Except it wasn’t that simple. If only I were using him, then all this would make sense.
Something real happened every time Mack came close. Whenever his fingers trailed down my skin, or when he grabbed my arm, or when he stared at me with that intense and earth-shaking glare, I felt a jab of sharp desire run through my core.
I felt the soaking arousal pool between my knees. It was embarrassing, but I couldn’t help wanting him.
Mack met me in the alley after my shift. He led me to his truck but didn’t pull out right away. “I think it’s time we started checking out that safe house Juan told us about.”
I chewed on my lip, a sudden surge of fear in my chest. This was what I wanted—but now that he was making moves, I was terrified we’d do something wrong and get Connor hurt by accident.
“Are you sure? I don’t want to move too fast, you know?”
He didn’t look at me, only stared straight ahead as he pulled into traffic. “I’m sure. The longer we wait, the more likely it is they’ll move him.” His jaw flexed and I could feel the anger and darkness rolling off him like fog from a steamy river.
I looked out the window and forced myself to calm down. Otherwise, I’d bounce around the car, jittery and nervous. I shook out my hands and squeezed them into fists over and over while closing my eyes.
“You okay?” he asked, his voice uncertain.
I glanced over at him and nodded, trying to flash a smile. “Just something I do when I’m on edge.”
He squeezed a fist in the air. “Like a stress ball.”
“But without the ball.” I made fists, flexing my forearms and biceps. For some reason, the effort vented a lot of my nervous energy and I felt myself calming down. A panic attack hovered on the edge of my awareness, but I had to stem it off.
Mack was right. Sooner or later, we had to try to rescue Connor, and that meant checking out the place where he was being held.
Assuming he was still there at all.
“You don’t have to worry, we’ll be fine.” His preternatural calm helped somewhat. His voice was smooth like velvet over silk. “I don’t plan on getting too close.”
“It’s just that I don’t want to screw this up. I feel like I’ve got too much riding on this.”
“He’s your brother. I get it.”
“Do you have siblings?”
A short grunt. “No, no siblings. I have family, but no blood relatives left.”
“Whatever happened to your mom?”
His hands gripped the steering wheel tightly. “She died when I was around ten years old.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said softly. I knew what that felt like, growing up without a mother. “I lost mine when my brother was born. I honestly don’t remember her anymore.”
“I remember mine.” He stared straight ahead, eyes narrowed as he wove his way through traffic, heading north. “She had this nice laugh, you know what I mean? And whenever I smell this specific fabric softener, I always think of her. She used it when she was alive.”
“That’s nice though, isn’t it? I wish I had memories of my mom.” She was only a ghost in our household. My father had pictures of her, but not many, and he used to keep them hidden in his room.
We learned quickly not to ask about mom if we didn’t want to make my father even more angry than he already was.
“Parts are nice. But the way we lost her wasn’t.”
“Did she get sick? My mom died giving birth to Connor.”
“Not sick. She killed herself.”
I sucked in a breath. My hands went to my mouth involuntarily. “I’m so sorry.”
He shook his head. “It’s fine. I don’t like talking about her much.” He glanced at me, his eyes narrowed half in sorrow and half in rage. “I’m sorry about your mom too. She must’ve been a good person if she was anything like you are.”
I tried to smile, but couldn’t manage it. Instead, I put my hand on his thigh for comfort and squeezed it then pulled back into myself.
The only place I felt safe. Deep inside, hiding away from the world and all its pain.
He didn’t talk for the rest of the drive. We rolled up Broad Street, through Temple University and all the young college kids with their backpacks and their smiles, the streets swarming with them, pretty girls in sundresses and guys with skateboards and cutoff jeans, then up into the rougher neighborhoods where the houses looked like they were bombed in a war and forgotten.
We slowed then stopped on a relatively intact block. Several construction workers in jeans and bright yellow hard hats worked on a pothole nearby. The smell of fresh asphalt drifted in through the windows.
“The house is up there.” He squinted ahead then nodded. “It’s the one with the blue door. Bars on the windows.”