Page 33 of Bone Deep
God. I just need to be around him. I don’t even know why. Something about him pulls at me like gravity.
I need to get his attention.
Blowing up his phone and sending half naked selfies clearly isn’t working. I tap my phone lightly against my chest, staring at the ceiling as the grin spreads wider.
“Alright, Counselor,” I murmur.
My pulse picks up with a spark of excitement.
“Time to run a different play.”
Eight
Sabotage
Spencer
By the time Dita knocks and ushers in Tyler, I’ve reviewed several contracts, shot out a few emails, and racked up some billables with our East Coast clients.
I walked up on Tyler a year ago while three assholes were winding up to curb-stomp him for the crime of being young, broke, and queer. The memory still makes my teeth grind. They had his thrift-store hiking pack gutted on the sidewalk, everything he owned kicked into puddles, yelling every unimaginative slur their tiny brains could cough up. Pussy boy. Queerbait. Same tired shit I heard at his age.
The assholes scattered when they saw me heading straight for them. The broken young man went statuesque for half a second when I approached, like a dog that had been abused by its owner and didn’t know who to trust.
Deciding he wasn’t going to risk it, he scooped his life back into that bag and snarled, “I'm fucking fine, dude.”
I'd heard that tone before. Mine, from the age of fifteen until I got myself into college at eighteen. All defensive bluster and don't-fucking-touch-me energy.
“I don't need your help,” he said.
But then he looked me over, head to toe, and dropped his voice. “Unless maybeyouneed some help. Why don't you get me a room for the night and I'll—”
“The fuck you will.” I cut him off before he could finish. “The only place we're going is to that diner across the street where I'mgoing to put some warm food in your belly and you’re going to tell me your situation, kid.”
He hefted the pack onto his shoulder and waved toward the neon sign. “Lead the way, old man.”
“I'm barely twenty-six” I said through gritted teeth. “I'm not old.”
He rolled his eyes, and I wondered if karma was paying me a visit.
“I'm Spencer. And you would be?”
He huffed. “Tyler. And don't call me kid.”
“Don’t call me old.”
That got me another eye roll as we crossed the street to the place that’s provided my coffee and breakfast since I started at the firm as an intern six years ago.
Settling into a booth at Tom’s Diner, I let him order half the menu. I watched him snarf it down while I picked at a turkey club. Four refills of coffee later, he spilled the story I'd already guessed. Kicked out at fifteen. Hustling Phoenix streets for two years. He’s barely seventeen now, which made my fists clench when I thought about what kind of hustling he'd been doing—especially based on that offer back on the sidewalk.
But underneath the armor, he was sharp. Into death metal, plants, and fashion. We found common ground on the last one. The kid had taste and talent, and it gutted me knowing how different his life could've been if his parents weren't garbage people.
When Flo—Florence, Tom's wife, seventy-something with teased auburn hair and a personality to match—came by at the end of our meal, I set up an arrangement. I expected Tyler to show up at the diner every night. He could order anything he wanted. I'd pay the tab weekly, monthly, whatever. Most importantly, Flo would call me if he missed a single meal.
“Well now,” Flo had said, snapping her gum, “looks like we're going to be best friends, aren't we?”
Tyler shook his head. “No, I—”
“Flo.” My voice went sharp. “If he doesn't show up, even one night, you call me.”
