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Shit. The problem is, how can I help him if I don’t know the facts? “Simon. His men. How did they catch you after you left that night? What happened?”
“You’re better off not knowing,” he whispers.
I swallow a sigh. “Who is Simon to you? What do you owe him?”
He swallows and puts his plate down. “He’s my pimp. I owe him money.”
“That’s bullshit.”
His face hardens, red splotching his pale cheekbones. “Fuck you.”
“Wha
t is he extorting you over? Why do you stay at this Club? What are you so scared of?”
“Fuck you,” he says again, but it’s just a breath of a sound. His eyes are huge and full of ghosts.
“If it was just money he wanted from you, I bet you’d fight him. Is it drugs? Come on, Jase—”
“I fought him at first. He called his goons to beat me up. Broke my ribs. Cracked my arm.”
Fuck. I wince at the dead tone of his voice. But that isn’t the whole truth, either. “He threatened your friends, didn’t he? That’s why you’re sending them away.”
“That’s not…” He rubs a shaking hand over his face. “Who the hell told you that?”
“Josie.”
“Fuck. Fuck.” He’s trembling now, the breath rattling in his chest. “Why were you talking to her? I can’t…”
Holy shit. “Jason. I was only trying to find you. I looked for you all week, and I was worried. Hey.”
“Nobody can know. Nobody.” Sweat is beading on his forehead. His eyes are wild.
“I won’t tell anyone. I swear. I fucking swear. Look at me.” I grab his face in my hands, his stubble scratching at my palms. “I won’t betray you. I’m on your side. Okay?”
His gaze collides with mine, and he stares hard at me. I don’t know what he’s looking for, but I’ll wait until he finds it. Until I’m what he needs.
For this man, I’ll fucking wait.
“You swear,” he breathes at last. “You swear you won’t tell. You don’t understand.”
We’ve covered that already. But I think I’m starting to understand a lot more than I did a few weeks ago.
About Simon Gomez.
About Jason Vega.
About myself.
The need to kiss him is too strong. His eyes are velvet dark, his mouth so close to mine. But I manage to keep myself in check.
“Rest now,” I tell him. “You’re safe here.”
“Safe,” he whispers, as if he doesn’t believe it. “I can’t.”
“This,” I roll my eyes at my small living room, “is your home. This sofa has your name on it. You can stay here every night if you like. Every damn night, I swear. No strings attached. No payments. Hell, I’ll give you the spare key.”
He blinks once. Twice. “What are you doing?”
