I shake my head, then push open the door to the front of the shop. This shit hasn’t bothered me for years. I’ve been happy just working and taking care of me, and I proved to myself years ago that I don’t need anyone else.
I’m Caesar fucking Marin, for fuck’s sake.
But when I see the man standing at the counter, talking to Rafael, my blood turns to ice. For just a flash, I’m not the weathered old asshole that I usually am. I’m a cocky, hungry kid again, taking over the shop from my dad and convinced that I’m going to change the damn world.
It’s him. The guy hounding me about Mack. He’s leaned over, hazel eyes wide like he’s imploring my apprentice, and I drag my gaze over his slim body.
Rafael tilts his eyes toward me, then turns back to the calendar. “Like I was saying, Caesar doesn’t really take new clients. But if you want to leave a request, I can make sure he sees it.”
The man looks at me. “Please,” he says gently. “I’ll pay whatever it takes.”
I tighten my brow. Is he seriously trying to get a tattoo just so he can talk to me about Mack?
“I’m booked,” I say and turn to walk into the back of the shop.
This is what I get for walking around like a big softie. I leave myself open for all kinds of harassment.
“He was my father!” the man yells after me. “My name is Drew. Mack was my father.”
I freeze, my hand on the door. Everything seems to slow down as the words repeat themselves in my mind. Then I turn.
“Was?”
“He died,” the man answers softly. “A few years ago.”
Something inside of me falls. Mack’s dead. Gone forever.
Fuck. It’s not like I ever expected to see him again, but… fuck.
He’s dead—and he had a kid.
I turn my body fully back to the stranger and take a deep breath. “I’m sorry to hear that,” I tell him and hold his eye. “Truly.”
Rafael steps back, clearly uncomfortable. “I can give you both some privacy, if you want.”
I shake my head, taking it all in through the shock. Despite everything that happened between me and Mack, I can’t just turn my back on his son. It wouldn’t be right.
I point at the kid. “Mack’s son,” I grunt. “I’ll be damned. Let me buy you a beer.”
* * *
Drew
Caesar slides me a whiskey shot, then hands me a bottle of beer. Before I can make sense of anything, he raises his whiskey and gestures to me with it. I do the same, then follow his lead as he slams the glass to the bar before throwing it back.
“Shit,” I cough, nearly spitting the liquor out. I lean on the bar and choke on air for a second, and I think I hear Caesar chuckle.
“Didn’t get your old man’s drinking habit,” he says, then hands me the beer. “This will help.”
I take it, embarrassed, but the smooth liquid does ease the burning in my throat.
“No,” I say with a scratchy voice, “I’m not really a drinker.”
It’s just that I find it quite impossible to say no to Caesar. In the shadow of his imposing height, I want to please him or to stroke his arm and see if he softens, even just a little.
We’re at a dingy bar, the lights dim and some rock band on the stereo. It’s the middle of the day, so there aren’t many other people here, and Caesar and I stay at the quiet, long bar in the rear.
He shifts his weight onto a stool. “So what kind of an old man was Mack?”
