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  Milton clears his throat again. He's the oldest, stodgiest, most cantankerous of the lot, so this is immensely surprising to me, to everyone. "But this...this is different. You all know, you felt it. Those people have nothing, literally nothing, and then the fighting breaks out and they get hurt or killed, and for what? Tribal differences? I don't even know. This is not just making a donation. It's not like sitting in my office, writing a check and patting myself on the back. What you're doing here, Lachlan, with this company is phenomenal. I signed on because your mother is a piranha with balls of steel, and she left me with no choice but to contribute. I signed on for the tax deduction, and to appease your mother. But like your mother said, I get it now. So, the motion: every member of the board must attend a minimum of a once yearly trip to a location of the CEO's choosing, to experience an operational awareness exercise. All in favor say 'aye'."

  There's a chorus of aye's, and not a single dissension.

  I think I've won over the board.

  *

  I'm sitting in an office in Geneva, wearing a suit and tie, waiting for the meeting to start.

  The office is that of the International Federation of Red Cross and Red Crescent Societies, and the meeting is to negotiate an arrangement between Beyond Thirty-One and the Federation.

  Our corporation is in place, funded, and staffed. We have warehouses full of supplies and a distribution network. We have teams of volunteers on standby, from general labor to skilled trades, doctors, lawyers, building contractors, anything and everything I could think of, and a bunch more suggested by our staff and board members. Now we just need places to send it all. I contacted the Federation and obtained this meeting, and now I just have to sell my services. I have another similar meeting with MSF next week.

  An older man wearing a sleek gray pinstripe suit walks into the office, sorting through a file folder full of papers. "So, Mr. Montgomery. You run a non-profit, and you wish to help, is that right? I confess I only skimmed your email."

  It doesn't take long for me to get his undivided attention, as I explain what Beyond Thirty-One is all about, and what we have at our disposal. Within fifteen minutes, he's practically glowing.

  "It's rather remarkable, what you have set up, I must say. I could use a dozen non-profits like yours, and we'd still never be able to reach all the people that need help. But what you're offering, it will go a long way, and help a great many people." He leans back in his chair, twirling a pen between his fingers. "I can have a list of contacts for you by the end of the day. That should get you started."

  *

  Manila, Philippines

  One year later

  A typhoon swept through here a week ago, wiping away huge swaths of slum housing, leaving flooding in its wake on a huge scale. We were boots down the day after the typhoon subsided, building shelters, distributing food, water, medical care.

  I've been running Beyond Thirty-One for a solid year, now. The LA office runs itself, setting up fundraisers--which I attend as much as possible, whenever I'm stateside--finding suppliers and distribution networks, connecting our resources to those in need. I'm not just the CEO and chairman of the board, though. I'm the public face. I'm the frontman. I go with the supplies, go with the volunteer teams. Hit the ground first, and go to work.

  My first inclination was to keep this private; to make sure no one ever knew anything about me, keeping the whole thing on the down low, but Mom had other plans. A quiet blog post about a former playboy turned philanthropist, combined with the fact that I'm not exactly bad looking, and that I'm on location several times a month, getting dirty and meeting people, handing out supplies and building houses and tending to the sick...well, the story caught. I wouldn't say I'm famous, but our donations have skyrocketed, as did the number of volunteers.

  I don't do it for any of that, however.

  I could easily stay in LA in my cushy air-conditioned office, hit the fundraiser party circuit, and play it easy. But that's not why I started this company. I did it to be involved. To be physically present. To make a difference. I won't do any of that, sitting in LA.

  Plus, Niall is out there somewhere.

  I finally got up the courage to call her one day, late at night, from Thailand. My heart was pounding as I heard the phone ring, but then I got a recorded message saying her number had been disconnected.

  That hurt.

  She's moved on, I suppose. Good for her.

  *

  I get a call from a woman with MSF, asking if I have any resources to spare for relief efforts in Nepal, after a nasty earthquake. The woman has a pronounced French accent, says her name is Dominique.

  She's about to hang up when a thought strikes me. "Dominique, wait. I have a strange question for you."

  She hesitates. "Oui?"

  "Do you know anyone named Niall James?"

  Another long pause. "Oui. I do. She is a very good friend of mine." A pregnant silence. "You are he, non? She has spoken of you. You hurt her, you know."

  I sigh. "I know. Is she in Nepal?"

  "That is not my place to say. If she wanted to find you, she would have, I think."

  "Look, I'll send everything I can to Nepal, regardless. You have my word on that. I just want...I don't know. An opportunity. I just want to see her, talk to her. Even once. That's it."

  "Send your supplies to Nepal. If you happen to be with the shipment, you may get your opportunity. That's all I will say."

  "Thank you, Dominique."

  "She has finally started to find peace. Please, if you wish to thank me, do not disturb that for her."

  "I love her."

  "Sometimes, the fact of love is not enough. It is what that love looks like that truly matters. Step carefully, and think of her before yourself, if you do love her as you say."

  Wise words from a stranger.

  A few days later, I'm in the back of a cargo plane full of supplies and volunteers, headed for Nepal.

  I'm trying not to hope too much.

  The best me has his arms around you

  Basantpur, Nepal

  Dr. Van Eick has a pair of hemostats clipped to the young woman's femoral artery, pinching off the blood flow. She doesn't have long. She's lost so much blood, too much, probably. But if he can get that artery reconnected she might have a chance, that along with a shitload of plasma infusions. I'm the only nurse in this tent, which is crazy, because the wounded are coming through faster than we can deal with them. Right now, for example, Dr. Van Eick needs me to hand him utensils, but there's two incoming who need immediate triage care, and a third whose bandages need changing, a fourth who needs more pain meds...the list goes on and on.

  We've both been up for more than forty-eight hours, and it looks like another forty-eight are on the books. Another earthquake rocked Nepal three days ago, leaving the whole valley in a shambles. My MSF team was sent here directly from our last assignment, a dengue fever outbreak in Malaysia. We literally packed up, hopped on a plane, and got to work. I don't think I've showered in a week.

  The earthquake, though...god--7.8 on the scale, razed entire cities. Every humanitarian organization in the world is represented here, and it's still not enough.

  Erik--Dr. Van Eick--finally finishes the trickiest part of the surgery and brusquely waves me away. He's an asshole, but he's a damn good surgeon.

  I'm on autopilot, doing what needs to be done. Hours, hours, hours. Night falls, dawn breaks. Dominique finally finds me, forces me to find a bed and sleep, which I do.

  No dreams, fortunately. Usually, I dream of Lock. Sometimes of Ollie. Sometimes it's not clear who it is. Just...someone. Beside me, with me, kissing me, whispering to me. I hate the dreams, because I always wake up alone.

  At least I have my MSF team.

  I sleep for a good six hours before I'm shaken awake by Dominique, whom I don't think ever sleeps, even though she's always making sure we all do.

  Another two days of non-stop work.

  Three more.

&nb
sp; It just doesn't end.

  I lose track of time, of hours and days.

  I'm sitting in the mess tent, shoveling down some food between surgeries when I feel it. The shaking. It starts slow, but then picks up. A rumble, at first. Then a roar. Then everything is heaving, the ground under my feet is bucking like a wild bronco. I'm tossed in the air, and hit the edge of a table on the way down, which topples beside me. The tent is collapsing. Everyone is screaming, including me. I feel a hand grab me; hauling me upright, out from underneath the collapsing mess tent.

  The hand on my arm is ripped away, but I don't see by what, or how. I can't see--I'm dizzy and disoriented from the blow I took to the head when I hit the table. I see an already-ruined building crumbling a dozen feet away, chunks of rubble flying like missiles. I feel an impact to my shoulder like a ton of bricks, hot searing pain slamming through me, and then I'm airborne again, hitting the ground.

  Can't breathe.

  The quake is still roaring, insane, impossible, endless, a rumbling underfoot loud enough to crack the sky. I hear and feel a building collapsing nearby, but I can't move, can't breathe. I feel something massive hit the ground a few feet away, and I know this is it.

  This is where I die.

  I moan in pain, and try to find my feet. I'm at the foot of a wall, and it's swaying. But I'm paralyzed with pain and the air has been knocked out of me, I can't breathe, can't move. I try, but I can't.

  And then I see him.

  I must have died--that's the only explanation for what I see.

  Or it's my imagination, or a guardian angel.

  Problem is, the guardian angel looks a hell of a lot like Lock.

  Same build, tall, broad, muscular, thick, shaggy blond beard, long blond hair tied low on his nape. Wearing a white T-shirt with the red crescent of the IFRC, and a pair of tactical khakis. He just...appears in front of me. Scoops me up in his arms.

  He doesn't speak, just clutches me in his arms and runs flat out as the wall where I was lying collapses. Dust rises, billows, and settles.

  The quake and the aftershocks are fading in fits and starts.

  He stops running.

  God, those eyes. I blink. Breathe, finally, in painful gasps.

  "Lock?" My voice is raspy, my throat on fire from inhaling dust.

  "Niall." He searches me with his eyes. "Are you okay?"

  I cough. "Yes. No. I don't know." I reach up, touch his jaw, stroke his beard. "Is it really you?"

  "Yeah, babe, it's me." His fingers touch the side of my head, come away wet and red. "You need a doctor."

  I shake my head. "No, I need to find my team. I need to--"

  "You need to relax a minute. This is a nasty wound. You need help. You can't help others until you're seen to."

  "How are you here?"

  "I do some work for a relief agency."

  He's walking with me in his arms across the rubble-strewn hellscape that was once the city of Basantpur, and then I feel him duck, and we're in a tent. There's shouting, in French and English and half a dozen other languages, but I hear Erik's voice above it all, shouting orders in that gruff Dutch accent of his, organizing. I hear him shout my name, needing me at his side.

  "Erik!" I call out, but I'm so weak that my voice goes unheard.

  "Hush, Niall." Lock touches my lips with his finger.

  I feel myself being lowered onto a cot, and then Erik's face is above me, and his fingers are probing. He gives me a local anaesthetic, begins stitching.

  "Not so bad," he says when he's done. "You were lucky."

  I sit up on the cot, swoon, sway, and two pair of hands steady me. I wave them off. "I just need to catch my breath. I'll be fine. I need to help."

  "You need to rest. No helping for you."

  "We just got hit by another quake. You need me."

  "I need you, yes, but I need you healthy." Erik holds up a hand over my attempt to argue. "No. No. You rest."

  He walks away, and then Lock is kneeling beside me. Hands on my shoulders, urging me to lie down. I fight it, but my head is swimming and it hurts to breathe and everything hurts, and--

  Lock.

  Lock is here.

  I force my eyes open. "I'm still mad at you."

  He chuckles. "I know. I deserve it."

  "You just...left."

  He shushes me. "Later, Niall. Rest now."

  I fade. Slip under.

  *

  I wake and his eyes meet mine. He looks like Lock but there is something different about him. There's a quietness, a sense of calmness, a level of self-assuredness that wasn't there before. A confidence.

  "Why'd you leave?" It's the only question that really matters.

  A sigh. "I had to." He stares at me unblinking, truth in his eyes. "It wasn't just about not being able to admit that I was in love with you, it was...knowing I needed to be okay with myself before that could go anywhere."

  His words rock me. I stare at him for a long, long time. "You--you were in love with me?"

  A small, tired smile. "I still am."

  "Still?"

  A tired nod.

  "I didn't think I'd ever see you again," I say.

  "Me too. I called you, a few months ago."

  I frown. "I don't have a phone anymore, Lock. I got rid of it when I re-joined MSF."

  A wry grin. "So I discovered."

  "What would you have said to me if you had reached me?"

  His eyes are closed, an arm draped across his face. "That I love you. That I...miss you. That I'd like to see you."

  I finally manage a glimpse past him, at the devastation beyond the tent. I lift my chin in gesture. "How bad is it out there?"

  A long sigh. "Really bad. Really, really bad. We were pretty far from the epicenter, though, so we got off easy compared to the areas hit hardest."

  I gasp. "It must have been a huge one, then."

  "Eight point two."

  "Oh my god."

  "And they just finished rebuilding from the last series of quakes a few years ago. It's unbelievable." He moves his arm, glances at me. "How are you feeling?"

  "Dizzy, thirsty, achy. But better."

  "Good. You slept for thirteen hours. I was getting worried."

  "Thirteen hours?" I try to sit up. "Holy shit, Dr. Van Eick must be--"

  "'When you're ready, not before'--his words."

  A silence, then. Long, and profound. Our eyes on each other, unwavering.

  "I missed you, too," I admit, finally.

  He holds out an arm. "Come here."

  Slowly, gingerly, I sit up, totter the few steps to his cot. Lie down in his arms, and sigh a deep sense of contentment. The world beyond this cot is a hellish nightmare landscape of ruin and rubble, but here? In his arms? None of that matters. Not right now.

  He turns his face toward me, buries his nose in my hair. "God, Niall." His voice shudders, shakes. "I fucking missed you. So goddamned bad."

  "You left." I hate how angry I sound, even still. "You just...left. Didn't even say goodbye."

  His voice is so quiet I have to strain to hear. "I couldn't--if I'd hesitated, I wouldn't have had the balls to go. I had to become a man worth loving, Niall. You'd have loved me as I was, but...I had to feel like a man worthy of your love."

  "So....what? You joined the Red Cross?"

  "Not...exactly. "

  I sense that he's withholding the truth. "Lock." His eyes meet mine. "What is it you're not telling me?"

  He sighs. "A lot, I suppose. Does the name Beyond Thirty-One mean anything to you?"

  I think for a moment. "I do remember hearing rumors of a new company donating a lot of money and supplies to relief efforts. From what I remember hearing, it's a new non-profit, run by some jet-setting playboy."

  He fidgets, glances away. "I...that's me."

  I frown. "What? What do you mean?"

  "Beyond Thirty-One is my company."

  "But they were saying the guy who runs it is a millionaire or something. Like, stupid rich. T
here were a lot of rumors floating around about him, but I haven't had time to look into it."

  He nods. "The rumors are mostly true. I come from a wealthy family. My grandfather made a fortune in both oil and real estate, and my dad expanded the family business quite a lot before he died, and then my mom took over and streamlined it all and turned an already sizeable fortune into one several times larger. As the only heir, I was always supposed to take over, but I never cared. I was going to die, so why fucking bother, right? So, I prefer the distinction that my family is wealthy; I personally am not. I didn't do a damn thing to earn a single penny of my inheritance."

  I nod. "I guess I understand the distinction." A pause, a breath. "When you say your family is wealthy...?"

  A casual shrug. "I've never really paid too much attention to the exact numbers. I think Mom is worth somewhere in the neighborhood of...several hundred million. Maybe more."

  I'm a little dizzy, suddenly. "And you personally?"

  Another of those lazy shrugs that say it doesn't really matter. "My shares put me at, I dunno...quite a few million."

  "And you were staying at fucking La Quinta?"

  He laughs. "They allowed pets," he says with a shrug.

  I try to sort through my thoughts and feelings. "So you started Beyond Thirty-One?"

  He nods, more willing to meet my eyes now. "After the tornado, I knew I wanted to help people. To do what you do, but...my way. I've never had the slightest interest in the family businesses, sitting in some office crunching numbers and analyzing contracts or whatever the fuck. That day in Oklahoma...it changed me. You changed me, and then the tornado, helping with the recovery...it meant something. I meant something. I did something good. Something for someone else. My whole life had always been about me, about making myself feel good, about forgetting that I was going to die sooner rather than later. I never did anything that had any value or significance. I got a taste of that in Oklahoma. I'm not a doctor. I'm not a skilled tradesman. I have no skills at all, really. What I do have is time and money. So that's what I'm using."