“Bullshit. You don’t drink alone. You usually find someone to share your stolen spoils with.” Rourke’s eyes narrowed. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” He pouted and the move only made those delectable lips even sexier. “Am I not allowed to have my alone time? Maybe I wanted to masturbate.”
“You could have done that in your room.” Rourke analyzed him carefully. “Forrest, I know plenty of people who love their alone time, but not you. You prefer to be around people. That’s when you’re the happiest.”
He cocked his head and smiled, rocking from side to side gently until his shoulder hit Rourke’s. “How do you know that? Have you been watching me?”
Rourke could have said no, denied it completely, but he wasn’t going to. He watched all his whores, figured out their personalities and what made them tick, but he never watched anyone as much as Forrest. Forrest was enigmatic, a puzzle that kept Rourke guessing, and he enjoyed the sense of mystery behind him. While Forrest hadn’t made it a secret that he came from foster care, there was something more to his past, and Rourke wanted to know what.
“Yes.” Rourke took another drink. Bourbon wasn’t his first choice, he preferred a glass of beer or some whiskey, but he’d take it however he could get it.
Forrest sighed, letting out a long breath that seemed to go on forever. “I’m lonely. Can someone like me even be lonely? I have guys with me nearly all day, every day.”
Rourke frowned at the way Forrest buried his face into his knees. “You’re allowed to be lonely, but sitting up here doesn’t help with it.”
Forrest bobbed his head, his blond hair a mess of curls. “You’re right. You’re always right. You’re so smart, Rourkey.”
Rourke made a noise of disgust. “Please don’t call me that.” This was the first time Forrest had tried to give him a nickname, and Rourke didn’t like it. But then again, Rourke had never seen Forrest drunk, either.
“You believe in God, right?” Forrest turned his head and pressed his cheek to his knees. He stared at Rourke’s neck, where the silver chain that held a cross was visible. Rourke never hid his beliefs from anyone. He never felt the need to.
“I’m Catholic, so yes, I believe in God.”
“Do you think I’m going to hell?” He kept his voice low, insecurity lingering in his words, and it didn’t match Forrest’s happy personality. Flushed cheeks made him appear vulnerable and it suddenly Rourke’s lungs were burning.
Rourke dropped the bottle of bourbon beside his thigh and turned toward Forrest, cupping the cheek that wasn’t pressed against his knees. “No.”
“But your God says—”
“You’re a good person, Forrest. You’re not going to hell.”
“But what if I am?” He inched a little closer to Rourke. “Would you save my soul?”
Rourke shook his head. The buzz of the alcohol in his veins numbed him, made him feel good. He was far from drunk, but after a few drinks, he felt looser. He thumbed Forrest’s cheekbone and down his jaw, reveling in the soft skin. Forrest followed a skin care routine, something he did nightly, and Rourke wondered if that’s why his skin was so soft to touch. He only knew that intimate detail about Forrest because his products were one of the expenses that the Killough Company was willing to pay. “I don’t need to because you’re not going there.”
“Mrs. Brassard always said I was.” Forrest wiggled himself closer until they sat thigh to thigh. “She says I’m a sinner.”
“Is that your foster mom?”
Forrest nodded. “It’s where I got my name from. Forrest Brassard. My last name anyway. Forrest came from my real mother. ‘Parently she made sure it was on my birth certificate before she gave me up to the state.”
“Do you know who she is?” Rourke asked gently.
“No.” Forrest laid his head on Rourke’s shoulder, green eyes wide as he stared up at him. “Some druggie who got knocked up at seventeen. Ran off and then died of an OD. Daddy dearest… don’t know anything about him, either. Bet he’d be mighty proud to know his son gets paid to take it up the ass, and likes it too. Maybe I do deserve to go to hell.”
“No, you don’t.” Rourke curled his arm around Forrest’s shoulders and dragged him closer, making Forrest snuggle his face into Rourke’s chest. The unfamiliar warmth made Rourke ache, in both his stomach and his cock. “Trust me, as someone who’s been a Catholic since birth, I’ve seen bigger sinners than you, Forrest.”
“Like the boss?” He peered up at Rourke, eyes shining a little brighter.
Rourke grunted, but it sounded more like a little laugh. “Yeah, like the boss. He’s killed a lot of people in his life, done a lot of things God wouldn’t approve of, but he confesses his sins at church and he’s forgiven.”
Forrest gaped at him. “The boss is Catholic too?”
“We’re Irish, it’s like, a requirement.” Rourke laughed.
“I’ve never heard about church or God from Conall.”
“Some of us are a little quieter than others, but don’t let them fool you. Sloan doesn’t usually go to mass, but he’s there in the confessional, telling his sins. Conall’s not obsessively devout, but he says his prayers when he needs to.”
