Shattered Glass(54)

Yes. Fuck, yes. Yes on four different levels—one of them pleading. “No,” I replied.

With my mouth drier than a Saharan summer day, I marched/wobbled into the kitchen, slamming the metal teapot down on the stove. The shower upstairs turned on. My eyes rolled upward to the ceiling as I stood, literally waiting for a watched pot to boil.

What would his naked skin feel like next to mine? How many freckles would I count on the inside of his thigh? What sounds would he make if I used my tongue along his stomach?

The next second I blinked and stood inside my bedroom, staring at my bathroom door. That was when the diseased portion of my brain began developing a personality and a voice.

I could have him. I deserve it even. Isn’t it his fault I’m suspended? That my wedding is called off? Any way I want it. He’s a whore. You do him a favor, he does you one.

And what would that make you, Austin? If you used him like that?

“A lot less fucking cranky, that’s for sure,” I muttered to my empty bedroom. And maybe my boner finally could stop wearing holes through my pants.

More than mildly disgusted with myself, I turned abruptly and swallowed bile before forcing myself to walk—not run—out the door.

“Austin?” Peter asked quietly.

Downstairs the teapot screamed.





Getting to Know Your Local Sociopath

“Tea’s ready,” I said, pretending that was the reason for my flight. I didn’t wait for his reply, or turn to see if he was dressed. If I saw him there, in a towel, dripping wet, I wouldn’t be able to control myself. My fingers already itched in memory of the last time I touched him.

I jumped over the last few steps in my haste to get downstairs. In the kitchen, I set up two cups of tea and stared at mine while it steeped. Why the fuck was I drinking tea? Across the room, on the coffee table Johnny Walker attempted seduction.

Peter stepped into the kitchen replacing my whiskey fantasy with one involving my teeth and the borrowed pair of blue and gold college sweats and t-shirt he wore. He grabbed the other cup of tea, eyes shifting along the countertop until he found the sugar. “Would you like some tea with that?” I asked, watching him spoon four heaping mounds into his cup.

“I’d like a Coke or Pepsi,” he retorted, opening my fridge. “Beggars and choosers, Austin.”

I wished he’d quit using my name. It was like an incantation, stealing bits of my soul for himself every time he said it. “Soda’s bad for you.”

“You’re a little young for me to call you daddy, but when you say things like that…,” he deadpanned, pouring milk into his cup and closing the fridge.

“Nikolaj,” I prompted, pressing back against the counter and hoping either my jeans or polo were baggy enough to hide my erection.

Peter exhaled an indecipherable sigh and set his tea down. Was that frustration? Resignation? Fucking aggravating man—always so goddamn impossible to read. Pulling himself onto the counter, Peter gripped the edge and stared at his feet. “Did you ever love someone so much, you lost yourself in them?”

“Not sure I could tell you what love is anymore,” I answered.

He frowned but nodded, as if he understood. “I was four when Cai’s mom—”

‘Your mom, you mean?”

He shook his head, and I followed a bead of water as it dropped from the tip of an auburn tendril, snuck past his temple and slid down his cheek. My tongue curled involuntarily against the roof of my mouth. “Do you know much about Nikki the Nail?” This time I mouthed a ‘No’. I knew the story of Nikolaj Strakosha, The Boy Who Killed the Mafioso, because it had been a news sensation at the time, but I knew little of the crime family.

“In the 90’s,” Peter began, “Little Moscow—what we called our neighborhood in Sunny Isles, Miami—was run by the Briansky Boys. The boys being the boss Aleksandr Briansky, his number one Nikolai Dyachenko and his number two, Kaja Strakosha.”

“Wait. Nikolai is your dad. But Cai is named Nikolaj?” I said, brows furrowing as that little wiggle of question tickled my brain. Nikolaj Strakosha. “He was Kaja’s kid?” The same last names seemed obvious, but the first name was what threw me.

“Yes. But my dad and Cai’s were like family—in the mafia sense as well as the brotherly way. Cai was named after my dad. Rofasa, Cai’s mom, and Zhavra, my mom, were best friends, practically sisters. And their children couldn’t be more like brothers if they shared DNA.” He waited while I digested that, biting his lip and regarding me through his brows.

I was struggling with how attached he was to this kid. “Cai’s not your real brother,” I said.