Turning to the team, who’ve gathered around Abigail and are looking more relaxed about her presence, I clap my hands together. “All right, assholes. Go home, get some good sleep, relax over the weekend, and be ready to go in on Tuesday.”
Ronan leaves with Parker on his arm, looking satisfied with himself.
Fine.
But if he thinks that I’m going to let this go, he doesn’t know me very well.
11
Ronan
I roll up to the house at the top of the hill and take a moment to look over the land in the terraced vineyard. It's really quite beautiful, even if Iamsad as fuck.
Samuel opens the door and greets me. "Ronan! So glad you're here. I've got some spaghetti going on the stove. How are you with salads?"
I put on a smile. “I can make a decent salad.”
“Sold,” he says, rubbing the scar that runs from the corner of his mouth up to his ear.
“Hey, man, your scar looks so much better.”
He looks down, examining the tile in the entryway. “Yeah. Anders couldn’t give me the full shot until he’d given me a blood test, or whatever. He feels bad because now he doesn’t think it’ll ever go away completely. But he did say it’ll continue to fade.”
“It really isn’t that noticeable unless you’re drawing attention to it,” I say, taking his hand from his face. “You’re a beautiful man, and no one worth your time is going to care about a scar.”
“Yeah, well, my chosen profession is based on looks, so…”
I open up my arms, and he pauses then steps into the hug. “You’ll be great at whatever you do.”
“Thanks,” he says, muffled in the collar of my jacket. “MB says that all the time. But I think she’s just bein’ nice.”
“Nah. I’m a bitter, heart-broken queer and I think you’re gonna be just fine.”
Me, on the other hand…I’m not so sure about.
He smiles, and the scar creates a cute dimple in his cheek. After an awkward pause, he leads me into the gorgeous house. There’s gleaming hardwood floor everywhere, the living and dining rooms are combined into one big room, and the generous passthrough from the kitchen to the dining area creates an openness in the large space. Two hallways lead off in separate directions.
“That way is the master bedroom,” he says, pointing to the left. He gestures to the right, “And that’s where my room, the office, and the guest room are. Wanna drop off your stuff?”
I nod, and he leads me down the hallway, stopping at the first door on the right. “Here you go.”
It’s a nicely appointed guest room, though, like the rest of the house, it’s not really personal. I grin morosely, realizing how much it matches the empty feeling in my chest.
Odd and Anders’ parents were roped into the East Texas op that went wrong, and when their house was blown up, DB insisted they stay out here. He paid for some updating around the house, including the beautiful hardwood floors and a brighter, more open color scheme, but right now it looks like a show house, not a home.
Having spent some time with the Bashes, I can’t imagine it’ll stay this way for long.
We sit down to dinner, and it’s clear that Sam needs to talk because he starts and doesn’t stop until well after the dishes have been put away. I feel like a terrible guest for not bringing anything to the table, but I’m grateful that he’s willing to carry the conversation.
I learn a lot about him. I find it interesting that while he’s aware people will judge him for his profession, or perhaps assume that he’s a victim, he feels empowered by the sex work. It’s not a life I know anything about, but his enthusiasm makes me think he actually likes it.
Or liked it, until those two men took him. He’s light on the details, but I know from the report that they beat and tortured him all night, threatening him with rape at every turn.
“Where did you go in your head when all of that was happening?” I ask, impressed by his composure. Most people would rightly be a mess for a long time after.
He shrugs. “I pretty much resigned myself to dying. And I thought it was really weird because I was convinced that if someone was going to murder me, it would be my dad.”
It hurts my heart that so many of us can blithely detail the ways in which our fathers are horrible. My thoughts on this matter aren’t helpful, so I turn my attention back to Sam.
