talk to him?”

  “I don’t have anything to say.”

  At the pain in her brother’s voice, she wanted to fold him in her arms. “He’s a jerk. Don’t let him get to you. Joey said that she saw him and his new boyfriend at the mall last week. Morgan went out of his way to stop her and ask how you were doing.”

  “Did she give him this number?” Flex snapped.

  “I don’t know. I don’t think that she would—”

  “Great. He probably thinks I left California with my tail tucked between my legs. Well, I’ve moved on. You make sure you tell him that the next time you see him.”

  “I will, I will,” she said, trying to placate him, while also trying to remove her foot from her mouth.

  “Yeah. And you tell him that my new man is ten times better looking than him.”

  “Got it. I’ll make him green with envy,” Peyton promised, and then decided to tread on shaky ground. “You know, you didn’t tell me that you had a new boyfriend.”

  “Huh?” Flex’s voice dropped. “Yeah, well, I do. And he’s the best thing that could ever have happened to me.”

  “Well, that’s great,” Peyton encouraged. “I’m happy for you. Who is he? When did you meet him?”

  “Huh? Oh, well, I, uh, met him here in Atlanta—at a club. He’s really a great guy.”

  Peyton frowned again. She was certain her brother was more than a little tipsy. “I still think it’s wonderful. What’s his name?”

  “His name?”

  She laughed. “He does have a name, doesn’t he?”

  “Of course he does. It’s, uh, T-Trey. Yeah, Trey—great guy. You’d love him.”

  Peyton smiled against the phone. “I love him already.”

  Chapter 5

  After spending more than twenty-four hours in the hospital, Lincoln was more than ready to go home. As he glanced out the window of his room at a beautiful Saturday morning, his mind filled with all the things he’d rather be doing—for instance, finishing his latest sculpture.

  He sighed. The one
thing not too many people knew about Trey “Lincoln” Carver was that he was a closet artist. He had been bending and sculpting metal as a hobby for nearly twenty years. He didn’t know whether he was any good or not, but it definitely had a way of relaxing him.

  All of his life he loved to take things apart and put them together again. But sometime in his freshman year at college, he not only took things apart, he started to assemble them differently. It was fun—no, therapeutic—changing things, creating things.

  Once, he had made the mistake of showing his father one of his creations. “What the hell is it?” his father had thundered, and then erupted into laughter.

  “I don’t know. It’s an abstract.” Lincoln remembered wringing his hands. “I got some parts down at old man Cullers’s junkyard.”

  “It looks like something from the junkyard.” His father’s hard but amused gaze turned toward him. “Is this something they’re teaching you down at that expensive college—how to turn junk into more junk?”

  Lincoln blinked the painful memory away and swallowed a lump in his throat. No matter how many times he told himself that his father hadn’t meant to hurt him that day, he never got over it.

  After his morning breakfast, his longtime friends and poker buddies, Henry, Desmond and Walter, showed up.

  “I was wondering when you knuckleheads were going to get here.”

  Desmond snapped a picture of Lincoln propped up in bed. “You know we wouldn’t have missed this Kodak moment for anything in the world.” He laughed. “How have the nurses been treating you in here? Have you had a sponge bath yet?”

  The men laughed as Lincoln responded, “Get your mind out of the gutter.”

  “Hell, that’s the least they can do for the bill you’re about to get for being in this mutha,” Desmond said and scratched his bald and weirdly shaped head. “Am I right?”

  Walter frowned and pressed his wire-rimmed glasses to his face. “Don’t pay him any mind.”

  “When have I ever?” Lincoln asked.

  “How are they treating you?” Henry asked.