“Is this an outdoor shower?”
He nods. “The shower inside is ridiculous. It’s the size of a closet. A very small closet. I had a stress dream about it last night, and when I woke up, I sketched this out. Too bad there’s not enough wood to complete it.”
“Do you want me to go grab the materials for it now?”
He shakes his head. “No, it’s too much for today, and I’d rather focus on the decks. I have a few days off, so I’ll see how motivated I am Monday or Tuesday.”
“I’m going to be here for a while, so I’m happy to help you with that too.”
He runs his tattooed hand over his beard, trying and completely failing to hide a smile. It’s this innate goodness, his sense of being lit from within, that contrasts with what’s inside me.
Levy strikes me as the kind of person who was born good. I only became good after my nephew was sold. The guilt always hanging out around the edges presses in on me.
I was well into my thirties, still running around, getting high with my neighborhood buddies. They called me brother and let me sell some of their weed so I could hold off on getting a real job. No way was I going to be tied down like those other suckers with families.
Most of my friends were in the local gang—that’s where the drugs came from—but I’d passed on officially joining them. Despite being a selfish asshole who worried my mother, I couldn’t break her heart.
As it was, she spent many sleepless nights praying for me to make it home safely. She has no idea how many close calls and near misses I’ve had over the years. I was an idiot, blowing cops so they wouldn’t arrest me for dealing, brushing elbows with the worst kind of scum on the planet. Though they didn’t look like the worst kind of scum. They looked like my neighborhood brothers.
Everything changed when Antonio was sold. I asked my “brothers” for help, and they turned their backs on me. Every last one of them.
Years later, while conducting my insane, desperate investigation into Ant’s disappearance, I learned the people who took and sold Ant were connected to the same gang I’d been riding alongside all those years.
By that point, I had a reputation and a nickname, but none of my old running buddies knew who I was. Who I’d become. I had it in my mind that I would take them out—one at a time if I had to. I started by taking out the worst of them first, cutting off the head of the guy who’d directly purchased Ant and making it look like his second in command had done it.
The gang imploded, and I thought I’d gotten my revenge. I quickly learned that many of these gangs are mere pawns for larger money-making operations. Given the scope, making it about revenge would only take me to darker and darker places and eventually get me killed.
Within months, the people who’d died had been replaced, and some new version of the same gang sprung up in its place.
The fact of the matter is the drugs I sold helped them bankroll everything else. Just because I didn’t knowingly take an enslaved person from point A to point B doesn’t mean I wasn’t culpable for those who disappeared into the vortex of trafficking victims.
Still, I had unwittingly cost them a lot of money with those two strategic kills. I let that inform the rest of my time in the trenches. Even though I worked alone, I could slow down the operations, maybe save a few people while I was at it.
It wasn’t much, not really, but I had to do something.
I’m too ashamed to let Ant know about my involvement, and I hope this new life is enough to make up for my past. It’s a different kind of survivor’s guilt, I realize, but it’s something I have in common with Levy.
I blink back to the present and realize Levy is looking at me funny. “What?” I ask, scrubbing my cheek. “Do I have mud on my face?”
He shakes his head, tucking away his plans. “I feel bad because we haven’t even begun yet, and you’re already sweating,” he says, gesturing to the white tank top spackled to my chest.
I shrug, lifting it over my head and tossing it over the stair railing. “I don’t mind being a little sweaty,” I say, looking him up and down. “You’re pretty sweaty too.”
Biting at the ring in his lower lip, he reaches back and grabs his shirt, pulling it over his head, revealing his tattooed torso and that perfect handful of pale belly under intricate designs. He’s switched out his nipple rings for more discreet bars, but my mouth waters all the same.
Instinctively I reach out and run my fingers through his wild hair. His chest rises sharply as he leans into the touch. With his hair fixed, I run my fingers through his beard.
“You have such a pretty beard. It’s a shame you don’t take better care of it,” I say, teasing him gently as my hands land on his bare shoulders.
“The last time I tried to trim it, I ended up having to shave it off and start all over again.”
“I’d be happy to show you a few grooming tips if you want them,” I offer, gesturing to my salt-and-pepper facial hair.
“Okay,” he answers softly.
“In the meantime, we have to protect all this pale artistic skin,” I say, letting my thumbs drift to his collarbones.
“I have sunscreen.” He jerks his chin awkwardly over at the tool bag.
