Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 55375 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 277(@200wpm)___ 222(@250wpm)___ 185(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55375 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 277(@200wpm)___ 222(@250wpm)___ 185(@300wpm)
“You were good at it,” I say.
“That’s one reason I hated it so much.”
I nod, taking a sip of the steaming black brew. That’s one of the major differences between me and him. There’s a part of me that loves the fight, the blood, the violence, loves knowing I’m a bad man, and it’s my job to keep the real monsters in check.
“How did Emma take it?” he asks.
“Good, I think. She didn’t seem too fazed.”
“She’s tough,” Mike says. “As tough as you can be as a civilian, that’s her.”
Anybody else might take that as an insult, but I know exactly what he means. It’s a compliment coming from an ex-military man. It means the person is naturally tough and has some grit deep inside them, something they were born with.
“She’s going to make a good mom,” Mike says.
“You think about that?”
“Of course. I’m old,” Mike smirks, seeming far younger than his age, a boyish glint in his eyes. “I want to be a grandfather one day.”
Maybe I should use this as motivation to shut down any thoughts about revisiting the steaminess from the graduation party. What’s the endgame? I get with her, fall for her, and we decide to be together. Then what? I’m the father of Mike’s grandkids? I’m his son-in-law if we choose to get married? It’s a goddamn farce.
“You good?” he asks.
“Yeah, why?”
“Sometimes, you get this look in your eyes. Like you’re ready for murder.”
I laugh savagely. “That’s because I am. I would’ve happily put Rafael in the dirt.”
“How bad is he for a trafficker? More business or sick, twisted pleasure?”
Sick, twisted pleasure makes me think of his daughter, kneeling on the floor of the storage room, her thighs glistening with her lust. It’s a thought that belongs nowhere near this discussion. I shut it down and put it away for now.
“A power-hungry freak,” I tell Mike. “He enjoys inflicting pain. That’s the only reason he’s in his business. That’s why he threatened you. He wanted to hurt me, and his pathetic little torture didn’t work.”
“What did he do?” Mike asks.
“Nothing much. Whipping. Beating. Sleep deprivation. They wanted to keep my face clean for ransom photos if that’s the route they decided to go down.”
“Is it bad?” Mike nods to my body, meaning my injuries.
“It’s bearable: some cuts on my back from the whip, some bruised ribs, nothing game-changing.”
“That bastard,” Mike says with a sigh. “I never enjoyed it, but if he were here, you know I’d put a bullet in his head. And that one, hell, I might get a kick out of.”
Typically, a comment like this would fill me with a warm, brotherly feeling. Mike’s the only person who can make me experience small sprinklings of humanity like that. However, just like everything else between us, it’s tinged by the ghost of Emma lurking, watching, judging. Even if she’s not physically in the room, I feel her presence, taste her lips, her warmth.
We click our coffee mugs together and then go on drinking in silence. Mike would never dream, even if given a thousand straight hours of contemplation, that I have any attraction to Emma. He’d never guess about the party or the hunger in me constantly trying to break through to the surface.
Yet it’s there. I’ll have to ignore it. Pretend it never happened. Never, ever acknowledge it. Bury it. Bury my feelings. Bury this small flame inside me that would become an inferno if my woman coaxed it just a little with a kiss or our naked bodies brushing together. I’d treat her how she deserves this time, kissing her tenderly, slipping slowly between her legs.
What would Mike do to me if he knew about these thoughts?
“Have you got a gun for me?” Mike asks.
“I thought you ditched firearms when you left.”
“With Emma here, I can’t risk having morals or qualms. I can’t let anything happen to her.” He gets uncharacteristically grim momentarily and then tries to smile away the real fear sarcastically. “Hell, can you imagine the fallout with Vanessa? Perfect opportunity for one of her drama shows.”
As far as I can tell, Vanessa and Mike divorced because he was way too chilled out, and she was way too pent up. Now, she has a new husband, a banker, who is apparently just as dramatic and high-energy as she is.
“I’ll get you a piece,” I tell him, “and don’t worry. We won’t let anything happen to Emma.”
Mike’s phone buzzes. He grabs it, looks down, and then a different kind of smile spreads across his face.
“What’s the grin about?” I ask.
“What? Nothing. Just a work email.”
He’s lying, but it’s probably innocent enough. Maybe he’s dating somebody. Perhaps he’s gambling, or he applied for a new job and doesn’t want to say anything until it’s one hundred percent. Whatever it is, it can never be as bad as the secret eating away at my soul.