He leaned his head back on the couch and let out another sigh. He looked relaxed, and for the first time ever . . . it seemed as if he had his guard down. His whole body was chilled, and his eyes were closed slightly. His profile was as perfect as ever, highlighted by the dim lighting he’d turned on before dinner. Rubbing his jaw, he rolled his head toward me. Those eyes of his pinned me in place. It occurred to me they matched the appletini I held. “Ever since I was a kid. From the neighborhood. He’s the only person I trust completely,” he said, his voice low.
I finished my drink and slid my glass next to his. Turning more toward him, I tugged my foot into my lap and studied him. His memories shadowed him like a ghost. He no longer looked relaxed. “Why’s that?”
“My brother is . . . I don’t know who Scotty is anymore.” He dropped his hand to his lap. Without really intending to, I followed its descent. His fingers curled into a fist, and I forced my attention upward. “If he knocks on the door, don’t grab a knife and confront him. Run.”
I swallowed. “Oh.”
“I’m not kidding. Run like hell if your paths ever cross, and don’t look back.”
“Okay, I get it.” I reached out and touched his knee, squeezing reassuringly. “What happened between you two?”
“I went to jail.” He stared at my hand, and his Adam’s apple bobbed. “He changed. And now everything is fucked-up.”
“What’s he doing?”
“It doesn’t matter.” He shook his head. “Enough about me.”
Not even close. But I drew back, settling deeper into the cushions. “All right. What’s in the bag by the door?”
He glanced at it dismissively. “A new lock. Tonight made me remember that too many people have keys to my place.”
“Oh.” I frowned. “You don’t have to do that for me. I mean, I’ll only be here for a little while more. Right?”
He grunted. “I’m changing them for me—not you.”
“Why do you want to change them?”
He stared back at me, not answering.
It didn’t take long to figure out he wouldn’t.
“Okay . . .” I said slowly. “So, you don’t want to talk about you. Tell me, then—what do you want to talk about?”
“You.” He rested his arm across the back of the couch, and his fingertips brushed against my shoulder. “Are you from Boston originally?”
“Not much to tell. I’m a system kid.” I fidgeted with the drawstring of my pants. “Born and raised.”
“But no parents?”
I shook my head once. “They’re dead. Have been since I was a baby.”
“So that’s why there were foster homes all your life?”
“Yeah.” I shifted away from him. “Until I was old enough to run. Then I took my chances on the streets, and did pretty good, too. I was always on the move. Always running from one place to another to avoid any trouble. The only place I ever went back to was that alley I took you down.”
He cupped my cheek. “Did you ever have to . . . you know.”
The fact that he couldn’t ask the question struck me harder than it should have. He didn’t need to finish the question for me to know what he asked, though. “No.”
He sagged. “Thank fucking God.”
“I could’ve. And probably should have.” I lifted a shoulder. “But I didn’t want to. I hung on to my pride a little tighter than most and refused to sell my body. Instead . . . I just kept going.”
Tapping his fingers on his thigh, he nodded. “And you never stopped running, once you started?”
“I stopped once I met the man who gave me the Patriot. Frankie. He found me sleeping under a ratty blanket behind his bar, woke me up, and told me to ‘Get the hell inside where it’s warm.’ ” I smiled at the memory of him. He’d been so openhearted and kind. And he’d always smelled like butterscotch candies. He’d been addicted to the things. He was too good for our neighborhood, but he’d refused to leave his bar behind. “Once he took me in, I finally found a home.”
“Where is he now?” He dropped his hand. “Did he move down south to Florida like all the other old people seem to do once they hit eighty?”
“No. He died.” I drew up my legs, resting my chin on my knees as I hugged myself. I felt a little cold now. “A little over a year ago.”
“Oh.” Lucas lowered his chin, the planes of his face softening slightly. “I’m sorry.”
I shrugged with a nonchalance I didn’t feel. “It’s okay. You live. You die. That’s life. What about you? Still have parents hanging around somewhere?”
“Nah.” He rubbed circles on my back. Slow. Comforting. “I never knew my pa, so he’s never been alive, as far as I’m concerned. And like I said the other night, my ma died when I was in my upper teens. So I was in charge of making sure Scotty grew up to be a good man.” He paused. “I failed.”
“No. That’s not on you. People make their own choices, and they don’t reflect on anyone else besides themselves.”
His hand paused right above my ass. “Yeah, I don’t know that I believe that. I think Ma would be pissed at me for letting it get this far. For not keeping him outta trouble.”
I hesitated. “Do you miss her?”
“All the time,” he answered, his voice cracking and full of honesty. “You?”
Not answering, I nodded once.
I missed Frankie. A lot.
I was alone now. Marco cared, but he wouldn’t be in my life much longer. He’d leave Steel Row in a few days and do better things with his life than live in the slums of Boston. He’d leave and never look back. I’d be sad to see him go, but I’d be oh so happy, too. He was doing the one thing I’d never do. Escaping.