Her heart tugged, but she concentrated on her food, knowing this was a delicate line. Gen knew little about his past, and the pinky promise they had shared solidified his intent to keep it that way. There was a darkness he carried with him she was always aware of. She regularly let him know she was willing to listen and be a friend if he ever wanted to talk. He'd nod, thank her, and remain silent.
Gen took a leap and asked for more. "How long did you have to live like that?"
He scraped his fork across the plate. "Five years. I left home when I was fourteen."
Yes, he'd been about nineteen when Sawyer took him in. Twenty when he and Gen had met. "Was it because of your mother? And the drugs? Is that why you had to run?"
He took a sip of his wine and avoided her gaze. "Partly."
She pushed a bit more. "No foster care? I can't imagine how you survived on the streets at that age. How brave you must have been."
His hand clenched around his glass. Self-disgust and a deep loathing suddenly flashed in his beautiful blue eyes. Shocked, Gen held still, afraid to speak or say anything further.
"Never think I was brave, Gen. Never. I did what had to be done."
Her heart cracked open and bled. Her voice caught. "Wolfe--"
"When did you learn to cook like this?" He grabbed a handful of brussels sprouts and popped one into his mouth. "These aren't half-bad."
The wall slammed down. Question-and-answer time was officially over. Gen struggled to get back on firm ground. "Umm, David insisted I know how to cook well. Said it was important for a wife and mother to know."
"You're gonna be a surgeon with enough money to hire someone to cook for you. Bet asshole never put the same standards on himself."
Her lips twitched. "No, he didn't. I was resentful for a while, but then a strange thing happened. I began to like it. Cooking is creative, but also scientific. Following a recipe to gain a particular product was soothing."
"Feel free to continue having fun on my account."
She arched a brow. "Oh, not just me. You're going to learn a few things while you're here. It'll be good for you."
He groaned. "Should've known you'd try to torture me. Listen, we'll have to go over the schedule. Make sure we mesh."
Confusion made her frown. "My work schedule is simple enough. I'll post my shifts, and I already know you work around the clock. You can just text me when you'll be home for dinner and stuff. Won't be too hard."
He rolled his eyes. "I couldn't care less about work. I'm talking TV. The remote. Who gets what and when. And don't think I'll be tortured with those crappy reality shows you try and sneak in. The Bachelor? Hell's Kitchen? You should be embarrassed."
She threw a brussels sprout at him. He yelped as it bounced off his rock-hard chest. "Screw you. Anyway, Bachelor doesn't start a new season for two more weeks. They're finishing up Dancing with the Stars."
"You can DVR it."
"I don't think so! I'm not getting tortured with your stupid Searching for Bigfoot or Paranormal whatever. They never find a beast or a ghost. You need help."
He scowled. "They find plenty of evidence. You gotta stop watching junk food for television. Broaden your horizons."
"I have. I checked out Scandal and love it. It's all about Washington, D.C., and politics."
He rubbed his face with disgust. "I just died and went to hell. Seriously."
"Hope they have good programming in hell," she chirped, scooping up a sprout and popping it into her mouth. "Or at least DVR."
They continued the argument over cleanup, hanging his wardrobe in the closet and fussing over cabinet space in the bathroom. She gave him the new comforter set she'd purchased with a brand-new pillow and helped him make up the couch. Damn, it was short. Those long legs of his might get uncomfortable. A twinge of guilt caught her.
"You got memory foam."
She tucked in the top sheet and glanced over. He was holding the pillow with a look of wonderment. "Huh? Oh yeah, didn't you tell me you got addicted to memory foam? I wanted you to be comfortable."
A smile curved his lips. His face softened, and Gen tried very hard not to let a girly sigh of pleasure escape. She'd do anything to keep that smile on him.
Anything.
"We can watch Dancing with the Stars if you really want."
Gen laughed. "You're such a nut job. You get a jump on the television, I have to get in the shower. Are you sure you're going to be able to sleep out here?"
He waved a hand in the air. "You wouldn't believe the places I've slept. This is the Taj Mahal, baby."
Her gaze flicked to his leather wristbands, wondering again what he hid beneath them. She couldn't imagine him sleeping in alleys and hunting for food at fourteen years old. What types of horrors did he hide at night? Gen pushed away the nest of emotions, knowing she needed to leave it for the lucky female who'd be the one to completely earn his trust. Sure, she was his best friend, but Wolfe would only share his innermost secrets with the woman he'd love.
Gen hated her already.
She trudged to her room, grabbed her pj's, and hit the shower. No more thinking in those terms. Especially when they were sharing space. She needed some type of distraction. Some type of antidote to Love Potion Number Nine.
Gen twisted the knob and made the shower a bit colder. Just for extra insurance.
WOLFE HAD TO ADMIT he was having fun.
Since he left Italy, he'd gotten used to being on his own. Calling the shots. But there was something about being with Gen in her home, hanging out, cooking dinner, sniping at each other. A sense of rightness and intimacy he usually only experienced around Sawyer and Julietta.
He adjusted his pillow, stretched his legs out, and channel surfed. He might not have the convenience of a short commute to Purity, but maybe it was a good thing. While Gen was resetting her priorities, he might do the same. The past five years had been a whirlwind, mostly good, but work was his driving force. Since meeting Nate and making another true friend, he added a weekly golf outing to his schedule, which he protected at all costs. Should he try getting back into the dating world? Maybe look for a woman with a bit more depth? Usually it scared the crap out of him, but Gen made him realize he might need more than his body scratched.
The quick flare of hope sputtered out as if he had dumped a bucket of water on it.
He wasn't up to real emotion or truth. Never would be. Eventually, a woman would need to see the core, dig too deep for comfort, and he'd bolt. Textbook.
Even Gen didn't know the whole truth.
His finger paused briefly on some singing reality show but he continued clicking. Anyone else would've tortured him to death by endless questioning. Not her. She respected their youthful pinky promise and never probed, but her eyes told him the facts. She hungered for him to share, to allow her to know the real him and trust her with his past. Wolfe hated seeing the naked emotions on her face. The disappointment when he changed the subject, and the cheerful way she always pretended it was okay.
It wasn't though.
But that wouldn't change.
He fingered his leather cuffs and remembered that night. Fought a shudder. And wondered what the hell he'd do if the nightmares came when he was here. He was in the living room, so maybe she wouldn't hear. He had a full gym at his place and Purity, but there was no room to work out his demons in the bungalow. He made a mental note to check out the local gym and see if they stayed open twenty-four hours. If not, he'd have to rely on running, which wasn't as effective.
"Is American Idol on?"
Her lilting voice caressed his ears. Wolfe figured it was that singing show so he shook his head. "Nope, went through the whole list. How about we call a truce and watch a comedy? I'm always good for . . ."
He trailed off as his gaze took in her figure.
Holy. Shit.
The blood roared in his head and beyond. He was used to leather bustiers, garters, and four-inch heels on naked bodies. Musky perfume. Red lips.
Her s
kin was still damp, and the cotton nightgown was simple, stopping at the knee, with a scoop neck. White, with pink flowers. Pink socks on her feet. Her hair hung loose, the wild curls springing around her head in joyous abandon. Her face was free of makeup. Her lips a pale pink, with a tiny smattering of freckles over the bridge of her nose.
She was fucking gorgeous.
He tried to breathe and almost let out a moan. There were a few scents in his life he wished he could steep himself in. Fresh-mown grass. Clothing just pulled from the dryer. An orange just cut open. She smelled like all of his favorite things combined. Was that possible? He couldn't gulp air fast enough, and his mind spun, wondering how she'd taste. Her breasts were unrestricted, and strained against the soft fabric in an effort to burst free. Was there anything in the world sexier than soft cotton clinging to damp skin? He always knew Gen's body held amazing curves, but he hadn't seen them on such stunning display before. Her hips were the perfect hourglass, with enough flesh to grab onto and hold tight. And her ass? It was a gift from the gods. Better than JLo's. Better than Kim Kardashian's. Better than anything.
His saliva dried up and his body went into a full aching attack. Ah shit. Was she going to sit next to him? His dick strained against his jeans and wept for release. His fingers curled into the pillow and he frantically searched for something to think about to let the tension ease. It was their first damn night. If Gen thought he was hot for her, she'd kick him out and never let him back in. And as much as it was torture, he wasn't going to let her be alone until he knew she was safe from David.
"I think you're lying to me." She crossed her arms in front of her. The shadows of her nipples were clearly outlined under the innocent white. He stiffened and tried to drop his gaze.
Really, really tried.
"Uh, lying?"
"Idol. I bet it's on and you lied."
Wolfe shifted painfully and threw the remote across the couch to the farthest side. "You're right. Here. You can have it tonight." Please just sit down under the covers. Quickly. Please.
She cocked her hip and looked suspicious. The hemline crept up an inch. Her skin looked smooth, soft, and pale. He wondered what his hand would look like against her. Dark against light. She'd probably cushion his hardness, just like that night on the dock. No, don't think about that. Not now.
"Take it!" he barked. "Here, get comfy." He lifted the blanket and urged her underneath. Finally, she rolled her eyes, took a seat, and snuggled. The breath left his body in a relieved rush, but his dick remained hard enough to cut stone.
"You're acting weird, but I'm not gonna fight you." She happily clicked on to the end of the singing show, where contestants belted out on the stage for the judges' and audience's approval. Wolfe focused on some nerdy guy and tried to imagine him naked. His erection slowly softened. He'd reached a new low. Next he'd be imagining nuns. Yuck.
"I miss Simon on the show," she chattered, moving a leg so it thrust out of the blanket. "He was rude but honest. Oh, it's the end anyway." She tapped the buttons, crossed her feet, and propped them up on the table. A long line of naked skin peeked out, running all the way up to the hip where the gown twisted.
His second head sprung back to life.
Shit.
"Hey, how about HGTV? House Hunters is on. They show three houses and the person has to pick one. I like to make a game out of it. My stats are impressive. Wanna check it out?"
He grunted. His gaze got stuck on the delicious curve of her hip. Where was her panty line? How come he couldn't see it. Unless . . .
His eyes popped out of his head at the thought and he dove across the couch, yanking the covers up and over her.
"Hey! What's your problem?"
Her hair flopped over one eye and those pink lips pursed. He remembered how she tasted. Sweet and clean, with just a hint of sin he ached to dive deeper into. Nuns. Nuns in bikinis. Yeah. Gross.
"Your--your nightgown was tangled." His voice sounded mangled. "Didn't want you to think I was sneaking a peek."
Perfect. That sounded like a friend.
"Oh, sorry." She wriggled again, adjusting her position. "Didn't mean to scare you. Hey, you know what I was thinking about doing?"
"What?"
"Getting a tattoo."
Heat punched him. Innocent, good-girl Gen with a tattoo. It might kill him. "They hurt."
She rolled her eyes. "I'm a surgeon, I can take it. I thought it would be kinda sexy, right? Maybe a rose with a thorn and drop of blood. Your ink is gorgeous, and it gives you that bad-boy aura. Helps with women, right?"
He never wanted so badly to watch a couple hunt for a house in Austin, Texas. "Sometimes. I don't think you need one. You may regret it later if it's on an impulse."
"I wouldn't get it in a place people could see. Maybe my lower back?"
No. He'd never be able to look at her again without imagining peeling down her jeans to reveal the secret right above the sweet swell of her ass. No. Way.
"Ah, people call them tramp stamps, Gen." He wished he were in Alaska right now, buried in a snowbank.
She wrinkled her nose. "So? Or maybe here?"
No. She wouldn't. She wouldn't.
She did.
She threw the covers off her, hiked up her nightgown, and revealed the naked curve of her left hip. "What do you think? You could see it in a bikini but it would be more for me. Right?"
Okay, she was wearing panties. The delicate line at her waist showed through the cotton. Definitely white to match. So innocent. What would it be like to order her to strip off her panties and be bare and ready for him underneath? He'd play with her, torture her with a bit of orgasm denial, then finally let her fly. Her nails would bite into his shoulders and her pussy would clench around his dick and his tongue would dive deep into her mouth--
He jumped up from the couch like his ass was on fire. "I'm gonna take a shower. Watch whatever you want."
Her eyes widened in surprise but he didn't wait for her answer. Wolfe bolted for the bathroom, cranked the water to Arctic freeze, and went back to the nuns.
He needed to get his shit together.
VINCENT SOLDANO PUSHED THE lump of cash deeper into the hole of his mattress. Soon. A bit more and he'd take his chances.
He didn't have much time left.
Carefully folding the stained sheet over, he lay back down and turned his iPod on high. Spaces between the highs were getting shorter. His mom used to occasionally make dinner, do some shopping, and once in a while be sober. Those moments were better than anything he could imagine. Brown eyes soft, sometimes she'd stroke his hair, call him her baby boy, and put her arms around him. Even though he knew he wasn't a baby anymore and didn't need his mommy like some kind of pussy, his heart still kinda ached. For a little while, his mind was quiet, and his body relaxed. He'd pretend she was clean, and they'd be together as a team against the world.
But that never happened.
Instead, he watched her staring sightlessly at the wall. She rarely bathed. Her hair hung limply and greasy around her face, and her clothes, if she was wearing any, were mostly stained and hanging off her bony body. The welfare checks used to buy a few groceries to keep them afloat. Now he didn't see a dime. The men got them first, and used the money for more drugs.
He was worried she was going to die. If he left, she probably would. At least he made sure she ate, and he'd clean up her bruises and bloody lips when the men went away.
But he had no choice. She couldn't protect him any longer, and many of her drug pushers stared at him like a commodity, a sick lust glittering in bloodshot eyes. He wasn't going to let that happen. Mostly he slept in the woods if the house was full, but winter was nearing again and he needed a plan.
He was so fucking tired.
How many times had he been ready to call a cop or social worker? Just press 911 and he'd be out of the hellhole. But his gut said he'd be trading one nightmare for another, and then his mother would go to jail and die from not getting the drugs. He was tr
apped, so he needed to run.
"You in there, boy? Open up! Your mama needs you."
He closed his eyes and tried to bury himself in the music, but the door began to shake so hard he knew the lock would break. Vincent grabbed the makeshift knife and slipped it into his back pocket. Just in case.
Then opened the door.
It was the man he feared the most. He worked his mother the hardest, liking to slap her around for a sick appetizer before he gave her the drugs. He liked to watch, too. He was short but strong, with huge biceps and tattoos covering both arms like sleeves. A bulldog face with lots of facial hair, dark eyes, and thinning hair. Scars crisscrossed his right cheek.
Vincent scowled at him. He knew showing fear was the worst. Bulldog liked it, and tried to get him to cry or beg when he threatened him, but Vincent hadn't broken yet and never intended to. "What do you want?"
A quick backhand whipped across his jaw. Stars exploded in his head, but he fought through the pain and kept glaring. "Your mama needs something and you better give it to her."
She stood behind him, wringing her fingers, a desperate tentative smile on her lips. His stomach twisted hot and acidy and he casually glanced at the front door. He might have to run. She was far gone and wouldn't be much help.
"I need money," she said. Her voice was thin and wheezy. Her left eye was still swollen from yesterday's events. "Bad, baby, real bad. You gotta get some for me."
He remained calm even though his heart pounded like crazy. "Got no money. You used the last of it for smokes and beer."
Bulldog sneered. "I think you're lyin', boy. Been noticing a few bills missing here and there, and I think you're stealin' from me."
Vincent shrugged. "Think what you want, I never touch your stuff."
Bulldog peered into his face for a long time, trying to probe for the truth. Then he smiled real slow. "Guess you won't mind if I look for it, then, huh?"
Vincent blocked his door. "Not my room. You keep your shitty hands off my stuff."
The blow caught him in the head this time and bashed him against the wall. He heard his mother cry out, but Bulldog was already tearing through his room, which he liked to keep neat and tidy. Tears pricked the backs of his lids from the ache in his temple and the way Bulldog trashed his precious stuff, little knickknacks collected, a book or two, his iPod, a photo of him and his mom when she wasn't high.
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