Dare To Run (The Sons of Steel Row #1)(45)

And I was done denying that, at the very least.

“Blah, blah, blah,” he echoed, shaking his head and downing the rest of his drink. He set the empty glass down on the coffee table and licked his lips slowly, as if he relished every last drop. If he was trying to be provocative, he was succeeding. “That was my favorite one.”

“Obviously,” I drawled. He shot me a look. I quickly stared down at my cup and bit down on my tongue, because this close to him . . . those gorgeous green eyes of his were as dangerous to stare into as the sun. “So, who is Chris? A friend? Relative?”

He remained silent for so long I thought he wasn’t going to answer me, which wasn’t really a shocker. He wasn’t exactly an open book. Or even an unlocked one. He sighed. “Brother, in every sense except blood.”

I got over my shock at the revelation of a personal detail, took another sip of my drink, and nodded. Because I totally got that. Marco was more like a relative to me than anyone else had ever been—Frankie, too, when he’d been alive—so I knew the feeling all too well. He was my little brother, no matter what our DNA said. “How long have you known him?”

He leaned his head back on the couch and let out another sigh. He looked relaxed, and for the first time ever . . . it seemed as if he had his guard down. His whole body was chilled, and his eyes were closed slightly. His profile was as perfect as ever, highlighted by the dim lighting he’d turned on before dinner. Rubbing his jaw, he rolled his head toward me. Those eyes of his pinned me in place. It occurred to me they matched the appletini I held. “Ever since I was a kid. From the neighborhood. He’s the only person I trust completely,” he said, his voice low.

I finished my drink and slid my glass next to his. Turning more toward him, I tugged my foot into my lap and studied him. His memories shadowed him like a ghost. He no longer looked relaxed. “Why’s that?”

“My brother is . . . I don’t know who Scotty is anymore.” He dropped his hand to his lap. Without really intending to, I followed its descent. His fingers curled into a fist, and I forced my attention upward. “If he knocks on the door, don’t grab a knife and confront him. Run.”

I swallowed. “Oh.”

“I’m not kidding. Run like hell if your paths ever cross, and don’t look back.”

“Okay, I get it.” I reached out and touched his knee, squeezing reassuringly. “What happened between you two?”

“I went to jail.” He stared at my hand, and his Adam’s apple bobbed. “He changed. And now everything is f*cked-up.”

“What’s he doing?”

“It doesn’t matter.” He shook his head. “Enough about me.”

Not even close. But I drew back, settling deeper into the cushions. “All right. What’s in the bag by the door?”

He glanced at it dismissively. “A new lock. Tonight made me remember that too many people have keys to my place.”

“Oh.” I frowned. “You don’t have to do that for me. I mean, I’ll only be here for a little while more. Right?”

He grunted. “I’m changing them for me—not you.”

“Why do you want to change them?”

He stared back at me, not answering.

It didn’t take long to figure out he wouldn’t.

“Okay . . .” I said slowly. “So, you don’t want to talk about you. Tell me, then—what do you want to talk about?”

“You.” He rested his arm across the back of the couch, and his fingertips brushed against my shoulder. “Are you from Boston originally?”

“Not much to tell. I’m a system kid.” I fidgeted with the drawstring of my pants. “Born and raised.”

“But no parents?”

I shook my head once. “They’re dead. Have been since I was a baby.”

“So that’s why there were foster homes all your life?”

“Yeah.” I shifted away from him. “Until I was old enough to run. Then I took my chances on the streets, and did pretty good, too. I was always on the move. Always running from one place to another to avoid any trouble. The only place I ever went back to was that alley I took you down.”

He cupped my cheek. “Did you ever have to . . . you know.”

The fact that he couldn’t ask the question struck me harder than it should have. He didn’t need to finish the question for me to know what he asked, though. “No.”

He sagged. “Thank f*cking God.”

“I could’ve. And probably should have.” I lifted a shoulder. “But I didn’t want to. I hung on to my pride a little tighter than most and refused to sell my body. Instead . . . I just kept going.”

Tapping his fingers on his thigh, he nodded. “And you never stopped running, once you started?”

“I stopped once I met the man who gave me the Patriot. Frankie. He found me sleeping under a ratty blanket behind his bar, woke me up, and told me to ‘Get the hell inside where it’s warm.’ ” I smiled at the memory of him. He’d been so openhearted and kind. And he’d always smelled like butterscotch candies. He’d been addicted to the things. He was too good for our neighborhood, but he’d refused to leave his bar behind. “Once he took me in, I finally found a home.”