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“Wait!” Alek begged.Can you leave something with me? Something you’ll have to come back for.
Ian’s brows darted together. “What? Like collateral?”
Please.
“You already have it.”
Alek wrote a giant question mark and held the clipboard up.
“You’re the collateral, Alek. I’ll always come back for you.”
14
IAN
THREE YEARS EARLIER
Ian thought the bible was a work of fiction, something to make man less afraid of the fact that when death came, there was nothing after, that there was only that one existence between the first breath and the last, that toiling away their meaningless lives wasn’t the best use of their time, that this purgatory was all they got.
But if he was wrong, if there really was a God, He wasn’t the benign, indulgent benefactor in the New Testament. He was Old Testament through and through, and if the stories in the Bible were actually true, Alek was the snake and the apple, the devil and temptation. Alek would cast Ian out of Eden and they both would burn for it.
So that was why after nearly kissing Alek Katin in that back alley, Ian decided he would never see him again.
Over the last few months, Ian had thoroughly enjoyed ignoring each and every one of Alek’s sexual innuendo-laden tangentially business-related emails. The first had been a seemingly innocent suggestion that the two of them should join forces and start a business. Alek could handle design, fixtures,and furniture, while Ian dealt with all the boring construction stuff and heavy lifting.
In the next email, Alek asked if Ian needed anyhungwindows. Were there anyhand-blownlight fixtures he should keep a lookout for? Wood trusses, tongue and groove, hardwood, load-bearing. And he shoehornedcaulkinto his one-sided conversations any chance he could. The emails kept coming as if Alek was completely undeterred by the lack of response, like he knew Ian was messing with him too, like it was all a game, which it was.
But whether it was fate or serendipity, kismet or destiny, or the fact that their county was as sparsely populated as it was vast, Ian had not seen the last of Alek Katin.
The Wells Building was a red brick and terracotta mixed-use property that took up an entire city block downtown. Built in 1898, the rectangular building’s faded burnt-sienna exterior walls were covered by terracotta tile plates the size of sidewalk slabs that featured a spiral of stars orbiting around a crescent moon in the center.
Inside, the building was framed with a skeleton of redwood trees. A wide hallway—made Tolkienesque, thanks to a series of semi-circle mahogany arches—led to a theater converted into a warehouse for a furniture store. A mezzanine towered over pallets of surplus flat-packed furniture, and an enormous dark wood medallion hung in the center of the ceiling. Made in the image of a ship’s helm, the medallion’s wooden wheel was a less-than-subtle nod to the region’s fishing industry.
With the aid of black and white photos, Ian had already pictured what the theater used to look like: the draping floral garlands hand-painted over pale pistachio walls, the autumn leaf-patterned carpet underfoot, the rows of red velvet chairs, the golden brass seashell light sconces that illuminated the stage.
Winning the bid to oversee the restoration of the Wells Building came as no surprise. Ian had made a name for himself in the restoration scene. Refugees from the more expensive parts of California read about him online and the locals knew him by name. The money he’d earn upon completion was motivation enough, but the real reason Ian took the job was because it had never sat well with him that the grand theater was turned into storage for surplus inventory.
A month into the project, there was an electrical issue. It took Ian a half day, but he finally traced the problem back to an apartment on the top floor. When he knocked on the door, it swung wide, revealing none other than Alek Katin.
He was naked, except for tight black boxer briefs. Apparently Alek was a groweranda shower. His raven hair was disheveled, tufts sticking up at the top and hanging over his face. His pale viridian eyes glowed against the backdrop of his olive skin and he wore a self-satisfied grin like a cat who hadn’t just caught the canary, but tormented it for hours before eating it.
What washedoing here? Ian was as suspicious as he was surprised. But that was absurd, wasn’t it? Alek wasn’t stalking him. He was far more likely to be hiding a secret heroin habit than enough cash to move into a distressed historical building to get his dick wet. It had to be a coincidence that Alek lived in the Wells Building. Alek probably recognized Ian's work truck and sabotaged the electrical on purpose. It was the only thing that made sense.
When Alek’s tongue darted out to wet his lower lip, Ian decided he would fuck him once. Right then. Get Alek out of his system and never see him again. Without words, Alek stood aside and Ian followed, closing the door behind them. Ian fisted his hand in Alek’s hair, spun him around, and pushed him up against the door.
Alek looked over his shoulder, watching Ian with an almostclinical detachment, like he wasn’t the one who wanted this so bad he made it happen. Ian pulled Alek’s head back and bent down to kiss and nip along his neck, not missing the pinprick goosebumps that lit up under his lips.
In the space behind Alek’s ear, Ian said, “You messed with the electricity just to get me to talk to you?”
“It worked, didn’t it?”
Shameless prick.
“Well, I’m here now. What do you want? I’m sure you didn’t bring me here for more construction puns.”
“I think what I want goes without saying.” Alek pressed his ass back.
Even with jeans and boxers between them, the aching pleasure that radiated out from where they connected felt better than any sex Ian could remember. He hoped that if he scratched the itch, the chemistry between them would dissolve. Maybe the sex would be anticlimactic and disappointing. Nothing could live up to that kind of anticipation, right?
