Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 84939 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84939 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
"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.