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“Does it still hurt?” I ask, curious.
Malice glances at me and then away. “No. The pain doesn’t stick around. Just the ink.”
He wipes off his hands and puts the lotion away before pushing past me and out of the bathroom. I watch him go, my gaze drawn to the broad strength in his back muscles, obvious even beneath the fabric of his t-shirt.
When I go back down to the kitchen, Malice is nowhere to be seen, but Victor is setting up his laptop on the kitchen table while Ransom digs around in the cabinets for something to eat.
“How do you feel about peanut butter and banana sandwiches?” Ransom asks, directing his question my way.
It doesn’t sound bad at first, but then I remember Ransom’s preference for crunchy peanut butter and shake my head. “Uh, no thanks. I’ll just have toast.”
Vic glances up at me, and our eyes lock. His lips twitch at the corners, almost like he’s going to smile. Then he pushes back from the table and gets up, crossing the kitchen and rifling through his special drawer to come up with the jar of smooth peanut butter.
“I’ll make your sandwich for you,” he tells me.
I can’t stop the grin that spreads across my face—both from Victor’s unexpected offer and from the way Ransom looks so put out that Vic just stole his job. I bite my lower lip to try to hide it, catching Victor’s eye and murmuring, “Thanks.”
Victor doesn’t look at me, but he nods as he gets to work, peeling a banana and cutting it into slices so even that I’m almost surprised he didn’t use a ruler to measure them.
“Clean out the toaster when you’re done,” he comments, glancing over at Ransom as his brother grabs the bread.
“No one cleans out the toaster every time they use it,” Malice declares, joining the conversation midway through as he strides into the kitchen.
“Wedo,” Vic replies, grabbing a knife for the peanut butter. “Do you know how many toasters catch on fire a year because people don’t bother to clean out the crumbs?”
“No, and I don’t care,” Malice shoots back. “It’s a pain in the ass.”
“Yeah, but you know what’s probably a bigger pain in the ass?” Ransom asks, chuckling. “A house fire. We don’t have time to look for a new place to live. I think I’m with Vic on this one. Sorry, Mal.”
Malice rolls his eyes so hard I can almost hear it, although he doesn’t seem pissed off.
I’ve heard the brothers banter like this before, and I’ve always felt a spark of envy at their easy camaraderie. But today, it seems a little forced. I’m not sure if I’m imagining it, but the vibe between the brothers seems different somehow. Something has them tense. Everyone seems a little on edge, but I don’t think their agitation is directed at me. If anything, they seem more relaxed with me than they’ve ever been before.
As I watch Victor finish up my peanut butter and banana sandwich, insisting on making his own pieces of toast for it after Ransom finishes with the toaster, it occurs to me that this strange warehouse/garage/apartment feels more like a home than my mother’s house ever did.
And what’s even more strange? I’m starting to feel at home here.
Ransom is right. This feels so different than what it was initially meant to be. But that doesn’t scare me as much as it used to.
We all settle around the table with our breakfast choices after a few more minutes, eating in silence with the sound of Victor’s keyboard typing for background noise. Ransom takes a sip of his coffee, making a contented sound of pleasure in his throat, and it reminds me so much of the noises he made upstairs that I flush.
He catches my gaze and winks, which only makes the heat creeping up my chest and cheeks burn hotter.
Before I can say something to try to distract myself from the frustrated arousal still smoldering in my veins, Victor straightens up suddenly.
The movement is so sharp that it draws all of our attention, and everyone looks his way
“What is it?” Malice demands.
“I got a match.” Vic’s gaze tracks across the screen. “On the face of the guy who visited Carl.”
“Fuck,” Ransom leans across the table, excitement glinting in his eyes. “We got a name?”
“I think so. Give me a second.”
Vic’s fingers fly across the keyboard, typing faster than I’ve ever seen anyone type. His brow is furrowed, and I can’t help but watch him at work. Something changes in his expression when he’s on his computer, some of the tight control leaving his features as he gets absorbed in his task.
No one interrupts him while he does his digging, and the second half of my peanut butter sandwich sits untouched on my plate as I wait with anxious anticipation. I’m just as invested as the brothers are in finding out who this mystery man is.
