3.

THREE

Rafael

Noah’s eyes narrow as I settle into the chair across from him on the café patio. The collar of my tan leather jacket is high enough that nobody but him would notice the bruising around my throat. Just wait until he hears my voice.

Even though the patio is partially enclosed and kept somewhat warm by propane heaters, the November air is chilly enough that only Noah and a few other people think that being out here is pleasant. I certainly don’t. At least the cold gives me an excuse to be bouncing my knee.

“I ordered for you,” Noah says.

I nod and glance across the street, looking for Dominic. It was mere luck that I spotted him at the gym yesterday. I happened to look toward the treadmills as he was leaving. The two times I’ve seen him since then, I think he wanted me to.

If he’s trying to intimidate me, he’s going about it all wrong. I fucking love the attention.

I also loved how he shoved his cock down my throat.

I didn’t know how he’d react to me walking in on him. I didn’t actually have a plan. But knowing he was naked nearby, I just couldn’t resist stuffing that plug in my ass, picking the lock, and finding out exactly what he looks like under his expensive clothes.

He did not disappoint.

His body is all lean power, and his cock is brutal. I’ve never taken someone that size down my throat.

I don’t see Dominic’s Audi or his dark, looming figure across the street. I sigh through my nose in annoyance.

The waiter delivers Noah’s boring black coffee and my cappuccino. The café is upscale and the waiter snobby as hell as he sets down our drinks. Noah, however, is completely unbothered by those facts in his flannel shirt and windbreaker. His face is haggard, his graying beard scruffy, and his hair desperately needs a better cut. But Noah’s already been to hell and back, so he’ll go wherever he fucking pleases wearing whatever he fucking wants.

I sip my cappuccino to soothe my throat, preparing.

“Do I need to be concerned?” Noah asks.

“No,” I rasp. At Noah’s sharpened gaze, I lie, “I have a cold.”

“I might believe that if you weren’t wearing someone’s handprint around your neck.”

Sometimes, the only one way to deal with Noah is to tell him the truth. “Fine. I deepthroated a massive cock.”

He receives that in stony silence, not giving me even the dull pleasure of him cringing.

“Did you find anything for me?” I ask, trying not to sound too impatient.

Noah pulls a folder from inside his jacket. His elbow settles on the table and he extends the folder in my direction. I know it’s a test, so I don’t grab for the folder like I want to. He sets it on the table. It takes everything I have to leave it there.

I sip my cappuccino, trying to look calm from the waist up while my right leg jigs frantically under the table. I should’ve put the plug back in my ass. I always feel calmer when there’s something inside me.

I can’t help glancing across the street again.

“Who are you looking for?”

Goddamn Noah. It doesn’t matter that he’s been out of the FBI for fifteen years, or that he’s worn out and drowning in his own past. He’s still sharp as hell.

So I know exactly what he’s going to do.

I slap my hand on the folder as he grabs the edge of it.

“I need it,” I rasp through my abused throat.

“You’re spiraling.”

“I’m struggling, not spiraling.” If I don’t admit something, he won’t yield. “I need it, Noah.”

He wants to give it to me. He wants to help me. He’s been trying to for fifteen years, ever since he got me out of hell. He still thinks he can save me, like he couldn’t save his son.

He’s fucking tragic, my Noah.

“Please,” I rasp. Like I told Dominic, I will beg, if the reward is big enough. “I need it.”

“It’s too risky if you’re not stable.”

“I’m never stable. That’s why I need the goddamn file.”

“We’ll get him, Rafael.”

My teeth grind together. I don’t believe Noah. The spark of hope I had two months ago was just another of life’s cruel little jokes.

I will never find the man who introduced me to hell when I was twelve years old. I will never get to make him suffer like he deserves. All I can do is choose who suffers in his place.

Noah understands this, and it’s the reason he lets go of the file. Because I can either choose … or shit will just happen.

I shouldn’t open the file in public, but I can’t help it. Noah makes a sound of disapproval.

The file contains only one police report about a drug dealer, murderer, and rapist who escaped punishment for one reason or another. I don’t really care why. All I care about is having a project.

I close the file, unzip my jacket partway, and stuff the folder inside. I zip back up and snag my cup from its saucer.

I should feel calmer right now, but my knee just keeps bouncing. I hate it. I want everything in me to quiet. It did for a moment yesterday, when Dominic was taking control of me, fucking my throat, making me focus on him so completely.

But that was yesterday. It’s not doing me any good right now.

***

I might have taken too much.

My heart is racing, and I’m hard as fuck. Of course, I’m often like this, so who the hell knows.

I know the idea was for me to study the perp. I usually do. Sometimes, I can drag it out for a week.

That’s not possible for me right now. I need this.

After meeting with Noah, I went home like a good boy. I tried playing the piano. I tried jacking off. I even cleaned my fucking kitchen.

Then I started on the pills.

Then I started looking at the file.

Then I went through my knife collection. (That was probably the most fun thing I did today.)

And now, here I am with six knives strategically hidden in my combat boots, black tactical pants, and black leather jacket. I am officially open for business as I stalk through the shadowy alleys of a very nasty neighborhood.

Does my crazy show somehow? Nobody has fucked with me all night, and I’ve walked a long way through the city. Sam Perkins—28-year-old white male, blond hair, brown eyes, 5’11”, 185 pounds—has three known hangouts. I’ve already checked two.

Here’s the thing.

I feel like I’m capable of good decisions right now. I really do. I mean, when I reach my destination and see Sam Perkins, drug dealer, murderer, and rapist, with another guy, I conceal myself. I wait. I’m actually able to do it.

Good decision.

Display of self control.

But when the other guy leaves and Sam Perkins is alone in the alley, when I step out of the shadows and stalk his way? I have a brief, clear moment of oh, shit —because I’m about to fucking lose it.