Absolution (The Protectors, Book 1) (2 page)

Jonas

The second Mace disappeared under the table, I started planning my escape because I knew what the look in his eyes meant. No, I had no clue what had put it there but hatred was hatred and I’d learned long ago that ignoring that look was tantamount to signing your own death sentence. Only this time, I wasn’t some desperate kid whose sole focus was earning enough money to ease the ache of starvation that had taken up permanent residence in his belly. I was going to tell this guy to get the hell out, but the only place I was going to do it was up at the front of the building, preferably out on the sidewalk where there was plenty of foot traffic.

“I’m going to need some other tools to work this loose,” the man said from beneath the table and as he started working his way out from underneath it, a rush of panic went through me and I started backing away from the scarred, stained table and towards the doorway that led to the main room. My eyes never left Mace as I watched his huge frame pull itself upright, the screwdriver in his hand. And in that moment I was exactly what I’d said I wasn’t – I was the same desperate, stupid kid because just like that, I was back in a darkened alley, backing away from the gleam of the knife fisted in the man’s beefy hand…

I saw Mace’s mouth move as he pointed at me but I couldn’t hear anything he said above the voices in my head – mine telling me to run and the man’s telling me not to move. By the time I made the decision to listen to my fourteen-year-old self, I was too late because the man was reaching for me and even as my back bumped into the alley wall at my back, I knew I’d waited just a moment too long to run.

Pain radiated through my shoulder as I hit the wall but when the wall gave way behind me, I instantly returned to the present and realized I’d run into the pile of old lumber that had been leaning upright in the corner of the room. I started to fall but a strong hand wrapped around my wrist and yanked me forward and even as the pile of wood crashed around me, I knew that none of it would hit me because somehow Mace had managed to put his body between the danger and me and while his body blocked mine from each impact, I heard every little grunt as piece after piece of wood struck him.

While I knew the whole thing had lasted only a couple of seconds, it took me much longer to recover and when I did, I could feel Mace’s warm breath fanning across my cheek as he asked, “You okay?”

I nodded even as I struggled to catch my breath, because not only had I not managed to escape the man, he had somehow succeeded in pinning me against the wall, his big arms caging me in. I forced my eyes up and saw his nearly black ones watching me intently. Not with hatred this time but with something else. Something I couldn’t put my finger on but that had the fear in my gut twisting into something that was no longer about the danger this man represented. A fierce surge of energy fired throughout my entire body. It was the same thing I’d felt when my eyes had spied the curl of black ink peeking from underneath the collar of his shirt and I’d wondered what it would feel like to trace the outline of the tattooed arc with my fingers.

Mace was a good deal taller than me – at least three inches, if not four. Which put him at nearly six and a half feet. And I didn’t even want to guess how much he outweighed me by. He wasn’t huge like some of the guys from the wrestling shows I’d watched in fascination when I was younger and just starting to realize I was more drawn to muscles than curves. No, Mace was built but not bulging. His hair was a muddy combination of blond and brown and on the long side. His dark eyes and darker skin tone had me thinking he had some Latino blood running through his system. Everything about his face was hard and rough – sharp jaw line, coarse stubble that I suspected would feel good against my suddenly itchy skin, and a slightly crooked nose that suggested he’d seen his fair share of fist fights where he hadn’t walked away unscathed.

The heat wafting off of Mace was intense but I didn’t get to enjoy it for long because he pulled his eyes from mine and straightened, and then let out a curse as he reached to shove away a piece of wood that had been leaning against his body. But the second I saw the blood coating his fingers as he tried to look over his shoulder where the wood had hit him, I knew it hadn’t just been leaning on him – it had impaled him. A glance down at the wood showed three rusty, blood soaked nails jutting out from the end of the offending object.

The sight of the blood actually helped bring my fading panic, and the other emotions I didn’t want to examine too closely, under control and I pushed away from the wall and stepped around Mace to examine the back of his shoulder. There wasn’t a ton of blood but enough that I couldn’t actually make out the three holes I knew would be in his shirt and in him. Guilt went through me at the sight and before I could think too much of it, I wrapped my hand around his lower arm and said, “Come on.”

* * *

It only took a minute to climb the stairs leading to my studio but I spent all of it intensely aware of the man behind me. I’d had enough sense to release his arm once I was sure he would follow me but since he was only a half a foot behind me, I could still feel the strength and heat that radiated from his big body. But it was the unexpected scent of citrus and mint that was driving me crazy, because I wanted to know if he just happened to be chewing some kind of fruity gum that had given off the aroma or if he smelled that good all over.

“In here,” I said as I opened the door at the top of the stairs. I stepped back to let him pass and then shut the door and tried to swallow back the nerves that were threatening to overtake me. Although the guy had put himself between me and potentially serious injury, I couldn’t shake the way he’d looked at me earlier. But one glance at the smeared blood on his shirt reminded me that his motives didn’t matter. I’d patch him up and then get him out of here and then I’d figure out how to find the help I needed to get the repairs done to the first floor in time. I’d purposefully posted the ad on a general
Help Wanted
site in the hopes of finding some cheaper labor but since no one else had answered the ad except for this giant of a man, I’d have to find a way to come up with more cash to pay a professional to do the work…preferably someone who didn’t look like he wanted to rip me limb from limb.

“Sit here,” I said to Mace as I pulled out one of the only two chairs I owned. I’d found them at the thrift shop and was glad I’d splurged on the sturdy wood ones instead of the spindly metal pair I’d been eyeing, because I doubted they would have been able to hold Mace’s weight. I hurried to the bathroom at the other end of the open space and searched out the few first aid supplies I had. When I came back out, I saw Mace hadn’t heeded my instruction to sit and was exploring my combined studio/apartment. Although calling it an apartment was a generous use of the term. The building I’d chosen for my studio and gallery wasn’t designed for residential living but it hadn’t made sense to waste money on an apartment when I wouldn’t be spending much time there. I had all the things I needed including space for my bed, a bathroom that included a small but working shower and a kitchen area that had probably been more of a break area in its former life. I didn’t have a stove, but my microwave and mini fridge met most, if not all of my needs. Takeout food took care of the rest.

But none of that was what Mace was looking at. No, he was standing near the wall of windows that faced the street below and his eyes were glued to the large canvas that was leaning up against one of the foundation columns. I made my way back to the kitchen and tried not to keep sneaking looks at him as he studied my painting. Over the years, I’d gotten used to even the most critical eye studying my work but, for some reason, my gut knotted at the sight of Mace absorbed by whatever it was he saw in the swath of colors that I’d spent the better part of a week trying to get just right.

“We should get that taken care of,” I finally said when Mace made no move to return to the kitchen. His stony eyes lifted to hold mine and I tried to figure out what he was thinking. And to my dismay, I really wanted to hear what he thought of my painting. Which was ridiculous because my art was the one area in my life that I’d never let anyone else touch. No amount of praise or criticism had ever affected why I put my brush to canvas or changed the colors I saw in my head. So why did I want Mace to tell me he saw what I did? Why did I care if he saw the things I’d felt when I’d picked up my brush and made my first stroke?

But he said nothing. His expression remained blank as he started walking towards me and I was just about to drop my gaze when I saw his fingers reach for the first button on his shirt. And then time slowed as I watched the man close the distance between us, his swagger confident as he finished working the buttons free, each one exposing another small piece of tanned flesh. My mouth suddenly felt dry as he peeled the shirt back and I couldn’t say if it was the sight of his bronzed, muscled chest or the intricate tattoos that covered his body that had me unable to catch my breath.

An array of colors and shapes covered Mace’s arms from his shoulders to his wrists and the artist in me wanted to examine every line and explore every color but my eyes caught on the large letters scrawled across his chest just above his nipples and spreading across his pectoral muscles to meet up with the ink on his arms. Somehow I managed to make out the words
Fiat Justitia
.

“Let justice be done,” I automatically murmured as I translated the Latin.

Mace came to a stop before me but I couldn’t rip my eyes from the tattoo – I had so many questions I wanted to ask about why those words, and what they meant to him, but even more, I wanted to reach out and trace the edges of each letter to test the texture. I wasn’t a stranger to tattoos, but somehow seeing them on this man was like I’d never understood their true beauty. His body was so much more than just the canvas to display some tattoo artist’s work.
He
was the art, the masterpiece.

I was about to throw caution to the wind and ask him about his ink when my eyes dropped just a little bit and I nearly swallowed my tongue. A glint of metal shone on either side of his right nipple and it actually took me several long seconds to realize it was a piercing. The lust that had been simmering in my belly exploded as I imagined what it would feel like between my teeth and I actually had to lick my lips to try and get some moisture on them because my entire mouth had turned into the fucking Sahara.

A small exhale of breath caught my attention and I finally looked up and saw that Mace was staring at me…no, not me, my mouth. He looked like he wanted…

Fuck.

I nearly stumbled backwards as it hit me that the gorgeous man standing just inches from me was likely gay and if the hunger in his eyes was anything to go by, he wanted me. It was another look I was all too familiar with but instead of feeling the need to escape like I usually did, I felt my body drawing up tight with anticipation. And then I made the mistake of looking down and any doubts I had fled when I saw the clear outline of Mace’s erection against his pants. This time I did step back and nearly tripped over the chair I’d forgotten about. Mace’s hand came up to steady me.

God, I needed to get a fucking grip. “Um, you should sit,” I stammered as I put a hand down on the chair to turn it towards him. I tried to not let on that I was also using it to support much of my weight.

Mace stood there for a long, pregnant moment and I wondered what he would do next because his eyes had flared to life with heat and need as soon as he’d touched me. I was also wondering what I would do if he dragged me to him. I was terrified to realize that I already knew the answer to that question.

Luckily, Mace finally released me and sat, his back to me. As beautiful as his front was, his back was a not so distant second. Another tattoo graced the span of his upper back and it was more intricate than any of the others. And its meaning didn’t need any explanation. This time I did run my fingers over the tattoo before I could stop myself. I let my eyes take in the detail of the angel’s wings while my finger followed her body down the middle of Mace’s back. He trembled beneath my touch but didn’t move otherwise. My eyes fixed on some letters beneath one of the angel’s wings but I managed to not speak the word this time around.

Evan.

A lover perhaps? A family member?

“You can read Latin?”

Mace’s voice wasn’t particularly loud when he spoke but it may as well have been a cannon going off because I yanked my hand away from his back.

“What?” I asked.

“You know how to read Latin?”

I nodded and then realized he couldn’t see me. “Yeah,” I said as I reached for the gauze and antiseptic. “I learned in grade school.”

I focused my attention on the wound on Mace’s left shoulder and started cleaning it. I wasn’t particularly surprised when Mace didn’t even flinch when the antiseptic came into contact with his injury. I was very glad to see that the nails hadn’t damaged the tattoo.

“Grade school? Isn’t that a little young?”

“I guess. I sort of liked the challenge of it, though. Made all the other languages seem like a cakewalk,” I admitted with a laugh.

“Languages? With an ‘s’?”

“My parents were real big on impressions and nothing scores more points than having your kid be able to say, ‘It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance’ in five different languages. I felt like those Von Trapp kids singing that goodbye song.”