Chapter 9 Miles
Miles
Xavier doesn’t immediately retreat to his room in his penthouse suite.
He takes his time undressing, leaving clothes on the floor in his wake, until he’s wearing nothing but tight black briefs.
Snagging a bottle of wine from the rack and a hanging glass, he steps out onto the balcony, leaving it open as an invitation.
I forego another glass, not willing to drink when he’s in this mood. I’d rather have all my wits about me. The burgers go on top of the stove. Whether he ends up eating or not remains to be seen.
Hooking a finger in my tie, I work it off and sling it, along with my jacket, over the back of a breakfast bar chair.
Xavier’s clothes go over the back of the white couch; they can be sent for dry cleaning tomorrow.
Rolling my shirt sleeves to my elbows, I step out into the crisp night air.
There’s a cold breeze that lingers under the skin like prickles.
Xavier nurses a glass of the red, hip resting against the glass railing. He’s turned, giving me a view of his muscled back and strong hair-roughened thighs. With one knee bent, he looks lost somehow.
The sounds of the city below are muted, blanketing us in a world where it feels like just the two of us. I’ve always preferred Xavier’s place over my own studio apartment that I barely stay in. It’s a place to retreat if I need it and nothing more.
“Did you see her?” he asks.
Joining him, I look below before answering. The cars look like ants, and the lights are like twinkling stars coming from Hell. “No.”
“Do you ever think about having children?”
I curl my gloved hands over the edge of the railing.
I wear the gloves for a lot of reasons. Most assume they’re nefarious.
They aren’t wrong, but they aren’t correct either.
Touch is… out of my purview. The memory of pain overshadows any pleasure I could get from it.
Violence I’m familiar with, and I understand that kind of touch.
But a caress? A soft lingering trail of skin against skin, intimate stolen kisses between lovers? I don’t walk in that kind of light.
“No.”
“Me either,” Xavier says softly. He blows out a breath and then takes a long sip of his wine, almost emptying half the glass. “My legacy is stained. As am I.” He swirls the remaining wine, a deep dark red. “Fitting colour, no?”
My own hands are stained with more red than his. He gives the orders, but I’m the one who carries them out. “We play the hand we’re dealt.” Neither of us had a say in where our lives went. Xavier tried to break free of the mould once, and he’s been paying for it ever since.
“And when we’re tired of playing?”
“Are you tired of playing, Xavier?” He’s never enjoyed the game.
Threw himself into it with a vengeance after everything that went down with Hunter all those years ago.
Became someone even I didn’t recognise for many years.
I was forced to step to the side, mould myself into something new to fit more easily around his frame. To protect him, even from himself.
Xavier doesn’t answer, exhaling slowly. Another sip. He caresses the side of the glass with his thumb. “What do you think of him?”
“I think he wouldn’t hesitate to rip out our throats if we pushed too hard.
” Understatement. Hunter is a predator, waiting in the grass for his chance to spill blood.
He’s good at hiding it under the affable nature, and I could never fault his paternal instincts.
But he’s kidding himself if he thinks that he’s any different than us.
Xavier reaches for me, and I step into his space, allowing him to tug me closer with a hold on my belt.
The same one I’d been ready to remove for Hunter.
He fiddles with the leather end of it, pulling it free so he has better leverage.
He’s careful not to touch my skin even as he tugs a part of my shirt from my waistband, letting it hang over his hand.
“Do you want me to take you back?” I can see in his dark eyes that he needs something more.
He’s been strung tight for weeks now, and seeing Hunter has only made that restlessness worse.
He hasn’t gone to see Hunter at night for too long, doesn’t fully understand just how different, more relaxed he is when he does.
I see the before and after, and I’ve never denied him this one thing, never argued with him about it, because I know it helps him even as it slowly kills him.
Poison and its antidote mixed in one drink.
He smooths a thumb over the buckle, adding pressure.
“Not tonight.” He glances at my lips. I know what he wants.
It’s always been there, for us both. A current that can’t be ignored as much as it can’t be touched.
A step that we’ll never take, our relationship a precarious balance that requires ironclad control. “You liked watching him.”
I consider the question masked as a statement. “I liked watching you.” I’m not ready for the other admission. A pointless thought, for a number of reasons. I don’t dwell on things that are irrelevant. “Another drink?”
Xavier tilts his head in acknowledgment and holds up his glass. “Please.”
If he keeps up with this pace, I’ll have to get him to bed. Wouldn’t be the first time. His contemplative mood is more dangerous than any alcohol he’ll consume.
“Would you watch again?” he asks after another long drink. There’s a glaze in his eyes but not enough. He’s not totally sober, but he’s in control of his words. For that reason alone, I give the question its due consideration.
“Is that what you want?” It’s not a line we’ve ever crossed.
Another one drawn in the sand and respected.
Whenever I’ve taken him to Hunter’s at night, I’ve always waited in the car.
When they were together what feels like a lifetime ago, I gave them complete privacy.
Hunter wasn’t a threat the way he is now.
The day that Xavier was put into a position where he could have died was the day I stopped giving Hunter the benefit of the doubt.
When he’s in his home, vulnerable and half asleep, I’m not as worried.
Xavier goes in prepared and comes out satiated. The only reason I allow it to continue.
“What do you want?”
A question rarely asked. Not because Xavier doesn’t care; he simply already knows what I want. Open communication like this isn’t normally required. Xavier’s been off-kilter for a while now.
My standard answer, “what you want,” gets stuck in my throat. The earnest expression on Xavier’s face makes me think harder, look at the truth of not just the question but the answer.
I’ve never thought much about sexual desire.
My inability to touch another removes that from the equation.
I can’t deny that Hunter is a beautiful man, and it turns me on to watch him and Xavier together.
“You included me,” is what comes out of my mouth.
He’d requested I join him, help undress the man that holds every piece of his heart.
“You were there,” he says simply. He takes another sip and looks across the city lights. It never sleeps. Nowhere does, really.
I can’t decipher the words. “Have you done that before?”
Xavier’s smile is predatory and unfriendly. “Allowed someone else to touch Hunter? I’d kill them.”
I don’t doubt he has. Some of my targets have been men that thought they could own something that belongs to Xavier. I don’t question the orders; what Xavier wants, he gets. I owe him nothing less.
“You’re different, Miles.” He finishes his glass, sliding it on the glass table and coming to stand directly in front of me. “Your strings are attached to me.”
A puppet, for his sole use. I’m not offended by the description; he’s not wrong, and I wear it proudly. I don’t consider it a negative to be under his boot. He’s earned my loyalty, my respect, and my love.
“You should eat.”
Xavier nods. He kisses my shoulder, warmth through the fabric, and then moves back inside. “I’ll shower first.”
By the time he gets out, hair dripping water down his chest, a towel wrapped loosely around his hips, I’ve put the fries and burgers on a plate, still warm, and another glass of wine is waiting for him.
He doesn’t ask the question again, though we’re both acutely aware that I never really answered.
EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, after delivering Xavier to the office and ensuring he goes nowhere without Aaron and Ryan—both, not one or the other—I head for the small three-bedroom house that the courier uses.
Time to determine if he left of his own free will, or something more nefarious happened.
How far will Hunter’s admirer go in order to not be tracked?
Halfway there, an intriguing number appears on the console screen. Hunter.
“I know what you’re doing today,” he says as soon as I identify myself. “And I’m going with you.”
There’s no way that I’m taking a tagalong for this. “I’m afraid not.” I work better on my own, and Xavier’s made it clear that Hunter isn’t part of this equation.
“If you don’t cooperate with me, I’m going to get uncooperative, and you won’t like that. Tell me where to go, now.”
If he thinks adding the authority to his voice will mean I show throat and do what he wants, he’s sorely mistaken. I don’t answer to him, and I don’t roll over for anyone. Not even Xavier. The difference is that he’d never ask me to.
“I’ll call you back.” I hang up before he can respond, uncaring about his reaction to the abrupt cutoff. Punching in a long-since memorised number, I wait for Xavier to pick up.
“Miss me already?” Xavier drawls when he answers. “I assure you, I’m on my best behaviour.”
I highly doubt that, and it’s why I have Aaron sending me updates every half hour. Which Xavier is well aware of. He’s not a good judge of his own safety. He never has been. It’s why he fell in love with a hunter.
“Hunter wants to be more hands-on with the investigation.”
Xavier’s deep chuckle comes through loud and clear. “It’s not in him to be idle, and I’m not surprised that he contacted you.”
I’d like to know just how he got this number. Keeping secrets, is he? “What do you want me to do?”
“Tell him no.”
This sounds like more than a simple rejection. “You want to see what he does.”
“He said we couldn’t watch him, he didn’t say we couldn’t play with him.”
An important distinction. “Fine. Don’t leave the building until I return.”
“On my honour.”
Instead of calling Hunter back, I send a text message with one word.
No.
He doesn’t respond. I admit I’m curious to know just what he’s going to do with that as well. He’s not one to be underestimated, and I’m well aware that we’re poking the bear. Xavier likes it when we do it; it means he has Hunter’s undivided attention.
Casey Graham lives in a town house well above his means.
We know he’s clean since we did a thorough background check.
He has a wealthy grandmother who dotes on him, and his loyalty can’t be bought like most in this city.
He’s done more than a few courier jobs for us, and he’s always been efficient, on time, and communicative.
The radio silence means something’s happened to him. Perhaps he has a price, after all.
The ornate wooden and stained-glass front door is locked, and no one answers my knocks.
Ensuring no one is around, I make short work of the lock and let myself inside.
There’s a staleness to the air that speaks of a closed-up home.
It’s been cold, so not opening windows isn’t unusual.
The lack of airflow, from a heater or anything else, is.
The rooms are cluttered, lived in but clean. No signs of an interruption or a scuffle. If he was hurt, or taken, he may not have been taken from here. Or he knew he was leaving and packed up.
There’s nothing to find. No evidence of what may have happened. His phone, keys, and wallet aren’t here. Suitcases tucked neatly in his closet. No gaps in his clothing drawers. Neatly made bed.
It’s not a waste of time since we have more information than we did before, but it’s frustrating nonetheless. The next step will be to speak to his grandmother and then employees at his part-time job at a local bakery. I have a feeling they’ll be dead ends.
He’s simply vanished.