11. Chapter 6 #3
Dropping my voice so that it’s barely more than a whisper, I say, “I have a theory about who started the fire at my father’s house, and if I’m right, that means that you’re being targeted by some extremely dangerous people.
The sort of people that you do not want to piss off.
They have no morals, no lines, nothing they won’t do.
They could hurt you. And those you love. ”
“Sounds like you’re just describing yourself.”
Fuck it. I grab him roughly, pulling him to me, until our bodies are flush together, so that he can feel every hard ridge of my muscles, feel how much stronger I am than him, how much restraint I’ve been showing.
A small gasp escapes his full lips, and that’s when I feel something hard pressing against my thigh—something growing longer and harder with each flutter of his heartbeat.
Oh, you like this, don’t you? I think, suppressing a dark grin.
“You’re right,” I whisper hoarsely. “I could hurt you. But I’m not going to hurt you, because you saved my life, and I don’t forget that.
Now, listen to me and obey me, or the deal’s off.
The people who I think are after you will not show the restraint I’m showing.
Will not hesitate to kill you—or use the people you love to get to you. ”
“This is restraint?” he hisses, struggling against my grip. It’s useless for him to fight me—I’m so much stronger than him. He seems to realize it and stops squirming in my hands.
“You have no idea how much restraint I’m showing,” I whisper close to his ear, and then I can’t help it—something long and hard is growing in my pants, too, and I know he feels it against his stomach.
His gaze flicks down to where our bodies are pressed together, his lips parting just the smallest amount. His throat bobs as he swallows.
“Who’s targeting me?” he finally manages to say.
“Come with me, and I’ll tell you.”
“Where are we going?”
“My apartment. You’ll be safe there.”
You just want him at your apartment so that you can do all the things you want to do, a voice says in my head. I ignore it.
“I—” he begins, but then the door swings open behind him, forcing him closer into my arms.
“Dash—oh! Hello there!”
A short, stout woman stands in the open door. There are echoes of Dashiell in the strong angles of her face, though her skin is several shades darker, her hair thick and dark and curly. She wears a blue floral blouse and practical pants. His mother, I guess.
Dashiell springs away from me, shifting his stance awkwardly—hiding that erection in his pants. “Mom!” he gasps.
“Who’s this?” his mother asks, her eyes skimming over me. I shift my own position, wondering if she can see the bulge of the gun beneath my coat. Or the bulge in my suit pants.
“You must be Mrs. Novak,” I say cordially, inclining my head. “My apologies for not introducing myself immediately. I’d just arrived to pick Dashiell up for our date.”
“Your date?” Mrs. Novak squeaks, her eyes darting to her son.
“Our date!” Dashiell says in a thin, choked voice.
“You didn’t tell me you were dating someone!”
“Who’s there?!” calls an old voice from inside, and then a tiny old woman in a tent-like magenta sweater totters up behind Mrs. Novak.
She stops short when she sees me, her gaze traveling slowly from my feet to my face.
“Well, Dash. I see what you mean about preferring to be picked up instead of picking up. I’d let this man pick me up any day.
” She bats heavily mascaraed eyes at me.
“I’m Zora Novak, this sweet boy’s grandmother.
What’s your name? Do you like older women? ”
“Lorenzo,” I say carefully, ignoring the second part of his grandmother’s question. Dash’s cheeks flamed with embarrassment when she said it.
Dashiell’s grandmother gasps suddenly, her wrinkled hands flying to her mouth. “You’re the man he rescued from the fire.” She looks over her shoulder. “Joshua! There’s a mobster here!” Then she pokes Mrs. Novak in the shoulder. “Aren’t you going to offer him coffee?”
“Ma, what was that?!” shouts a man from inside—Dashiell’s father, I’m sure.
“Oh, my god,” Dashiell says, grabbing my arm suddenly. “We’re gonna go. He doesn’t have time for coffee.”
Mrs. Novak shoots a mother’s glare at Dashiell, the kind of glare that says that she has thoughts about her son’s choice in partner, but we are not about to stick around for that discussion.
“It was lovely to meet you,” I say, placing a firm hand on Dashiell’s back. “I’m sorry to steal him so soon.”
“You’ll have to come by for dinner sometime,” Mrs. Novak says, her expression equal parts bewilderment and interest.
“Of course,” I say. “That would be lovely.”
“Use protection!” Dashiell’s grandmother calls after us as I steer Dashiell toward my car. I swear he almost melts into the sidewalk.
“Jesus fucking Christ. Just drive,” he mutters.
I hold the door open for him, spare one wave for his mother and grandmother, and then get into the car with him, wondering what the fuck I got myself into when I promised I’d protect this handsome young firefighter.