Chasing Kit

Chapter 1

KIT UHLIG

I groaned, dropping my forehead onto the gray marble kitchen island. “Mornings suck ass.”

The smell of coffee tickling my nose made everything worse.

My stomach was already doing that thing where it felt like it was slowly eating itself, and had been since I’d woken up, all because of today’s “Crimes Against Humanity” exam.

Yes, it was a class, not just a card game.

I didn’t know why I got so worked up about my grades.

None of my friends did. Apparently, I was an all-around nerd who couldn’t even find my people.

Laughter filled the kitchen. I raised my head at the gentle clink of a bowl placed in front of my crossed arms. Dad winked at me, looking impeccable as usual in a navy blue suit with faint gray pinstripes.

I didn’t understand how I was his son. I’d never been as suave as him.

He was a businessman who had taken New Gothenburg by storm, and I was lucky to have a quarter of his charisma.

“It’s not that bad, kid. You’re fine,” he said.

“Fine? Fine? Dad, I have a test today worth twenty percent of my final grade. And it’s for my class about genocide. The prof has it out for me!” My eyes widened. “We’re barely a month into the new semester. I don’t think I’m prepared.”

He nudged the oatmeal toward me. “Eat. Stop stressing. You’re the smartest kid I know, and I’m proud of you. You study a hell of a lot more than I ever did.”

I took the spoon, grunting. Easy for him to say. He had the looks and the charm—the whole Italian inheritance of dark waves with silver at the temples and a perfect beard that had skipped me entirely. I’d gotten Mom’s softer features, his brow, and his ears.

“I’m not ready,” I said, staring down at my spoon. I was an anxious ball disguised as a human. But Dad? I’d never seen the man break a sweat.

Dad shook his head and grabbed his bowl. He turned, leaning his lower back against the kitchen counter near the double sink, and shoved a spoonful of oatmeal in his mouth. After he swallowed, he stared directly at me.

“Kit, you’re prepared. You do this every time you have a test, and you always ace it, don’t you?” he asked.

I grumbled, stirring my breakfast, the thick goo swirling around my spoon. I couldn’t eat. The thought of food made me queasy.

Dad’s gaze narrowed as he sighed. “Where’s your mom this week?”

“Off to London for her boyfriend’s new play.” I scrunched my nose, picturing Niall, Mom’s new “sugar boy.” “Sugar daddy” was more accurate. He had money and spoiled her. “She called a few nights ago to tell me he got her a boob job.”

“Of course he did.” Dad rolled his eyes. He ate carefully to avoid staining his suit. The man possessed far more elegance than I did. I was like a flailing mouse at the best of times. The differences between us made me wonder if I was even his son. “You only have to look at his last girlfriend.”

I made a noise of disgust, and Dad laughed.

“What are you learning in school, anyway? I feel like we haven’t talked much lately.”

We hadn’t. He was busy with work, and at twenty-two, I didn’t need a babysitter. His absence just meant I could have friends over without the embarrassment of admitting I still lived with my dad on Angel Perch Drive, near the bluffs.

Well, I could if I had friends.

I hated that I came from money despite knowing I’d been kissed on the forehead by luck.

We didn’t live on Vert Island, but we were only a step down.

Dad could live with the other overzealous rich people if he wanted, but he chose not to—something Mom had always hated. She liked spending money. He didn’t.

“I’m taking an interesting class about the history of organized crime.

” I grinned at him and put down my spoon.

Realistically, I wasn’t going to eat this morning before the test. My stomach was already in knots at the thought of a bad grade.

“We’re learning about American mobs and where they came from—like the Black Hand in Italy and the old gang wars in New York.

We even have an expert coming in to talk today. He’s written a couple of books on it.”

“Yeah?” Dad turned, set his bowl on the counter, and then grabbed a mug of coffee. He took a sip, humming in delight. “Who is that?”

“Dr. Vail Mifflin. He’s from New York City and used to teach at MCU.”

Dad choked on his coffee, and I frowned as he thumped his chest.

“Are you okay?”

He coughed, then smacked his mug against the counter with a clatter. Turning his back to me, he continued to clear his throat. “Fuck.”

I straightened in the tall chair and cocked my head. “Do you know him?”

“Nope.” He spun toward me, offering a strained, tight-lipped smile that made me uneasy. “Never heard of the man. When is that class?”

“Later this afternoon. It’s my three o’clock lecture.”

He nodded, smoothing his hand down his burgundy tie. This time, his smile seemed more genuine and relaxed. “Sounds interesting, kiddo.”

His tone suggested otherwise, and I felt a pang of sympathy for him. What had him so frazzled?

“Sky texted last night,” I said, hoping to regain his attention.

My younger brother had started backpacking around the country as soon as he’d turned eighteen.

Dad had tried to prevent him from leaving, but no one could stop Sky from doing what he wanted.

He’d always been my opposite—rebellious and carefree.

The world was his oyster, and I was jealous I couldn’t be that way, too.

Dad hummed, half listening. Or perhaps he didn’t hear a word I’d said. I couldn’t tell. He’d turned his back to me again and was typing something on his phone.

“He’s in Louisiana. Can you imagine Sky in Louisiana?” I laughed. “He’s already complaining about the heat.”

I sighed at the constant clicking of Dad’s phone and rubbed the back of my neck, frowning.

“Sky’s knocked up. He’s carrying ten babies at once, and he thinks they belong to Mom’s new boyfriend. They had wild sex six months ago.” I chuckled.

Dad acknowledged me with another hum but kept his attention on his phone.

“The new boyfriend is really an alien, and he’s going to take Sky back to his home planet where they’re going to populate the planet’s army with their own little devil spawn.”

Still nothing more than a quiet, back-of-the-throat sound from him.

Finally, I gave up. Something had him rattled, and the stiffness in his spine was unsettling.

When the doorbell rang, Dad straightened and held a finger up at me as though I were still talking. He escaped the kitchen, and I watched him go, curious. I couldn’t help myself. I followed him through a short hallway to the tiny foyer of our small cottage.

He tossed open the wide, white wooden door, revealing a familiar tall man.

War was Dad’s head of security. I’d only ever seen him when Dad was dealing with “threats”—men who would show up smiling and leave with their shoulders slumped, their faces pale. I didn’t know the specifics, but I’d seen enough to know Dad didn’t just win arguments, he ruined lives.

War was a big man, a head taller than Dad, with thick muscles in his arms and chest. His white dress shirt was taut, straining against his pecs.

I couldn’t help but admire the hard lines of his body and how his shoulders stretched the thin fabric.

What gay man wouldn’t? I was always glad when he picked up Dad and opted not to wear his suit jacket.

My mouth watered, and I swallowed to avoid drooling like an idiot.

He’d joined us for dinner and drinks a few times, and I couldn’t tear my attention away from him.

He was the kind of eye candy I used for jerk-off fodder.

It was hard to look at anything but him and his dark blond hair, styled in a long crew cut.

I offered him a smile, but he only gave me a curt nod. His lips were pursed, reminding me of a soldier standing at attention, as if a superior might bark orders at any moment. A silver chain peeked out from his collar, and the outline of dog tags pressed against the material at his chest.

“War, come inside.” Dad gestured him forward and stepped back. “I need to grab a few things from my office. Kit, why don’t you get War a drink while I gather my work?”

Dad didn’t wait for an answer. He left us and headed to his office, a small room to the right of the front door.

I grinned at War.

After closing the door, he dutifully shuffled behind me as I headed back to the kitchen. I grabbed the bowls of oatmeal, dumped them, and stacked the rinsed dishes neatly by the sink for our maid.

War always looked faintly offended whenever he entered our house, as if the soft colors and quiet domesticity were a personal insult.

His lips thinned as he scanned the room, his gaze lingering on the family photos stuck to the fridge with magnets.

There was a photo of me and Sky, at the age of ten and eight, smiling at the camera with big toothy grins.

Another was of the three of us, when Sky and I were both early teens, and before the tension between Dad and Sky stretched into distance.

The final photo was of me and Dad at my high school graduation.

“We don’t have any severed heads in the freezer, if that’s what you’re wondering,” I said.

He gave me a measured stare before taking a heavy seat at the kitchen island.

He didn’t laugh, but I hadn’t expected one.

In all the time he’d driven Dad to and from work, I’d never seen him smile, let alone show any form of amusement.

He was always serious, his vigilance a constant, sharp presence.

He watched the doors and windows with an intensity that sent a shiver skating down my spine.

“I’ll get you some juice!” I bounced to the steel-gray fridge, opened it, and grabbed a carton of OJ and a glass from a cupboard. I set the glass on the island in front of him and filled it. “This is my favorite. Dad says it’s horrible, but what does that man know about taste, right?”