Page 104 of Captivated

Chuckling, Joe set the phone back to the table, and the food on the plate regained his attention for the moment. His mouth was full of French Toast sticks and a strip of bacon when Lucian cleared his throat down the table, and then began to talk.

Smart man.

Catching Joe when he couldn’t reply.

“Thank you, by the way.”

Joe raised a brow, silently asking, For what?

Lucian smiled faintly. “Well, I could vaguely say all of this, I suppose, but it’s more than that. For sitting here, and eating with us. For indulging my family, and my brothers when it’s clear they get on your nerves because I guess we don’t work the same way you do. Something like that, anyway.”

Just how long had Lucian been listening outside the dining room before he came in?

“Even if it’s just a little bit more than when you first came here,” Lucian added, “you’ve dropped your walls down, Joe. We see more now of you than the blank slate you showed us time and time again, so thank you.”

Joe swallowed his food, and sat straight in the chair. “No offense, but I can’t say that was intentional.”

Lucian shrugged one shoulder, saying, “And yet, here we are.”

Yes.

How had that happened?

And why?

Joe stuffed his hands in his pockets, and puffed on a cigarette that hung from the corner of his mouth. The quiet Queens suburb was barely awake at only a little after seven in the morning. People were just starting to wake up on a Saturday morning with their whole day still ahead of them. Most probably had plans. Unlucky fuckers would head off to work.

Him, though?

Joe had a job to do.

He was one step closer to it, now.

He stopped at the end of a driveway that led up to a quaint beige bungalow with a black roof. The shutters on all the windows matched the roof color, as did the front door with the frosted glass.

Joe didn’t really care about the house. He cared more about the man rolling a tire from the back of his SUV to the front.

Flat tire, it seemed.

The guy was in his late fifties, if Joe had to guess. Although, frankly, he didn’t have to guess at all. A little bit of gray at his temples, but the rest of his thinning hair was still black as tar. His tanned skin spoke of vacations on beaches, and the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth as he squinted and grimaced at his flat tire told Joe he’d lived a long life.

Maybe even a good life.

That life was just about over, now.

“Need help?” Joe called.

Martin Abraham glanced up over the tire he was attempting to fit into the front driver’s side. “Somebody must have left a damn nail in my driveway. Came out to it flat this morning. Fucking kids.”

Kids, right.

Joe sauntered up the drive, and finished his smoke on the way. He made sure to crush the butt of the cigarette, and stuff it into the pocket of his jeans—just in case … He bent down near the tire, and gave the man a smile.

A welcoming smile.

A friendly one, even.

“I don’t mind helping,” Joe said. “New to the neighborhood, and all. The wife keeps saying I should make friends.”