“Thank you.” Sam clutched the phone to his chest a moment. “Thanks a lot. For everything, for this…”
“You’re welcome.” Jacob meant it.
Sam tipped his head at the door. “I guess we should go. I’m kind of behind in homework.” He held up his casted arm. “This is a great excuse, but I still have to get it done some time.” He started to turn.
“Oh, the woman who was here,” Jacob said, “she mentioned something about some letters Marcel wanted you to keep.”
“Letters…” Sam gasped. “You mean the boxes of letters?”
“No idea.”
“That’s the only letters I know of.” He stared across the room in the direction of the garage. “He wrote them to someone he cared about.” Sam chewed his lip. “Alexander?”
A name that used to stir jealousy in Jacob, now there was only the sadness of knowing Marcel lost him.
“I read them. I wasn’t really supposed to, but I’m pretty sure he knew I would, so I did.”
“If he didn’t want you to read them, he wouldn’t have let you.”
Sam nodded. “Yeah, kinda what I figured.” His expression turned serious. “Why would he want me to take the letters? If he’s alive…” Sam took a breath that expanded his skinny chest.
“I don’t know the answer to that either.”
“He kept them on a shelf in the garage.” Sam took a step but couldn’t seem to bring himself to take another.
“C’mon.” Jacob headed toward the kitchen. As Marcel would say, Sam would or wouldn’t follow.
Sam caught up to Jacob at the door leading to the garage.
Without the GTO, the open space had transformed into a void. The tarp that always covered the car lay piled on the floor.
It was unlike Marcel to leave anything in disarray.
It could only be a testament to how quickly he’d fallen in behind Jacob and Ben.
Followed them.
And in his own way, saved them.
Jacob waited at the landing while Sam and Roshan went over to the tall metal shelf organized to the point of chaos.
A direct reflection of the rest of the house. Everything in its place. Every item useful. Every item important.
Nothing without worth no matter how small.
Sam removed one of several boxes and placed it on the floor. He opened and closed his hands before kneeling and parting the flaps.
Sam removed a stack of photos, a sweater, then a shoebox.
Roshan knelt beside him.
The warmth of Ben’s presence pushed against Jacob. He leaned back, and Ben wrapped an arm around his waist. Their hands found each other. Soft lips pressed a kiss against Jacob’s temple.
“I was thinking I’d take a semester or two off from college.”
“What?” Jacob turned his head a little. “Why?”
“To spend time with you.”
Jacob continued to stare.
“Just till, you know, we figure this out. This between us. Whatever…” Ben closed his eyes for a moment. “I think I’m falling in love with you.”
“You think?” Jacob laughed a little.
“Never been in love. But…”
“It hurts.”
Ben searched Jacob’s face. “Like hell.”
Jacob went back to leaning against Ben. “Don’t forget we have to date. Flowers. All the wooing and poetry and mushy stuff.”
“What if I can’t write poetry?”
“You’ll have to figure that one out on your own.”
Ben smiled against Jacob’s cheek. “I know. I could sing to you.”
“Please don’t.”
Laughter shook both of them. “I can sing.”
“No, you can’t.”
“How do you know?”
“I’ve heard you in the shower.”
They stood there watching Sam open the letters with Roshan, sitting so close their arms touched, each of them holding an edge of the paper.
“You up for going out tonight?” Ben held Jacob tighter. “For an official date.”
“Will you bring flowers?” Jacob barely kept a hold on his laughter.
“I’ll bring you anything you want.”
“Those are some dangerous words. No telling what mountain I might ask you to climb, what empire I’d ask you to conquer.”
“I will bring you the moon if you ask.” The promise was exhaled against the shell of Jacob’s ear.
“You’ve been watching too many old movies.” Jacob turned enough to catch Ben’s gaze.
“You said to woo you.”
“Wooing is good. The moon is a bit much.”
“Okay.”
Jacob went back to leaning against Ben. “You can bring me one of those squishy octopus things from the arcade instead. But then you’d have to actually win a game of Skee-Ball.”
Ben laughed, and so did Jacob.
“Challenge accepted.” Ben kissed Jacob on the cheek.
Epilogue
A cloud of dust caught the wind, pelting Devon with sharp bits of sand. Sweat glued the rest to his skin.
He used the collar of his shirt to clear it out of his eyes. The reprieve lasted until new droplets escaped from under his bangs, refueling the burn.
It was tempting to remove his shirt and use it to cover his head. But with pale skin, his back and shoulders would burn to a crisp under the Nevada sun.
Already his cheeks hurt, his forehead ached, and the back of his neck practically sizzled.
And the sun was barely up.
Besides, pulling off his shirt and tying it around his head required two working hands, and he barely had one.
The toe of his tennis shoe caught a pebble, sending it skipping across the two-lane road.
How long had he been out here?
He rubbed his wrist where there’d once been an expensive watch given to him as a gift for all his hard work.
Work that had made Paul Jones a shit ton of money over the past six months. Money that had got Devon out of a small-town drowning in hate and a hellhole job.
If only he’d known what a hellhole was.
But he’d been blinded by the glitz, the glam, the praise, the admiration bestowed on him by a fast-talking con-man that had convinced Devon he was more than some freak of nature who could work math problems he didn’t even understand, but barely write his own name.
And apparently someone too stupid to realize he was only useful until he got caught.
The ache of his bruised ribs flared, and he stumbled. He swiped a knuckle under his nose. It hadn’t started bleeding again, but he still couldn’t breathe. That was probably because of the swelling.
Casino owners apparently didn’t have much sympathy for dumb country boys taken for a ride.
At least they hadn’t broken all his fingers. Even though it felt like it.
Devon had wondered why the two goons who’d taken him from the city and into the desert hadn’t killed him like they did in the movies. Especially after beating the shit out of him.
He might have been on the south side of smart, but it didn’t take him long to figure out they did intend to kill him.
Slowly, under the heat of a summer sun.
Even when Paul walked away, leaving Devon alone by the card table, he’d still held hope the guy would show up and use his silver tongue to smooth things over. At least until he was shoved into the SUV while Paul stood on the corner less than three feet away watching.
The bastard even had the audacity to wave.
No, even Devon with only a third-grade education figured out he’d been played.
An engine rumbled. Tires beat the blacktop.
He stepped off the road rather than trying to flag anyone down. After the last two trucks blew by him, nearly knocking him off his feet and sucking him under the wheels, he’d decided it was better to give them a wide berth rather than wave for help.
Heat rippled off the road, breaking up the horizon.
The engine grew louder, and t
he hum of tires slowed.
A car pulled up to Devon, rolling slow enough to keep pace. He stopped, and so did the car.
Sleek, dark green, built in a time long before Devon’s father had been born.
Glare across the windows hid the driver.
When no one got out, Devon climbed back onto the shoulder.
The car didn’t pull away, so he opened the door.
Scars covered the man’s face. A few bright enough to suggest they were new, but the majority had long weathered with his aging skin. Whatever injuries he’d suffered had claimed an entire ear and left his hair in downy gray patches over his temple on the same side.
It wasn’t the clouded eye that set ice into Devon’s veins, but the darkness of the clear one.
A window into a place Devon couldn’t fathom.
Heat sucked the sweat from his skin and ate its way through the soles of his shoes. Cool air flowing from the AC beckoned him into the car.
“Your car. It broke down?” It sounded more like a test than a question, but maybe that was because of his accent.
Devon started to say yes, to anyone else he would have said yes, if for no other reason than to save what little pride he had left. But the lie refused to form.
“No, not really.”
The corner of the man’s mouth twitched. “This is not a good place to be left behind at.”
Did he know? How could he? Yet Devon couldn’t shake the odd feeling he did. That this stranger, this scarred old man could read him like he read cards.
Devon told himself to close the door. To walk away. It wasn’t because the man radiated fear, but how his presence tugged at something deep inside him.
He tightened his grip on the handle.
“Come. Get in. There is a store ten miles or so. I will stop, and you can use their phone.”
Who would Devon call? Who would care if he lived or died? Who would miss him if he were gone?
And Devon was sure if he got inside the car, he would never return. He might not die, but he would never be the man he was.
As if he wanted to be.
Devon slipped into the passenger seat and shut the door.
“Tell me, what is your name?” The man put the car into gear.
“Devon Callen.”
“It is pleasure, Devon. I am Marcel Serghi.”
The End
About the Author
Dear Reader,
Love this book? Hate it? Either way, I would greatly appreciate a review. And again, good or bad, thank you so much for taking the time to do so.
About the Author:
I am a national and international bestselling author of all things gay romance. Here in the backwoods of nowhere I enjoy life with four dogs, three cats, and a collection of saltwater fish and coral.
When I’m not writing, I’m drawing and working on a couple of comics currently running on my Patreon page.
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And hopefully many more to come!
Sicarii 3 Page 23
