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And Tyler was driving her to dance.
It had been his idea for her to go.
Actually, he’d narrowed his eyes at her over toast and orange juice and said, “Aren’t you supposed to be rehearsing for some scholarship thing?”
And she’d mumbled and made excuses until he’d all but sent the text to Adam himself.
Tyler was having none of her self-pity. He kept whispering to her, seeming to know every time self-doubts crept into her head to set up camp. “You’re not worthless,” he’d murmur, when she started thinking that maybe it was her fault that her brother had started smoking crack on her bedroom floor. Or, “You are brave,” when thoughts snuck up to talk her out of ever leaving his apartment.
But her favorite was “You are special,” whispered while dropping a chaste kiss on the back of her neck, stroking her hair down her back before moving away.
After going to sleep on a declaration of wanting to kill Nick Merrick, she hadn’t realized Tyler would wake up with a mouth full of Hallmark platitudes.
She loved this side of him, this gentle, thoughtful side. She suspected he didn’t reveal it often, or to many people.
The funny thing was, if Tyler and Nick weren’t mortal enemies, she could see them becoming friends.
“What time are you going to pick me up?” she asked.
o;More than I’ll admit. Less than I should. My father grew up speaking Berber—it’s like Arabic—but I barely know any of that. He wanted to lose his accent because he thought he’d get better work that way, so he hardly speaks it at all now. Most people can’t even tell he wasn’t born here.”
A new note, something close to bitterness, had crept into Adam’s voice. Nick frowned and wondered if he’d made a misstep by opening this line of conversation.
Adam shrugged a little. “He totally bought into the American dream of capitalism and baseball and apple pie—only to end up with a Brazilian wife and a g*y dancer for a son.”
Adam’s father hid who he was. Then he’d asked Adam to hide who he was.
Nick wondered what his own father would have thought.
While he felt certain his mother would have understood him—
would have supported him, even—he had no idea how his father would have reacted. Michael had gotten into it with their father more than once, but never over something like this.
Nick stroked a hand across Adam’s face. “Do they ever come to watch you dance?”
“Nah. Not really anymore. Honestly, I think my dad secretly hopes I’ll outgrow it one day.”
“I think your dad should take a second look at how lucky he is.”
Adam laughed, but not like it was funny. “You know, if I wanted to do pretty much anything else with my life, I wouldn’t need a scholarship. If I called him up and said I wanted to be an accountant, he’d be drafting a check to the college of my choice.”
Nick thought of all those college letters sitting in his desk at home and felt a flash of guilt. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry.” Adam almost gave him a smile. “It’ll mean more if I do it myself.” He pressed his face into the curve of Nick’s neck again. “Your turn.”
“My turn?”
“Tell me something uncomfortable about your family.”
“I’m pretty sure you witnessed something uncomfortable last night.” Nick paused, tracing a finger along the stretch of Adam’s forearm.
“Tell me something good then. Tell me something good about your brother.”
The words summoned too many memories. Nick couldn’t sort through them all. Setting fires on the beach, Gabriel using his power to send the flames coursing high into the air, Nick leeching oxygen from the atmosphere to help him maintain control. Hiding from Michael after putting spiders in his bed or peanut butter in his backpack or paint in his shampoo bottle.
Gabriel knowing every single time Nick was worried or hurting or just plain needed him.
“We used to trade places all the time. He loves sports, and I . . .
