Page 46 of Complications

There was almost affection in his voice, which was…strange. And weird. And really fucking nice. I hated it.

“Fuck off. If I’m looking, it’s because there’s nowhere else to look in this shoebox.” I tried to keep the defensiveness out of my voice, but his chuckle told me I’d failed. Asshole. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

His office wasn’t all that small, but the walls were closing in on me. He stood too close, and his aftershave smelled a little like my favorite orange-spiced tea that I never drank in public. It messed with my head.

“You’re welcome to bullshit yourself as much as you’d like, but you’re not going to lie to me.”

The hard edge of his voice stirred my cock, and that pissed me off more than any other part. I fucking loved, and hated, how much his being so…so…himself turned me on. Even without turning my head, the expectation he’d laid down was unmistakable.

“Sorry,” I choked out grudgingly.

Even to myself, the words sounded awkward and rusty, but it was the best I could manage. When I felt the brush of his fingers on my nape, I fucking melted and hated myself a little for it. If our quarters felt close before, now they were claustrophobic.

“Jojo, you’re the most stubborn man I know, except for one. And there’s no damn way you’ll outlast me.”

Stillness was the best answer I could manage. What I wanted to say and what I would say were a gulf-sized difference, so the best option was to keep my mouth shut. There was no telling what would come out right now because the stupid part of me wanted to be back at that damn cabin again. I’d lay my head on his thigh, and he’d read his smart-people books about art and geography and shit. So annoying. I shook my head and forced myself to concentrate on the job in front of me. The best thing I could do for myself was keep my damn mouth shut.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I gasped.

His mouth replaced his fingers on my neck, and sparks shot through my veins like fireworks in the summer. Heat pooled in my stomach, but I wasn’t sure what to do other than let it wash over me. He fucking paralyzed me. Always had. I’d always hated how much he could still stop me with a look or a touch. When his lips traced the column of my neck, I thought I might dissolve into my chair, leaving a mess on my keyboard. My instantly hard dick made me think of a few other ways I could make a mess.

“What I should’ve done years ago,” Frankie muttered. “Shoving you that day was fucked up. Pretending I didn’t give a shit about you was worse. I’m not doing it anymore.”

And then that absolute asshole of a man straightened up. My body felt the beginning of his withdrawal before my brain processed it.

“But I can’t distract you when we’ve got a hit.”

Sadly, that jolted my attention back to my actual job. Fuck me, my brain was getting whiplash.

“Goddamn, Frankie,” I groused.

He leaned back down, sucked my earlobe, grinned against my skin, and pulled back again. While I was practically panting, he stood there all smug like it was no big deal. This man annoyed me so much.

“Let me do my job.”

“Not stopping you.”

It sounded like he was laughing at me, but I wasn’t going to get pulled into another distraction. I just needed to get through this, and then I’d figure out what the fuck was going on in my barely working brain.

“Who is this?” I whispered to myself.

Frankie nudged me aside, and his fingers flew over the keyboard. I pushed myself back, but he blocked me with his body.

“Stay here.”

“Just trying to get out of your way.”

“No thanks,” Frankie said simply.

His fingers flew over the keyboard, and it scrolled faster than I could understand, but after a few screen changes, the writing narrowed to one name.

“Who the fuck is Donel Broim?”

“Jojo, that is a very good question because he definitely doesn’t seem to be showing up anywhere,” Frankie said absentmindedly.

His long, elegant fingers flew over the keyboard, and I let myself get momentarily distracted by a memory of him doing the same thing when we were kids. I’d always thought he was fancy. I was fat fingers and fighting in the street, but he never did any of that. His dad made sure the rest of us kids knew Frankie was above all that bullshit, but every once in a while, I’d catch him on the sidewalk watching us fuck around, and he’d almost look sad that he couldn’t join us. Which was probably wishful thinking on my part, but now wasn’t the time because we needed to figure out who the goddamn fuck this guy was. He appeared to be a ghost.

With Frankie occupied on his laptop, I pulled out my phone and started flipping through social media. It was a long shot, but it was all I had to make myself feel useful. Then I found his name on an account that just so happened to follow the strip joint Connor’s uncle used to spend time at.