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He had his reasons. All of them had to do with Win. He didn’t give a fuck about Jairo. If he didn’t know that he would lose Win completely, forever, he would walk into Jairo’s clubhouse and carve that fucker’s heart out himself.
But he wasn’t prepared to lose Win. He’d already done enough damage. So Jairo didn’t know it, but he owed Mathieu his life. Mathieu was the reason that motherfucker was still breathing.
One day Jairo would know the truth. The day Mathieu was elbows deep in his blood.
He rubbed his chin as if he was deep in thought. “The time isn’t right, but I’ll let you know when it is.”
Judging by that sour grimace Cesar tried to hide, he was tiring of hearing those words. But, like the coward he was, he didn’t say shit to Mathieu’s face. Instead, he only grunted his understanding and left a short time later, probably off to complain to his group of impotent bastards.
Once he was gone, Mathieu called the number he wasn’t supposed to call. Made contact when he damn well knew better.
“What do you want?”
Somehow, those hissed words, filled with so much anger and distrust, made him want to smile. “I need to see you.”
Win sighed. “Mathieu—”
“The spot.” He wasn’t going to allow Win to push him away. Not then. “An hour.”
8
Mathieu arrivedat the spot first.
He had a million things on his plate, but nothing mattered once he hung up the phone after talking to Win. Something in him kept pushing, insisting that he see the other man, that they be face-to-face the way they hadn’t been in so long.
Their communication had always been via a third party. No direct phone calls. Forget seeing each other in person. All of it directed by Win. What Win wanted. But after recent events, Mathieu didn’t think he could allow the status quo to stand.
He sat out back under a canopy overlooking the pool. It was always a punch to the chest, stepping through the doors of the two-bedroom house. He imagined it was the same way for Win. The two of them used to actually live there once upon a time. Back when they were better than they were now. Back before Mathieu fucked shit up so badly that Win couldn’t even look at him.
Out of all the mistakes he’d made, he regretted only this one.
He didn’t have to be there and he could have chosen some place, anywhere else, to be their base of operations, but he’d decided to use this one. Win never argued about it, but Mathieu knew the other man didn’t enjoy coming here. Mathieu had never claimed to be the unselfish type. He wanted Win to remember what they were.
Who they’d been before Mathieu destroyed them.
Back when this house—tucked away and hidden from view—had been theirs. Their home. Their sanctuary. Now, it stood as a museum, holding dark memories of days gone by.
A slight noise had him lifting his bowed head and his heart thudded in his chest as he took a breath and turned toward the door. Win stood there with a fierce frown, eyes narrowed. His frame was only slightly smaller than Mathieu’s, body more compact. His hair was different than the last time Mathieu saw him, going from a low fade to his current curls with line up—a bald fade along the sides while the top was left curly. For some reason it made Win appear younger, especially since he was smooth-shaven. He wore a t-shirt, board shorts, and flip-flops.
He looked as if Mathieu had interrupted something. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask, but he wasn’t brave enough for that. He could never make himself ask about the life Win had built without him.
With his enemy.
As much as it tore him up inside, he still made himself accept it. Still made himself remember that it’d been his own actions that had chased Win away.
“Win.” He swallowed around the thickness in his throat as Win approached.
“Why are we here?” The other man didn’t get too close, treating Mathieu as if he had some kind of communicable disease that could be spread by close proximity.
Mathieu’s mouth twisted at the thought. “We have a new job.” He cleared his throat and quickly ran down his conversation with Cesar. He didn’t tell Win about Cesar and his group wanting Jairo dead. He never shared that, but Win wasn’t an idiot. He knew Mathieu wasn’t the only person in Miami who wanted Jairo’s blood. When he finished talking, Win cocked his head.
“You came just to tell me about this job?” His tone called bullshit.
Mathieu could never hide from him, despite how fervently he wished otherwise. He eyed Win, the way he stood feet away, gaze darting between Mathieu and the door as if he didn’t want to be there. You’d think after all this time that kind of reception wouldn’t hurt.
But it did.
He got to his feet, noting the way Win’s eyes widened before he schooled his features and pressed his lips together. “Are you okay?”
