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Chapter Twelve
Mike
If Mike’s dick wasn’t harder than steel, he would’ve smirked at Rayne’s surprised expression. Did he really think that was all it’d take for Mike to melt at his feet? But fuck if Rayne hadn’t come close. One hot comeback and a smoldering look from those pretty gray eyes had almost done him in. Mike tightened his spine and locked his knees so they didn’t buckle. As much as he wanted to press the sexy man against the bookshelf and experience all the new sensations it brought on, he couldn’t yet. He had some shit to learn and understand before he pressed this curiosity any further.
It’d been too long since Mike had felt this way, and he refused to screw it up like he did most relationships in his life. He couldn’t go too fast too soon or offend Rayne with his bold touch. He especially didn’t want to prove Wood right and cause problems with his friend’s recovery. So, this was going to take a lot of fucking finesse, and he was sad to admit it, but that was a new word in Mike’s vocabulary. He was typically a force to be reckoned with that did and took what he wanted.
Rayne was a desire he was going to have to work hard for. And didn’t he just relish a good challenge.
The harder Mike had to work to get his prize, the sweeter it made his victory. Rayne would be his, obstacles and addictions be damned. Without speaking another word, Mike bravely inched in closer, his glare hard. Rayne released a slow, steady breath before he nodded as if he understood Mike’s intent.
“Mike! What the hell?”
Mike ignored Wood’s cursing, choosing not to break his and Rayne’s eye contact as he slowly retreated backward out the library door. He didn’t breathe until he was down the hall.
“Yo, Dad,” Trent called after him on his way through the large living room.
“Hmm,” he grumbled.
“Come play Black Ops with me.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m a grown-ass man, that’s why, T. I don’t play games.”
“Whatever.” Trent sucked his teeth, grabbing one of Bishop’s PlayStation controllers off the entertainment stand. “The games I play are for adults.”
“Ask your boyfriend to play. He doesn’t have shit else to do but annoy me,” Mike said too low for Trent to hear as he made himself comfortable at the breakfast bar facing the kitchen.
“Hey, Mike. There’s some leftovers if you wanna take some home for lunch tomorrow.” Edison smiled as he sealed a plastic bowl with its matching lid while Bishop stood at the sink, scrubbing one of the grill racks.
“No, thanks.” Mike rubbed his stomach. “I’ve eaten enough red meat for this week.”
“So,” Edison started as he wiped down his large kitchen island with a dish towel. “You really didn’t read the Walter Wilson book I let you borrow? You took it home for like a month and then brought it back.” He cocked his head and squinted. “You said you loved it.”
“What I loved about that book was the way it kept my nightstand level for a month.”
Edison jerked his neck back as if he’d been plucked in the forehead. “I can’t believe you. Bishop loves that author. And the two of you couldn’t be more alike.”
“Yeah. Even more alike than I thought,” Bishop gritted out with his back still to him while he washed dishes. If he thought Mike didn’t hear his quip, he was wrong.
But Edison couldn’t be deterred from his topic of goddamn twenty-first-century science fiction authors. His eyes were bright with wonder as he gazed up at nothing, as if the book was a movie playing in his head—a movie he wouldn’t be quiet about. “This next installment, The Right Hand of Light, is from the protagonist’s point of view, not in the third person, and we now get to see the apocalypse of Candor’s world through his—”
“Will you stop talkin’ crazy, Edison? I have serious shit to talk to you about,” Mike whispered sternly, not wanting Trent or the rest of their company to hear him.
Bishop continued doing his job, his hands covered in Dawn soap suds as his broad shoulders bounced with his deep laugh. “My dad doesn’t like reading, babe. I keep telling you that.”
“He just hasn’t found the right book yet.” Edison rattled off that same weak argument he always used.
“Are you shittin’ me right now?” Mike stared. “Edison, listen, I need to ask you a favor—well, actually, a couple of favors—and I don’t have much time.”
“Sure, anything.” Edison nodded.
Bishop stopped washing the dishes and turned to face him. It almost felt like Mike was looking in a mirror at himself in his prime. “I wouldn’t speak so fast, Eddie. If Mike is asking you for a favor, that means he’ll owe you. So it might be something big.”
“Well. I don’t believe your dad would ask me to do anything I couldn’t handle.” Edison thought for another second; then, as if a lightbulb came on in his mind, he added, “I think I like the idea of Big Mike owing me a favor.”
