But when the man straightened as if readying himself for battle, I felt oddly proud and nervous at the same time.
Except I didn't get nervous.
It served no purpose.
So what was it about this guy, this man who most people would probably think really was just average, that made my hands feel sweaty and caused my heart to pound just a bit harder in my chest? I tried to tell myself it was because I had no interest in him thanking me for saving his kid’s life, but my increased breathing said differently. Once I fucked this guy, all that other shit would go away. If I was really lucky, it was just the residual adrenaline that was making me feel all wonky.
Jesus, Matias. Wonky? Who are you?
I cursed under my breath and then got to my feet. I noticed as the man neared me, his eyes darted between me and the door. I figured he was debating whether he could just make his escape without having to talk to me. I kind of wanted him to do that because it was easier to hunt prey when it ran rather than stand its ground.
When the guy was within a handful of feet of me, I saw that little stiffening thing happen where he seemed to force himself to stand straighter. Surprisingly, I wasn't at all disappointed that he hadn't decided to flee.
It wasn't until the man cast a glance at the police officer that I remembered we weren't alone. I took care of that with one look in Officer Hard-on's direction. The idiot was just standing there tapping his pen on his pad, but when he saw me watching him, he cleared his throat and then reached for his radio again. He mumbled something about returning in a moment to finish up with the questions and then he was practically off and running.
I found myself holding my breath as I waited for the man across from me to say something, or to reach out and shake my hand. I hadn't really noticed him after I'd killed the kid's attacker, so I didn't really know what he sounded like. And I already knew that I really wanted to know what he felt like. The mustache, his skin, his what looked to be a fit body wrapped around mine…
"Thank you," the man said as he wrapped one hand around the other as if to keep from reaching out to me. I hid my disappointment and tried to silence that little voice in my head that said maybe he wasn't interested in shaking the hand of an uneducated, heavily tattooed thug. The logical side of my brain tried to remind me that beyond my darker skin tone and tattoos, he had no way of knowing anything about my education or lack thereof or that I was of Colombian descent, but I'd met enough bigots to know it didn't take much more than your skin color for them to make a decision about you.
My opinion of the man started to go downhill quickly, especially when he didn't show any hint of willingness to shake my hand. My desire, however, was on an opposite trajectory. Maybe the fact that the idea of my touch repulsed him served to feed into my need to control him, to own him. But that argument was short-lived when he walked away.
Because he didn't just walk away. No, he took a few steps and then he stopped and looked at me.
Really looked at me.
If I wasn't as good at reading people as I was, I would've missed it. The ticked-up breathing, the slight flush of color that suffused his cheeks, the parting of his lips… all those things had me blatantly looking down at his groin. And once I took in that pretty sight, I didn't have to be a mind reader to get that particular message.
So, he definitely wasn't disgusted by me. And he most definitely wasn't straight. Those were both points in my favor, and as I lifted my eyes to meet his, I sent him a silent message that was anything but subtle.
From the way he quickly turned away and left the house, I was more than certain of two things. One, that he’d gotten the message and two, that I'd be feeling that mustache—and the rest of him—on me soon enough.
Chapter 2
Sam
I was already regretting my decision to return to the house even though I had only been in the thing for two minutes. Two minutes of just staring at the carnage that had once been my living room.
It was still difficult for me to make sense of the events that had taken place there three nights ago. It had all started off simply enough. I'd been enjoying the process of handing out candy to children in all manner of costumes while my oldest son, Elliot, had taken my younger son, Ryan, trick-or-treating. Elliot’s new boyfriend, Cruz, had been with him. That night had been my first time meeting the young man who'd already begun to steal my son’s heart. I'd known that just by seeing how Elliot looked at Cruz.
But things had pretty much gone to hell as soon as Elliot and Cruz had returned with Ryan. I'd heard the pair arguing outside, but I’d just assumed it was a lover’s spat, though I hadn't been sure if my son and his new guy had even made it to the lovers stage. I’d gone outside prepared to smooth things over, but the moment I’d stepped beyond the door and recognized the man that Elliot had been in a heated confrontation with, I'd forgotten that I was supposed to be the reasonable dad who solved his sons’ problems.
I sighed as I stared at my living room. Nothing about that night had been reasonable.
I began righting some of the furniture, but when I saw the bloodstain on the carpet, I felt sick to my stomach and was forced to sit down on the couch. That bloodstain represented so many things that it was hard to process them all. For starters, it could have easily been Elliot's blood. The only reason it hadn't been was because the bullet that had been meant for him had been taken by the very man who'd ruined my life decades earlier.
With one selfish act twenty-five years ago, Declan Barretti had changed the course of my entire existence. I'd spent my entire adult life hating the man for what he’d taken from me. Three nights ago, he'd given something even more precious back, but it was hard to make sense of that. On some level, maybe I'd already forgiven him, but deep down, I knew it wasn't that simple.
I'd lost too much.
Thoughts of the past made my chest constrict painfully and I automatically began rubbing my finger across the ring on my left hand.
Mac's ring.
The one he hadn't been able to give me himself because Declan Barretti and the men in blue who'd sworn to have Mac's back had abandoned him when he’d needed them the most. And they'd done it simply because of who he’d loved.
Me.
I turned my attention away from the blood and focused on putting the rest of the living room back in order. Work had always helped me get through the difficult times and while I hadn't needed to do that in a while, not since the arrival of my younger son, I was glad for that particular trait at the moment.
Once I was done with the living room, I went to Ryan's room to inspect the damage. I hadn't really paid much attention to what, if any, destruction my attacker had caused in my youngest son's room when he'd entered the house that way, so I really didn't know what to expect. My biggest goal, in addition to getting Ryan's space back to normal, was to try and erase the image of the man holding a gun to my son’s head. Realistically, I knew that would likely never happen. I saw that picture every night when I tried to close my eyes and every time I looked at Ryan now, even if he was happy and smiling and communicating in his own unique way, I still only saw the fear in his eyes as he’d looked to me to protect him.