J. Kenner - Heated

He did, stretching out beside me and taking my hand, and when he spoke, it was as much to the stars as to me. “I grew up in Rogers Park,” he said. “Up north where Lake Shore Drive turns into Sheridan Road. Near the lake. On the Red Line. Solid middle class. Decent house. Decent neighbors. My dad managed a gas station. My mom stayed at home.”

“Sounds nice.”

He made a sound that might have been a snort.

“She drank. He gambled. Not just at cards or in weekend jaunts to Vegas, but in everything. Any get rich quick scheme you could think of. And he was damn stupid at it. Never once got on top of it, not that I could see. And I saw a lot.”

“He talked to you about it?”

“Hell no. Neither one of them talked to me at all. The three of us lived in that house, and it was like we were three strangers. When I was very young, I’d make up stories as to why. I thought maybe I had an older brother who’d been kidnapped, and they were so lost in their grief they couldn’t see me. Or that they weren’t my parents at all. My parents were actually spies, and they’d send for me as soon as they were safe. Then I quit making up the stories and just figured it was me.”

“Tyler, no,” I said, my heart breaking for the little boy he used to be.

“No,” he agreed. “I realized soon enough it wasn’t me. It was them. My parents were—are—two broken people. And they didn’t give a shit if they broke me, too.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“They paid the bills, kept the roof over our heads. But there was never dinner—I lived on cold cereal and scrambled eggs. And there was never conversation.”

“Jesus,” I said, though I’m not sure I spoke aloud.

“I started doing stupid shit to get their attention, but they never noticed. So I ramped it up. Stole a car when I was thirteen. Started breaking into people’s houses when I was fourteen—used to steal leftovers, so that was a plus, and about the only way I got a decent meal. Stole a car when I was fifteen. Smashed it. Got arrested. My dad bailed me out, and I didn’t even get grounded. Just told me to get my shit together and not be a stupid fuck.” He glanced at me, his expression dry. “That’s an exact quote, by the way.”

“What did you do?”

“Needless to say, I didn’t follow dear old Dad’s advice. I did not get my shit together. On the contrary, I think it’s safe to say I spiraled down. I started dealing drugs—stupid, but the money was good, and money bought me freedom and food.”

“You didn’t stay in drugs,” I said, my voice tight. God, don’t let him be dealing drugs; I’d seen the effects, and that was something I knew I couldn’t deal with on any level.

“No.” The word was fast and harsh. “I knew from the moment I got involved that it was all wrong. But this group of kids at my school—I clung to them because I wanted a family. Needed, even. And I went along.”

He ran his fingers through his hair. “Anyway, I had a girlfriend. Amanda. High school sweetheart, you know. Smart, pretty, sweet as she could be, and totally clean. When she learned what I was doing, she said I had to get out. That if I didn’t, she was going to call the cops.”

“Did she?”

He cocked his head. “I told her not to. That she needed to trust me. I had a way out, but I needed to go through with a deal we had set up. We’d scored a over a pound of coke at a bargain price, and we’d arranged a sale to some kids from the South Side—stupid—and if we didn’t go through, my buddies and I knew damn well they’d hurt us. Or worse.”

“Go on.”

“So we went to the meet.” He closed his eyes and drew in a breath. “And Amanda showed up—god damn her.” His voice hardened with emotion and memory. “She showed up, told me to just walk away, but I couldn’t, of course. She was living in some fantasy that these gangbangers would just let us go. So I stayed—and she stayed—and then—”

He clenched his fist, then punched it hard into the air. “And then the cops came and it turned into a clusterfuck. Someone pulled a gun, and then there were shots fired and I looked over, and she was on the ground, her white blouse stained with blood. She was dead before I got to her.”

He closed his eyes, the pain of the memory almost palpable.

When he opened his eyes, they were full of anger and grief. “She was shot and she died and goddammit, if she’d just trusted me and not betrayed me to the cops, she would still be alive. Probably have a boring husband and three kids, but she’d be alive.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” I said gently, because that is what you say when someone is grieving.

His eyes were flat when he looked at me. “You know better than that. I didn’t have a gun, didn’t pull the trigger, but the law says it was my fault. And the law is right.”

“Felony murder,” I said under my breath, referencing the legal theory that holds culpable all participants in the crime. “I’m so sorry.”

“So am I,” he said. He tilted his head back, drew in a long gulp of air. “Anyway, I got sent to a scared straight camp. I met Evan and Cole there—which was about the only thing good the camp managed. That camp gave me the only real family I ever had.”

“I’m guessing you weren’t scared straight?”

“No,” he said, he drew in a breath, obviously calmer now. “But I realized I liked a cleaner approach to my adventures. I like puzzles and playing by my wits. And as I believe I already mentioned,” he added, with his eyes on me, “I like owning things that other people covet.”

“You did well, and you didn’t play by the rules.”

“That’s a fair statement.” His grin was all charm. “And I should probably make clear that for everything I’m talking about, the statute of limitations has long run its course.”

“I’ve no doubt,” I said dryly.

“At any rate, we played that game, the three of us. Mixing the legitimate and the not-so-legitimate for a while. We were still very young, and then when Evan started at Northwestern, he met Howard Jahn.”

“The entrepreneur.”

Tyler nodded. “An amazing man. Brilliant mind, exceptional businessman. He took us under his wing. Mentored us, really. And he completely turned our lives around.”

“You’re saying that you’re clean now?”

His smile was thin. “That’s what I’ve been saying all along.”

I looked at him, certain that he was telling me the truth … even while holding back. Even so, I was grateful for the glimpse into the child he was, as it told me so much more about the man he’d become.

I leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Thank you for telling me,” I said. “I look at you and I feel like I’ve known you my whole life, when I barely know you at all.”

“You’re wrong,” he said. “We do know each other. We know what matters.”

“Do we?” I thought of the secrets I still kept. The ones I was certain that he was holding fast to as well. But at the same time, those secrets seemed small compared to everything I felt for this man. So much—and so much more than just sex. And that was both comforting and terrifying. “We’re moving so fast.”

“No,” he said gently. “We’re just moving at the speed of us.”

His words melted me a little, especially when he took my hand and pressed it to his heart, then pressed his palm over mine. I saw hunger in his eyes, but it was banked by a tenderness so profound it made me want to cry. “You move me, Sloane. Like no woman I have ever known.”

“Tyler—”

“Don’t talk,” he said. “Just kiss me.”

I did, and it was slow and deep and tender, and when he broke the kiss, it took me a moment to find my equilibrium.