26. Lucas
TWENTY-SIX
Lucas
I’m not at all convinced that this is a good idea, but I won’t pretend I’m not enjoying myself anyway. No one has ever taken me out to dinner.
My mom and Frank used to go out all the time, but they never took me. Not that I would have enjoyed going with them.
But I don’t want to think about any of that tonight.
I glance around the upscale Italian restaurant. Roman and I are seated in a semi-private nook that overlooks much of the romantically lit dining space. Sharply dressed waiters move between the tables, where patrons in elegant clothes lift silver forks and crystal glasses.
Self-consciousness creeps in. I am way out of my depth. I might be wearing nice pants, shiny shoes, and a pale pink button down, and I might have an expensive haircut that, yeah, does look good, but—
“Lucas.”
My eyes jump across the table to Roman. My god, he’s handsome. I love him naked, and I love him in lounge clothes, but I love him in this too: a charcoal gray suit over a black shirt that’s open at the collar. The sophistication suits the structure of his beautifully masculine face, and somehow his intensity makes it even more alluring.
He belongs here. This is the world he came from. In fact, this restaurant belongs to someone on his mother’s side of the family, and that’s why we were able to get an exclusive table on short notice.
I, however—
Dark eyes narrowing, Roman leans across the table. If I had a tie, he’d probably grab it, but I don’t, so he grabs my jaw instead. It’s no surprise to me that he doesn’t say anything. All of our most important communication has always been unspoken.
I know what he’s saying right now, just like I knew he loved me before he told me. It meant a lot to me that he wasn’t shocked when I said it first. It meant that he also already knew. It meant that I had told him without words and that he had already believed me.
But what he’s saying right now is that I belong here, and that’s harder for me to believe.
As the moment draws out, I see another truth in his eyes. He wants me here. He needs me here.
This is hard for him. It’s so hard that he’s been masking, until now, exactly how hard. He’s trying not to ruin tonight like he thinks he ruined our last outing. But he didn’t ruin our last outing at all. I love his protectiveness, his possessiveness, and his raw primality.
He’s not ruining this either, and I won’t let him think that. He wants me here, and that’s enough to make me accept that I belong. I want to be here for him, like he’s here for me.
When he sees the way I soften and yield, he lets go of my jaw. His hand drops to mine and moves it to my wine glass before he withdraws.
I smile. He’s oddly sweet sometimes.
I sip the wine. I’ve never actually had wine before, but I wanted to try it.
“You can get something else,” Roman says when I make a face.
“I’m not ready to give up. It’s supposed to be an acquired taste, right?”
He shakes his head, looking amused. I love when he’s amused. It’s so damn nice to see him experience positive things.
I already knew he was strong based on how he endured his horrific circumstances, but I didn’t realize how strong he really is until he emerged from those circumstances and started working so goddamn hard to make things better.
I know that most of his motivation is me. He’s my motivation too. He’s the reason I let go of my insecurity and pick up my fork and get back to work on my seafood pasta extravaganza whose name I can’t remember. It’s delicious, whatever it is.
Roman digs back into his lasagna. I watch him from the corner of my eye as I eat and try not to get the buttery sauce on my shirt.
Why do I love watching him eat? It’s weirdly captivating. It’s the way his jaw works and the way he swallows. Even when we were sharing a bowl of rice and chicken in our cell, I loved watching him eat. I don’t know why it’s so attractive.
He keeps glancing around. He’s on alert, not really relaxed, but I just let him do his thing. It wouldn’t help for me to point out that we’re fine, that everyone here is simply dining, that Quinn is at the bar just in case.
And everything is fine all through dinner. It’s an absolutely gold star evening. Everything is fine when Roman settles the bill and when we walk out the door into the cool Boston night. Everything is fine as we walk to our car.
It’s a thing that I asked for, the walk. Roman wanted Quinn to bring the car around, but it’s so nice to be out that I couldn’t give it up just yet.
So it’s my fault, really, when the gunshot cracks.
I’m already on the ground when I hear it because Roman has already picked up on the threat. My brain seems to glitch at the sudden change from walking pleasantly through the night to sprawling on the concrete. I cover my head instinctively at the answering shots. Roman is crouched beside me, shielding me with his body as he returns fire.
Quinn shouts at Roman to get in the car. I find myself hauled up and half dragged into the parking lot. As we reach the car, another shot fires. Roman shoves me down again.
“Stay down!” he shouts and launches himself over the trunk of the car, tackling someone on the other side.
I don’t dare get up, but from under the car I watch Roman and the other man’s feet. I can tell which one is Roman by his movement as much as by his shoes. He’s so damn fast and powerful and aggressive. His opponent is on the defensive, already trying to extricate himself before his gun clatters to the ground.
I’m thinking about going for the weapon when someone grabs my arm. I scream, thrashing to get free, but it’s Quinn. He releases me and opens the car door. By the time I scramble inside, Roman’s opponent has fled.
Quinn shouts at Roman to get in.
As my door slams shut, Roman opens the one opposite me, blocking the opening with his body. Keeping his gun in hand and eyes on his surroundings, he waits for Quinn to get in the driver’s seat, then he gets in. He grabs my head and crushes me down onto the seat as Quinn starts the car.
As we pull out onto the street, I remain still under Roman’s hand. All I hear is heavy breathing. Mine. Roman’s. Quinn’s.
Then Roman asks, “Lucas, are you hurt?”
My brain reengages. “No. Are you?”
“No. Quinn?”
“Just a graze.”
I try to sit up, but Roman exerts pressure, keeping me down. When I relax, showing him that I’ll stay down, his hand moves to my shoulder.
I’m anxious about the situation, but I’m very much struck by the way I’m the one being protected, despite the fact that I was most certainly not the target of the attack. It’s not that I’m surprised that Roman would put me first when he’s done it before—many times, really, in various ways—but it’s still a strange way for me to exist in the world. As something important.
Roman’s free hand reaches into his jacket and pulls out his phone. He sends a text. A reply comes through almost immediately.
“Well?” Quinn prompts as though he knows what message Roman would have sent.
Roman replies, “Vitali’s already there.”