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Except there’s no remnants of Preston on me. Nothing but lacerations and some swelling on my knuckles. Easily explained. I hit the punching bag at the gym without gloves.
I should tell them I’m here.
My voyeuristic side disagrees.
Carter and Amara can’t see me yet, and I use it to my advantage. I cross the open space of the first floor from the living room to the kitchen to get myself another glass of whiskey. Listen in on them.
“I told you it’s okay,” Carter says in a gentle tone he saves for Amara and her alone. “Don’t worry, pet.”
She groans. They’re not moving, and I continue to eavesdrop.
“We should’ve at least given him a heads-up, muffin.”
Anyone else calling him that nickname would’ve turned me murderous. Me and Carter alike.
Murphy would attest to that.
“Hey, kid.” He approached Carter one day. A redhead, asshole politician from DC that came to do his dirty business in our hotel.
A man who thought he could call Carter by anything other than his name.
Carter and I were on our way to our private elevators that’d lead us to the parking garage.
Needless to say, we came to a screeching halt.
By then, Carter was nineteen. He knew he had my approval to deal with people who didn’t respect him however the fuck he wished.
“What did you call me, Murphy?” Carter stalked toward the man, towering over him.
Even from his profile, I could tell his smile was wide.
It wasn’t an invitation. It was a threat Murphy had the brains to see.
He stammered, “I-I just meant, I mean, umm—”
“Yes?” I watched Carter flip open his pocket knife behind his back. “You meant?”
“Carter, please, I meant nothing by it.” Sweat dripped into Murphy’s green eyes. “It makes sense, doesn’t it? I have known you since you were about this tall.” The trembling Murphy gestured to his waist level.
Apparently, he wasn’t as bright as I thought.
“This tall?” Carter shoved the blade of his knife to Murphy’s waist.
Murphy screamed, grabbing his bleeding abdomen.
“Thought so.” Carter bent to stare dead in the man’s eyes. “Not a fucking kid. I’m one of the owners. You better keep that in mind.”
I smile at the memory. Then curse under my breath, since I hate lying to myself.
Truth is, no one’s been allowed to give Carter a nickname because until Amara came along, Carter had been mine.
For the first twenty-two years of his life, he was my stepson. Then, he’d been mine to fantasize about. His lips belonged around my cock. His body belonged in my bed. At least these are the thoughts I have on a daily basis.
No stepfather who raised a boy on his own should want to spoon him. Naked.
And yet I have. Still do. Which makes me a million times more possessive of him.
Now, though, I have to share him. She gets to call him whatever.
