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“So you sold me out instead?”
Paris clutched his hands in his lap, knuckles white. “They said you’d be safe.”
Foolwas right. But one who didn’t mean to get in the trouble he did, at least not this time. Icarus knew something about being in predicaments like those. He laid a hand over Paris’s fidgeting ones. “Why are you telling me this now?”
“Because you were always good to me.” He lifted his eyes, and sincerity and apology swirled in their beautiful brown depths. “I know I’m not the brightest. They know it, and so do you. I don’t have the head for my father’s business. I act before I think, but I don’t know any other way to be, to survive this as me.” He shrugged. “You never made me feel less for who I am.”
Icarus forced out words around the lump in his throat. “You had something I needed.”
Paris smiled, a soft, sad thing. “Don’t sell yourself short.” He gave Icarus’s hand a squeeze, then withdrew his and stood. He leaned over, dropping a kiss on Icarus’s cheek. “Goodbye, Icarus.”
Icarus’s face heated, shame at ever thinking or calling Paris a fool. He caught the young man’s chin and gave him a proper goodbye kiss, sure it would be the last they ever shared. Maybe the last Paris ever received. Leaning back, Icarus held his chin and gaze. “Don’t sell yourself short either.”
“Thank you.”
Paris made his way back across the street, shoulders drooping more with each step. The hideous yellow car was back at the curb, and Icarus overheard the cat mention a change in plans. She took the wheel, Paris the passenger seat, the other paranormal in the back. Icarus hoped like hell Paris got out of that car alive, but he couldn’t be sure of any outcome. His stomach sank. He didn’t like being set up, and he didn’t like being the cause of someone else’s setup either.
He didn’t have long to beat himself up about it. Atlas and Vincent emerged from the building less than a minute later just as a hulking black SUV pulled out of the garage and around to the curb. It was hard to hear over the rumbling engine, but Icarus flexed his powers, picking up words that made his stomach sink further.
“What’s the backup plan,” Vincent said, “if Icarus doesn’t deliver?”
“I’ve got a line on the Devil’s location,” Atlas said. “But they want a human in return.”
“Give them Paris,” Vincent said without so much as a blink, not even a dollop of fatherly remorse.
Icarus had enough guilt for both of them. He’d never caused another human’s death before. Tonight, it seemed he’d cursed Paris Cirillo to that fate twice over.
TWELVE
Icarus closedthe computer window on his last live stream of the day, laid the remote beside it, and snagged the towel from his stash beside the bed. He wiped the come off his torso, then gently removed the massager from his ass and the cock ring from around the base of his dick. The toys were almost always a turn-on for his streaming clients, and the extra stimulation helped him too after a day packed with performances. He’d taken more appointments than usual, then an impromptu live stream, banking as much money as he could during the daylight hours so he could sneak away to Portola during the fast-approaching night.
Before Vincent or Atlas—or Adam—realized he was missing.
After what had happened with Paris last night, after hearing just how far Vincent and Atlas were willing to go to get to Adam, Icarus had decided running was his only option. He should probably also skip the stop in Portola—disappear altogether, from everyone—but this was her idea. If he left her behind, she’d keep digging, keep searching for him, and likely run afoul of the people he was trying to escape. Which would put her in danger, the very thing he was supposed to prevent, to protect her from. In Yerba Buena, he was close enough in case of emergencies but far enough away to avoid his past mistakes. Any farther, though... She’d be safer traveling with him than making herself a target without him.
He checked the time on his phone. Three hours until he was supposed to meet her in Portola. Enough time to finish packing, withdraw a stack of cash, and plant several false trails in case any of the aforementioned parties followed him.
Standing, he carried the toys into the shower with him, multitasking cleanup. Afterward, he snuggled in the terrycloth robe he’d treated himself to when he’d first moved to Yerba Buena, the fog-shrouded climate cooler than he was used to. He spent an indulgent few minutes sitting on the end of the bed, wrapped in the soft, cozy fabric, his last chance as the robe was too bulky to fit in his go bag.
He surveyed the room—the apartment—he’d be abandoning soon. Did he have everything? His drawers were half-open and rifled through, the bits he couldn’t live without stuffed into the duffel by the door. He’d only been there nine months—not enough time to collect much more than what he’d arrived with—but enough time to get comfortable. He would miss this place and the promise Yerba Buena had held for him, including all the delicious dirty things Adam Devlin had promised him the other night. But if Icarus stayed, he couldn’t be sure he or Adam would live to experience any of those delights. Misery and death were the more likely outcomes, and Adam, he sensed, had had enough of those nightmares already.
Shaking off the melancholy, he grabbed his jeans—no way he was leaving those behind—and the black lace briefs he’d left on the dresser. He pulled them on and had just grabbed a fitted tee when the phone on the bedside table vibrated. He tossed the tee on the dresser and walked around to the side of the bed, expecting a text from her. Instead, the screen was lit by a message from Mike.Last night in town. How about that rain check?
Icarus checked the time again and ran train schedules in his head. Less sunlight hours in the fall meant the solar-powered trains didn’t run as late into the night as they did in spring and summer, but if Mike was available now, Icarus could make it work. Pocket another five hundred, dash back here for his bag, then catch the last train to Portola. The extra money wouldn’t hurt, nor would a final visit with one of his favorite clients.When were you thinking?he texted back.
Now? I’m on the red-eye out later tonight.
Icarus could make that work.Hotel Ellis in 20.
See you then.
The screen went dark, and Icarus shifted into high gear. Time was tight. He retrieved the toys from the bathroom and shoved them, the remote, and a tube of lube into a sparkly satchel he snatched out of his closet. One last hurrah for another favorite item that wouldn’t fit in his go bag. Next, he hauled his duffel onto the bed and dug out a little black dress, stockings, a wine-colored jockstrap and garters, and his favorite black heels. Finally, he shut down his laptop, tucked it and the necessary peripherals into a pouch, and nestled it between clothes in the duffel. He carried the satchel and the duffel to the dusk-shadowed living room and set both bags on the couch. All that was left to do when he returned was retrieve the single dose of Daylight from his freezer and pack it with the rest of his express meals in an insulated pouch. Enough food to last him a few days and an emergency safety measure if needed.
Otherwise packed and ready, Icarus turned toward the bedroom to change but only got as far as the threshold when two hard knocks rapped against his door. Not a neighbor’s knock that he recognized, nor the usual delivery person’s. Keeping the lights off, he stepped back into the shadowed living area and extended his hearing.
And picked up a heartbeat he did recognize. “Fuck,” he cursed low.
He glanced from his bag to the balcony door to his state of relative undress—barefoot, jeans undone, robe hanging open. It was dim enough outside, the fog rolled in by now, that he could make it to the cover of the cypress trees without a burn. But a certain human outside his door would hear the commotion inside—Icarus scurrying for the last most important item in the freezer, the hanging blinds on his balcony door rattling, the door opening. Given the speed at which he’d have to move and the height from which he’d have to jump, there’d be no disguising himself anymore. And all of that assumed a coyote wasn’t waiting outside, ready to pounce.
