“Hey,” Morgan protested. “How about you mind your fucking mouth—”
Boyd glanced away for a second and then back into Shay’s fist. The punch caught him on the side of the jaw with a sharp pop of pain in the inside of his skull, and he staggered into the counter. He caught himself on the slick waxed wood and watched as blood splattered in wet, fat drops over his fingers. The taste in his mouth had gone sharp and metallic. He wiped his nose on the back of his hand, and the sour adrenaline curled his hand into a fist.
“Fuck,” Shay said. His voice faltered. “Boyd, I didn’t mean to—”
“Get out,” Boyd said as he forced his fingers to relax. He’d fucked up. Fine. But there was still a line, and that was it. “Before I forget we’re friends.”
Chapter Six
THE LANKYblond didn’t take the hint and fuck off.
“Hey, asshole,” Morgan put himself between Boyd and the other man… Calloway. People sometimes assumed Morgan was stupid, but he’d have to be dumb as dirt to miss that connection. Shaun or something. The brother. Morgan looked down at him and was oddly satisfied to realize he was the taller of the two by an inch or so. It was hardly a surprise. He was taller than most, but it still felt good to have the edge as he glowered. “You heard him. Fuck off.”
The brief flash of regret on Calloway’s face faded as he fronted up to Morgan, replaced by a sourly self-righteous-looking scowl. He held himself as though he knew how to fight, body loose and his weight on his back foot.
“Mind your own business.”
Morgan grinned slowly, lewdly. Under the flash of anger was a sour layer of satisfaction. This Calloway guy had rubbed him the wrong way since he walked into the place as though he owned it. Morgan didn’t like his smugly handsome face, his easy familiarity with Boyd, or the fact that he assumed he was the one who was welcome and Morgan was some stray to put out on the streets.
Hereallydidn’t like that, except for the whole DNA match thing, he probably would have been. It wasobviousthat Boyd and Calloway had… history. More than obvious.
The punch was an excuse to hate him that Morgan could admit out loud. He was almost grateful.
“I like his mouth the way it is,” he said as he hooked his thumb into the waistband of his jeans. Zipped but still unbuttoned, they slid down toward his lean hips. He figured Calloway was smart enough to get his point. “That makes it my business.”
A flash of bleak anger soured that pretty face, and Calloway stepped into his space.
“Stay away from him,” he said in a grim, low voice. “In fact, why don’t you just fuck off back to where you came from? There’s no money here for you. So—”
“Enough,” Boyd snapped as he dragged them apart. He braced one hand against Morgan’s chest and pushed him back. “Back off. Both of you.”
Morgan let himself be shoved a reluctant step back, not because he wanted a fight with Calloway—or maybe—but his resistance kept Boyd’s hand braced against his pec. He smirked at Calloway over Boyd’s head, because who was familiar now?
“He’s a con artist,” Calloway said angrily. “Goddammit, Boyd. You know what this will do to my mother if it gets back to her? She already lives in cloud cuckoo land. Now you’re populating it for her? This is fucking insane.”
“Get out,” Boyd repeated.
Calloway snorted and stepped back, arms folded as he shook his head. “I’m not leaving you with him. He’s already… taken advantage of you, of this situation.”
Morgan took a step forward, a growl of anger rough in his throat. He’d never claimed to be this Sammy kid. He’d told Boyd from the start that he wasn’t. All he’d done was want to see what those pretty eyes looked like when Boyd came—which he still hadn’t done, thanks to this asshole.
He didn’t get far. Boyd’s arm gave slightly and then straightened as he put his shoulder into it. He had more muscle than Morgan expected.
“I am not—” Boyd clenched his jaw on whatever he’d been about to say. The unsaid words hung in the air with the sharp, burnt-match tension of something that couldn’t be taken back. “I don’t need anyone to take care of me.”
“You need two couches, though?” Calloway asked sharply. “You need a con artist in your bed?”
“I know I didn’t need a split lip.”
Shame sliced across Calloway’s face. He looked away, and a muscle twisted under his jaw as he ground his teeth.
“You can’t expect me to be okay with this. My brother’s dead. You think I don’t want that lifted, I don’t want to pretend for a couple of days that it isn’t true? I get why Mom gave those people money. A couple of grand is a small price to pay to be able to pretend for just one day. But that’s all it is, all he is—pretend. And I won’t do that to Sammy.”
Morgan snorted. Guilt trips always put his back up.
If you tell anyone….
“You said it yourself, the boy’s dead,” Morgan said as he stepped back. “You can’t do anything to him now.”
