Page 39 of Bulletproof

So, I told him about how the simple, totally-nothing errand—picking up my friend’s dog—had become the pivotal moment of my life. I told him about how I had been kidnapped and shot and how Sam had been gone for three years and how he had come back. I talked and did voices and laughed because it was funny in retrospect.

“What?” I asked when I noticed how big his eyes were.

“Jesus Christ, Angel,” he said flatly, staring at me.

“It’s no big deal.”

“Oh, no, it kind of is.”

And it kind of was, but I was years away from everything that had happened at this point, and distance made it more like a movie than anything else. But the way he was looking at me—studying my face, his tender expression, the concern in his eyes—was very nice.

“Hey, I know this really good pie place for after,” I suggested.

“Absolutely.”

I ate like a pig, which charmed the owner completely, and thanked her for my dinner and hugged her and told her that the poc chuc and picadillo were two of my favorite dishes and that her rice and the mollette were to die for.

“You knew what you were eating?” Cristo smiled at me when she was gone.

“Course,” I said, squinting at him. “I cook some too, you know.”

He nodded. “Really? You cook?”

“Yes, I cook.”

Quick grunt from him. “So, do you⁠—”

“Cris.”

We both looked up at Paz, and his eyes were facing forward, intent on something else. Following his gaze, I saw Sam and Agent Calhoun, again in their drug-dealer clothes, crossing the floor with two other men. I stopped breathing. Paz and Adan moved in closer, flanking Cristo and me as they stopped a few feet from us.

“May we join you for dinner, Mr. Liron?” one of the men I didn’t know asked.

“Actually, we’re already done,” Cristo said, leaning back, draping his arm over the back of my chair. “But please, join us for a drink before we leave to get dessert.”

“Excellent.” He smiled tightly, turning to look at the others and gesturing at the empty seats at the table.

Since I felt like I would fly apart, I concentrated on the air moving in and out of my lungs. Sam moved around the table fast, taking a seat beside me, sitting so that when he did, his knee bumped mine under the table.

“I don’t know your friend,” the man who had asked to join us said, smiling at me.

“This is Jory Harcourt. Jory, this is Adrian Miller of⁠—”

“Harcourt.” He squinted at me.

“Yep.” I took a breath. “Related to Dane, who won’t design a house for you.”

“Why won’t he design a house for him?” the man beside him asked me.

“His reasons are his own.”

“What’s your guess?” he asked me, eyes narrowed.

“I’m sure I have no idea.”

He pointed at me. “I don’t like your tone, Mr. Harcourt.”

I shrugged. “I can’t help that.”