Page 8 of My Addiction
“How old is Ollie?”
“I have no idea. Young and little.” I spread my hands about two feet apart. “He was walking — well, kinda — but he wouldn’tanswer me when I asked him questions. Either he can’t talk or is too stubborn to.”
“You were at the center today. Is that where you met him?”
“Yes.” I’m getting tired of these questions. I need to get my research done.
“What was he there for?”
“He had food and some tiny clothes in his cart.”
“Fine, I can work with that. Come on, Kieran, let’s go. I have some calls to make.”
Dad still looks confused by all of it, but when Mom says, “Let’s go,” you go. My parents have been together for almost thirty years. My dad is absolutely obsessed with her. Unless he is obtaining a target, they’re never far apart. He wouldn’t allow it. By most social standards, it’s codependent, but for them, it works. I wonder how long it will take for Colton to acclimate to being with me all the time. Just being away from him now is making me twitchy. Xavier is hardly ever out of Declan’s sight. Even when he meets his friends to hang out, Declan watches from close by.
I go into my office and boot up my computer. Using information from his résumé, I begin researching Colton Harris. The references that he used are all over the country. Something doesn’t sit right. I can’t explain what it is, but I decide to dig a little further. I hack into the first one and look at their finances around the time Colton did work for them. I soon find out he’s not, in fact, Colton Harris, but Colton Peterson. Why did he lie about it? What is he hiding — something he’s done, or is he hiding from someone? I keep digging. The more I uncover, the more my blood boils. I send a text to Taylor.
Me:How many men do you have watching?
Taylor:Two
Me:Double it. I want updates every thirty.
Taylor:Done
Chapter 4
Ronan
I get to the office at eight. Waiting is not something my brain handles well. Especially not this. All morning, I’ve been wound so tight I can barely sit still. Every few minutes, I check the time, check my phone, check the security updates. What if he doesn’t come? The thought loops over and over until it starts to feel like static under my skin. If he doesn’t show up, I’ll go after him.
A few minutes ago, Taylor finally sent the text I’ve been waiting for. He’s on his way. I’ve been checking in with the surveillance team every fifteen minutes since six this morning. Sleep was almost impossible last night. Between waiting for updates and fighting the urge to go to that shithole myself and drag Colton and Ollie out of there, I barely slept at all.
At 8:52, I’m standing in the lobby when Colton walks through the doors. He’s eight minutes early. Relief hits me so hard I actually have to breathe through it. He has two bags slung over his shoulder. One plain messenger bag and another covered in dinosaurs. I have no idea what could possibly be inside a dinosaur bag. Ollie is tucked against Colton’s chest with his thumb in his mouth. Then Colton sees me. And smiles.
Dimples.
Jesus fucking Christ.
I didn’t even know I had a thing for dimples until right now. Honestly, before yesterday, I didn’t think I had a thing for anything except my work. But something inside me loosens the second I see him. The tightness under my skin eases. The noise in my head quiets. Like I’ve been in withdrawal since he left yesterday, and just seeing him again is enough to make me feel normal.
“Hello, Ronan.”
“Hello, Colton. Come with me.” I reach out and take both bags from him.
“Oh, you don’t have to carry those. I’m used to it.”
“Yes, I do.” And I do. I want to take care of him in a way that doesn’t make any sense. I don’t like people. I barely tolerate most of them, even when they’re family. But him. For reasons I can’t explain, I like him.
We step into the private elevator reserved for family, and I use my badge to select the seventeenth floor. His scent. The small space fills with his scent. Generic hotel soap. Something citrusy underneath it, probably his shampoo. It makes something low in my stomach twist. I want to lean in closer. Press my face against his neck or his hair and breathe him in properly.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
A second later, Ollie starts making a string of nonsense sounds. He leans toward me with both hands stretched out. His hands are wet. Very wet. I lock my knees to keep from stepping back on instinct. Because every damp, sticky thing about kids feels fundamentally wrong to me. But Ollie keeps reaching for me anyway.
“Huh, that is so weird,” Colton says.
“What is? Do you understand him?”
