Chapter 41
Zayne
The last time I stood on these steps, I was humiliated.
That lingering sense of hatred still coats this house as it did all those years ago, despite both owners now being gone.
Just like last time, I'm an uninvited visitor.
I waited for what felt like forever for Zeus to come look for me after his meeting with Kincaid, something I knew he'd do if only out of that guilt he seemed to feel about my situation.
When he never came to my room, the desperation to know what they wanted from him ate at me until I went looking for him. I hated the feeling of being left out, of being excluded from a situation I felt I had the right to stay involved in.
But I have found that moving around actually helps ease the pain more than sitting still.
I limped and moaned my way back to the other house and went straight to the conference room.
Everyone had cleared out, and the sun was already setting, but Casper was at his computer.
He didn't hesitate to tell me then what was going on, how Zeus's mother had passed away, and about the algorithm that had flagged it just that morning.
Casper didn't bat an eye in making the arrangements I requested, knowing I had to go back home. He didn't question why I wanted to be there with him, but he did mention the audio in the house in passing.
It felt like a confession for him, something that, now that he knows what happened there between the two of us, feels like an encroachment on our privacy.
He confirmed that Zeus now knew about those listening devices, and the fact that he never found me before he left makes the lifting of my hand even more hesitant than the memories.
What we shared back then, but more importantly what we shared more recently, makes me drop my hand, but only as low as the doorknob.
I turn it instead of knocking, stepping inside a place I've never been.
The only view I've had was from the front porch.
The Harmonds were never invited to a single one of the many dinner parties that happened here, and we wouldn't have risked the ridicule of showing up without an invitation.
There's nothing worse in society than doing something like that.
Stale air hits me in the face, making it clear that no one has been here for a while.
Silence swarms around me, making me wonder if his parents were still alive, how active the house would be. They were very much "be seen not heard" with Zeus, so I imagine they'd expect the same from their staff.
I walk from room to room, more concerned with finding him than exploring a place I know the owners would roll over in their graves to know I was inside.
The ground level gives me nothing tangible, only the realization that these people had more money than I realized.
The walls are covered with expensive paintings, and pretentious gold gallery lights hang above each one.
The surface of every table holds at least one heirloom, positioned to highlight just how much money they spent on the things in their lives.
A light coat of dust has settled over everything it could reach, and that makes me feel a little better.
I don't wish for pain and suffering for people.
I just don't let my head get in that place.
Even the degenerates I've worked my life to take down and put in prison don't get much of a second thought.
I'm there to do a job, and that involves making sure they're prosecuted and sent to lockup so they can't continue to spew hate and hurt people. Past that, I don't let them get inside my head.
In recent years, I haven't wished pain and suffering on them, although at the beginning, working those kinds of jobs, I couldn't help but picture every arrest, every bad thing that happened to them as some form of justice for Dakota, even if the cases weren't connected.
I've grown wiser as I've gotten older. Wishing pain and suffering on someone delivers nothing to that person, and it has a way of eating away at you.
I know, without actually knowing Sheila Jenkins, that she would be livid to sweep her finger across the top of the Tiffany lamp in the corner and pull it away, leaving it dusty.
I find just a tiny hint of joy in that as I climb the stairs, not having found Zeus on the lower floor.
The house is wide open, every door giving me access to see inside. None of the bedrooms looks like rooms a son would've had in the past, or like ones he would be welcomed back into.
Sadness fills me as I walk down the hallway, and it's a gut punch to get to the last room and find Zeus sitting on what's clearly his parents' bed. There's a forgotten half-full cup of water on the bedside table next to a pair of reading glasses. An open book lies facedown on the far side pillow.
This room is a snapshot of someone's life, and if Casper had done some research, doing some less-than-legal online searching through police reports, I'd think she stepped out of here the day she died and had every intention of coming back.
Instead, Sheila Jenkins walked out of this room and dismissed every single staff member on duty before going to the garage and cranking the old Bentley she owned. She sat in the backseat as if she were ready to be chauffeured to an appointment until the fumes took her life.
The autopsy Casper found spoke volumes. Toxicology showed no drugs in her system to impair her. She had no wounds that made the police think she was forced into the back seat of the car. She left no note about why she acted the way she did.
The business card for her estate attorney was left on top of a copy of the obituary she'd written for herself.
She had time to think about what she was doing. The report said she was found in a six-car garage. It would've taken a very long time. It was a slow death, one she had a long time to change her mind about.
Zeus's eyes are angled down, paperwork in his hands.
He doesn't look up at me, but somehow he knows exactly who has joined him.
"She wrote her own obituary," he says, his eyes slow to lift to mine. "She didn't even mention my name, but she left me everything. The house, all the money, the fucking real estate portfolio."
I stand there, unsure of the best way to help him. I don't want to be one more thing that disappoints him.
"I spent most of my entire fucking life trying not to be the one to disappoint them, and this feels like a bigger slap in the face than anything else."
"I'm sorry for your loss," I say, risking that it's the wrong thing.
"Don't be," he snaps, shaking his head as if he's trying to rid it of more than just my words. "I'm finally free to be the man I've longed to be my entire fucking life."
I hate that, even after he cut off contact with the Jenkins, he still felt he couldn't be that man.
I try my best not to let hope fill my chest. Being who he wants doesn't automatically include me, and it would be foolish to presume it does.
He drops his eyes once again, the paper in his hand crinkling as if he's struggling with the idea of just balling it up like trash.
"I don't think I'm gay," he says.
Heartbreak rips at me, the sharp claws of it tearing pieces of me until I feel like there's nothing left.
I swallow, refusing to let anger swell inside of me. The man has every right to be who he is, even if that doesn't include me in his journey. Getting mad about it is an egotistical way to think.
"It's okay that you're not," I manage, my voice weaker than the words spoken.
His eyes lift to mine, his head shaking slightly.
"You don't understand," he mutters.
"I do understand, Frankie. More than I want to."
"You don't."
I give him a flat-lipped smile, the only thing I can manage as the burn of tears threatens behind my eyes.
He pulls in a deep breath, the exhale of it puffing his cheeks before he speaks again.
"I don't think I'm gay," he repeats. "But what I do know is that you're my fucking soulmate."
My heart clenches, the beat of it pauses as my brain attempts to catch up with my ears because there's no fucking way I just heard what I thought I heard.
"Is that right?" I manage.
"Yeah," he says, his eyes searching mine as if he expected a different response from me.
"Is this where you tell me that we can be together, but only after you buy a private island where we can hide and never be seen?" I joke.
He frowns at me, disappointment on his face.
"What?" I ask. "Did they not have enough money to buy a private island?"
I expect his frown to deepen, but the continued joking seems to be lifting him out of whatever fog of emotion he was in when I walked into the room.
"I'm donating all of it to the Trevor Project," he says. "I want to help kids so they don't have to grow up feeling like they couldn't be who they truly are."
"Not gay teens who have a same-sex soulmate?" I tease as I cross the room and take a seat beside him.
He chuckles. "Exactly."
When he turns his head to look at me, I see him searching for answers to a million questions he can't seem to put a voice to.
"I've loved you since I was sixteen years old," I whisper, keeping my eyes on his, needing to know if there's any level of rejection in his eyes as I speak the words.
"I can't imagine what our lives would look like if I hadn't been so angry back then."
"We can't spend our future regretting our pasts," I say. "It will only lead to bitterness and anger. You've given them enough of yourself already. Don’t live there."
He dips his head as if he agrees, but I know it's going to be a long road to actually freeing himself of the damage they've caused to his psyche.
"I have a question, and I need the truth from you."
"That sounds serious," he says, twisting a little so he can face me better.
"If we got back from this last mission and your mom was still alive, if we weren't sitting in this house alone, would you still be saying this to me?"
He pulls in a breath as if he's actually spending a moment to consider the truth of his answer.
"Honestly?" he asks.
"I only ever want the truth from you, even if it's something you don't think I want to hear."
"I don't think that today, three days after we got back, that we'd be having this conversation. Do I think that I would've gotten here eventually? Yes. I know I would've."
"But your mom dying gives you permission quicker?" I ask, unsure how to respond to the information he's just given me.
He shakes his head. "Not permission. I don't need that from her. It's realizing just how fast things can change, how fucking fragile life is, that made me ready. I don't want to waste any more time than I already have."
That's so much better than where my head was taking me.
I lean in, letting my lips hover just over his.
"You're still hurt," he whispers, his eyes drifting down to the healing cut on my lip.
"Do you really think that's going to stop me right now?"
He shakes his head, a smile on his handsome face as he lowers his mouth to mine.
This kiss is different, and I don't know if it's finally letting go of hope and settling into assurance that makes it better, but there's no rush. I don't have this urge to take what he has to offer as quickly as possible because I know the rejection will come sooner than I want.
There's no fear of him changing his mind, no worry that he'll ever walk away from me again.
I told him to forget the past, that the history of what has happened to him and between us that caused us pain is no longer relevant, and I have to do the same.
This is our journey.
Our story.
And it was always meant to lead us right to this moment.
This kiss.
But I don't have to focus or dwell on the past to know that every single thing that happened was always going to bring us right here.
I press my tongue to his lips, demanding entrance, and with a moan and a hand at the back of my head, he grants it readily.
Our tongues tangle, the warmth of his lips against mine, the place I always want to come back to, no matter the kind of day I've had. I want this with him with every breath I breathe for the rest of my life.
And true to form, he fucking pulls back the second I let my hand roam over the front of his fucking jeans, seconds away from pulling his zipper down and gaining access to his hard cock.
"Nope," he says as he stands.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" I growl. "Change your fucking mind already?"
He steps in closer, positioning himself between my legs, both of his huge hands cupping the sides of my face, urging me to look up at him.
"I want nothing more than to take this further than we've gone before," he whispers, making my heart race with the possibilities. "But dead or alive, hatred or seeking revenge, I'm not fucking you on my parents' bed."
He presses a chaste kiss to my forehead before once again stepping out of my reach.
"Your old room?" I offer.
He shakes his head.
"I don't want any of our new memories tainted by this fucking house, but I do have a hotel room. It's not a luxury suite or anything."
"But it has a bed? A couch at least? Hell, just a simple bench for you to bend me over would be acceptable."
His laughter booms around the room, making me wonder if he has ever laughed so hard in this fucking place.
He holds his hand out to mine, concern in his eyes when I grimace as I stand.
"No," I tell him, already reading his mind. "I'm fine."
"We can wait," he says. "You're hurting."
"This hurts more," I say, reaching down to grab my erection over my jeans.
"Let's go find a solution to that," he says, tugging me gently from the room.