“No. The one that ran in the donation story.” I was staring at it right now, on the laptop in front of me. The reporter had caught a snapshot of Devon leaving the offices of Sheltered Hearts and walking toward his car. In a suit. A suit. Dark blue, with a gray shirt and even a sexy dark silk tie. His dark hair was neatly brushed back from his temples, his beard trim, his green eyes glancing briefly at the camera. From his left sleeve peeked a silver watch over the dark ink on the back of his hand. His big body was in motion, leaning in toward the driver’s door of his Chevy. It was pure, one hundred percent suit porn, and I’d been staring at it for a day. That was mine. I had that.
Maybe I could still have it, if I wanted it.
“I haven’t seen that one,” Devon mused in my ear. “I don’t pay attention. I probably look like an asshole.”
“You look like the hottest man who’s ever worn a suit,” I said, the words out of my mouth before I could think them. I was still staring at the picture, and it was making me feel possessive. Crazy possessive.
He laughed, the sound echoing straight down between my legs. “I’ll remember to wear a suit more often when you’re around.”
“About that,” I said. “About me being around. I’m working on something.”
“Yeah? What is it?”
“Mom had my old art projects stored in her spare room,” I said. “Including the final project I did before I failed out of school.”
“You mean the photos you took and painted over.”
He remembered. “Yeah, those. It’s been a while since I looked at them. I thought I’d hate them if I looked at them now. But I pulled them out, and I realized I still like them. A lot.”
“That’s good,” he said.
“It is. I realize now that dropping out of school made me lose all my confidence. It made me give up on my art, and I didn’t have a reason to. My art is what makes me happy. So why would I ever give up on that?”
He was quiet, listening.
“And so I went online,” I continued, letting the words gush out, “and there’s a gallery on Market Street. Just a small one. And they had a listing for an open job as the head of their graphic design department. So I applied.”
“All right,” he said. “So what are you going to do when they hire you? Because of course they’re going to fucking hire you.”
I shook my head, even though he couldn’t see me. “They haven’t even called me yet. But I just think—even if this doesn’t pan out, I’m going to keep trying. I’m going to find work that makes me happy, even if it takes some time. This time I’m not going to settle.”
“Don’t settle,” he said. “Not ever.”
I pressed my fingertips against my mouth. I heard the front door open—Mom was home from her grocery run. I couldn’t have this conversation with her in the room. “I have to go,” I said.
“We’ll talk,” Devon said. And then he hung up.
Late that night, I texted him. I was alone in bed in my mom’s spare room, the sheets cool against my skin. I couldn’t get the news story out of my mind—that boat, full of drugs, floating in the harbor for the cops to find. I have work to do, Devon had said when he’d left that morning. I hadn’t known what he had in mind. I hadn’t even been able to imagine it. It had been unsettling and thrilling at the same time, that I had no idea what the man I was in love with was about to do. And I had run from the feeling—from the fear it gave me, but also from the excitement it gave me. The feeling like I was on a roller coaster that was going over the top.
I’d thought maybe he would beat someone up. Instead, he had somehow sent that boat floating in the harbor so he could take down almost every drug dealer in San Francisco in one perfect cut. He was amazing. He was fearless.
Still, guilt wracked me. I have a question, I wrote him.
His reply was immediate. What is it?
I licked my lip. Why did you do it?
Why do you think? he wrote.
I blew out a breath. He couldn’t have just done it for me. You could have been arrested. Killed.
The dots moved on my phone. Both true.
He wasn’t getting it. How much did it cost you? I asked.
Whatever the price was to keep you safe, he answered.
I rolled on to my back. I was here in LA, and he was in San Francisco. A situation of my own making.
I’d needed space, time to think. Time to heal from my wounds, and time to rearrange things in my head. All of that was true.
What was also true was that I was still afraid. Terrified, actually.
Because Devon Wilder wasn’t a halfway sort of man. He was all or nothing. And when it came to him, so was I. I had run because I couldn’t just stand by and watch him get hurt or killed, then shrug my shoulders and move on. I had run because if whatever we had didn’t work out, it would crush me, rob me of everything even more than failing art school had. The intensity scared me. Devon Wilder had the power to break my heart so hard it would never heal again. That had scared me—it still scared me. And yet right now he was very much too far away.
I scrubbed my palm over my forehead and texted him again.
I should return your car, I wrote.
Again, there was no hesitation. I only want it back if you’re in it.
This man. This man. Are you sure? I asked him. I can’t take it if this doesn’t work. I can’t. Are you sure it’s me you want?
There was a pause. I put my phone down and stared at the ceiling.
My phone pinged with a text. I took a breath, picked it up, and read it.
I would burn down the world for you, it said.
I blinked hard, my eyes stinging. And I realized what I already knew: It was time to go home.
Chapter 29
Devon
I was watching the work in my back yard when my phone rang. I was in one of the spare bedrooms, the one that gave the best view of the back, sitting on the end of the immaculately made bed and looking out the window. I was wearing a t-shirt, boxer shorts, and nothing else.
The back of my property was a mess, pilled with dirt and gravel and mud. A backhoe worked industriously, its engine grinding, as a dump truck backed in with high-pitched beeps. I’d decided I didn’t want to re-landscape back there after all. Instead, I’d decided to tear it all out.
I didn’t want some artful scrub and some perfectly planned trees. I didn’t want a fucking koi pond, scum or no scum. Who the hell used a koi pond? I wanted a pool, a multi-level deck. Places to sit. A space I could use. I’d never been a guy who spent even ten seconds of his life thinking about decorating, and I had no idea why my back yard—a back yard I hadn’t known existed a month ago, when I was sitting in a prison cell—was suddenly so important. It was only while the landscaping contractor was showing me his plans that I realized it was because I planned to spend a lot of time in this house. Because I planned to make it some kind of a home.
I’d never had a home before. I’d faced down cops and drug kingpins and dirtbags of all kinds in my life, but it was the idea of having a home that made my stomach queasy with fear. What the fuck did I know about it? I’d probably fuck it up. But I wanted a place that maybe people could come to and feel comfortable. Max, if he wanted to get out of Shady Oaks. Ben, if he wanted to hang out. Cavan, if he ever came out of hiding. Olivia.