Chapter 8
Zeus
From the moment I walked into this house, I noticed that every single thing carried a stench. The furniture, the clothes that were provided for me to fit into a world I'd never willingly be a part of, if it weren't for the greater good, stinks like a musty house with a roof leak.
Only right now, the stench is covered with the most heavenly aroma coming from the kitchen. The whole house can't be more than a thousand square feet, so it's not unheard of that what Zayne is making in the tiny kitchen, a mere fifteen to twenty feet away from my bedroom door, is drifting in here.
I don't have to get out of my musty bed and look out there to know exactly what he's making.
The scent of fried chicken, tangled with the thick scent of pasta sauce, is so very familiar that it makes me wonder if the very last time I smelled it was in his family's kitchen on a random day of the week.
I hate the remembrance, the way that something so simple can easily take me back to a time when I hated every second of my life except those evenings when I would give in to the urge to seek him out, placing me on his front doorstep.
I both loved the way he always swung the door wide open for me and hated how much my nervous system would calm at the sight of him.
He was always my greatest weakness, and I have sat and thought about the exact second we first interacted a million times. It wasn't at school. He's two years younger than I am, and we ran in a different circle of friends.
It wasn't some sort of business gathering for our parents. The Harmonds and Jenkins were always business rivals, and each family avoided the other at all costs.
I've never been able to pinpoint when we got involved. It's as if that memory is gone for some reason. It’s as if my mind won't let me remember it, so I can't dissect the millions of ways I could've acted differently to prevent me from spending so many hours of my life with him stuck in my head.
My pulse kicks up as the smells swirl around me. Half of me wants to confront him, and the other half wants to avoid him at all costs, despite the obvious way he's trying to draw me out of the room.
I'm aware enough to know that the man could easily be making himself dinner, and his actions have little or nothing to do with me, but why this meal? Why this first night we're alone together?
What exactly does he think he's going to achieve?
Frustration swims through me as I turn to the tiny window facing the road with every intention of opening the damn thing, but I notice there isn't a screen on it.
I'll be damned if I invite a damn bear to the party.
Not that a screen would keep such a determined animal out of the house.
Hell, if a bear wanted to get in, it could easily just lean its weight against the front door and gain easy access to everything we have inside.
Pacing in this small room isn't an option, and that's the only thing that has me opening the bedroom door and stepping into the living room. It has nothing to do with whether the man has made enough food for both of us, or with any desire to see him at all.
At least that's what I tell myself as I look toward the kitchen, noticing first his back rather than the food he's preparing.
Zayne was always rail-thin as a teen. He was so skinny that I once heard him complain that it was difficult to find pants that fit without having to custom-order them. They were either too big in the waist to fit the length of his legs, or they were too short if the waistband fit.
He doesn't seem to have a problem these days. The man has filled out in ways I never would've imagined.
His back muscles ripple as he works at the counter, the strength in them evident through the thin shirt he's wearing. I catch myself swallowing down the need that begins to form in my gut, blaming the scent of the food for that ache deep inside me.
It's clear that denial and I are going to become very good friends with this job, and what happened last night needs to go right into that fucking box in my head where I have put everything else that involved Zayne Harmond.
I realize the extent of my challenge when my brain doesn't get the command, and my cock begins to grow heavy in my jeans.
Sex with women has only ever been mediocre at best, something I could go without.
And here this motherfucker is, doing nothing more than making something to eat, and all I want to do is bury my cock inside of him, something we never even got close to as teens.
I don't know who to hate more, him for just existing or myself for the way this man brings out a side of me that I've always hated.
I don't hate the fact that there's an attraction there or that I'm aroused by a man.
I hate that he's the only man I've ever been attracted to.
In a moment of desperation, on a night when I couldn't get his memories to fade enough to function, I sought out another man, thinking that's what I needed.
But my cock wouldn't work, no matter how much attention I got from the other man.
The realization that it was one man in particular that I wanted has eaten at me for years.
The one man who would ultimately destroy any goodwill I've earned with my parents was the one my body wanted.
It's as if the universe has had it out for me from birth.
As if being born during an emergency C-section after a car accident that killed my biological dad and ultimately my mom days later wasn't a horrific enough beginning in this life.
Whatever cosmic shit has to line up to ruin a lifetime seems to follow me around.
"Are you going to eat, or are you just going to stand there and stare at me?"
The voice startles me from my internalized rage and self-hatred, and for some reason, the normal tone of his voice only intensifies my desire.
There's no sarcasm or irritation in his voice.
There's not even a hint of expectation. Just like everything else this man does, it seems to crawl all over me, but not in the way I'd expect.
The annoyance I felt seconds ago fades, and that empty space fills with memories of times when we would just hang out, moments when I was accepted into his home and always felt like a member of his family.
There was always that underlying urge to eat and go back to his room, where I knew he'd get on his knees for me, but when his older sister Dakota made us food, we'd always sit and eat with her.
I'd even smile and laugh when the time felt right, even though it felt so foreign to me at the time.
I figured it was the least I could do for someone who took the time to make me something to eat.
"Fran-Zeus?"
Memories fade as I blink, and I see the man standing there, looking at me over his shoulder.
"Yeah," I mutter as I walk closer, doing my best not to touch him as I grab plates from the cabinet, but the tiny kitchen doesn't exactly allow for two grown men, and not touching in some way is impossible.
I ignore the zing of electricity that jolts through me when my shirt sweeps his back. I clear my throat as I take a step back and place the plates on the counter.
Instead of engaging in any other way, I glance down at the mismatched plates, knowing that my adoptive mom, Sheila, would have a fucking coronary if she went to someone's house and they served food on dishes that didn't match.
What I hate most about that is knowing that I even noticed it.
So many things were drilled into my head as a child that I don't even realize it until a situation comes up that triggers that knowledge.
I create more distance, giving him room to plate the food, and keep my attention on my feet despite the desperate urge to watch his hands.
I crack my neck, turning my head to either side at the flash of those very hands wrapped around my cock that first time.
We were both trembling, but the relief I felt when his warm fingers cloaked my dick is something I sought out way too many times after.
"I don't think I've had chicken parmesan since the last time Dakota made it for us," I say just to fill the silence.
Zayne freezes, the spaghetti he's dishing out making a mess on the counter as he holds the utensil a foot above the plate.
The reaction seems out of place for a man who seemed hell-bent since he arrived to remind people that we have a shared past, but I'm not going to dive into all that shit. I remain silent, only opening my mouth to say thank you when he finishes fixing the plate and points to it.
Maybe their relationship went south in recent years, but whatever shit he's dealing with isn't my problem to solve. I can't even get a handle on my own shit these days.
I take the plate and head to the living room, taking a seat in the busted-looking recliner.
The house isn't big enough to have any form of dining area, and even though my first instinct is to go to my bedroom and hide out, I figured that would be incredibly rude.
It's just one more thing that makes me think of growing up and all the rules I had to obey.
A minute or so later, Zayne takes a seat on the sofa and places his plate on the scarred table in front of him.
I take a bite of the food, barely able to contain myself from moaning as the delicious flavors hit my tongue.
Dakota always said food made with love tastes the best. I don't know if those words made it taste so much better every time, but her food was always ten times better than anything my parents had catered from the most expensive restaurants in town.
"Dakota's food was always the best," I say absently between bites, only to look up and see Zayne with his jaw clenched.
The man wanted to talk in the van on the way here, but now it's as if he can't stand the sound of my fucking voice. The way the silent treatment triggers some deep shit from my past makes me want to throw the food in the trash. But I'm a reasonable man, and that would only hurt me.
This is the second time he has reacted this way when his sister is mentioned, so I leave it alone. Instead of trying to change the subject, I just keep my mouth full of food and my attention on my plate.
When I'm done, I stand and carry my plate to the sink, then look in the cabinet for a sponge. If the man cooked, the least I could do was the dishes. As if he knew exactly how much each of us would eat, there are no leftovers to put in the fridge.
I'm finished with the dishes and drying my hands on a thin dish towel when he speaks.
"She's dead."
I freeze, my back still to him as heartache fills every empty space inside of me.
I swallow against the lump forming in my throat and fight the urge to ask who, knowing it would be incredibly stupid.
It's obvious who he is speaking of, but the part of me that adored his sister just doesn't want it to be true.
She was so vibrant and full of life. She looked at her little brother with so much love and adoration. I felt blessed whenever I was able to witness it, despite how it made me long for just one person to look at me that way.
"She—"
His words fall away when I turn to face him, and I know immediately this is either a conversation he doesn't want to have face-to-face, or it's one he can't manage with my eyes on him.
I turn back around, busying myself with organizing the few dishes we were provided, hoping he'll explain.
His tone is dry and emotionless when he continues, as if he's numb from the pain, although I know him well enough to know better.
"She died in jail."
I freeze, not expecting that turn of circumstance.
"She started dating a piece of shit about a year after you left town, and it only took six months before she was arrested for a drug delivery she and her guy were busted on.
He was a part of a drug-selling militia, and when she wouldn't claim all the drugs as hers and take the fall, they had her killed.
Twenty-five and gone just because she fell in love with the wrong person," he mutters.
His chosen career path now makes perfect fucking sense. The man was always a problem-solver. He always wanted to fix what was broken, so dedicating his life to stopping those sorts of groups in his sister's memory isn't a surprise.
Silence fills the air, and I turn to face him, somehow knowing this is all the information he's going to share with me.
Sadness swims in his eyes despite the sober, stern look on his face, and the grief that seems to drop his shoulders a few inches makes me want to hug the man. I know that's the very last thing he'd want.
"I'm so sorry for your loss," I say, the words feeling like sandpaper in my mouth. "She was a wonderful person and deserved much better."
He dips his head, lips forming a flat line as he looks back down to his half-eaten plate of food.
"Thanks for dinner," I say before leaving the room, feeling like a complete asshole because I can't find better words to comfort him.