On the Steamy Side (36 page)

Painful, but true.

He sighed again, more softly this time, and followed Lilah from the room. Time for another painful round of truth, he mused.

Lilah waited for him in the living room, sitting all prim and straight-backed on the edge of one of his black leather Barcelona chairs.

He wanted to attach some significance to the fact that she was there at all, clearly ready to talk, but the knowledge that she probably just wanted to clarify exactly what a gutless, soulless monster he was made Devon a little glum going into this conversation.

Still, he had things to say to her, and if she was willing to listen, he could only be thankful.

“You were amazing tonight,” he said, throwing himself down on the couch and stretching out his legs.

He was tense enough that he would’ve preferred to stand, but every muscle in his body ached from having been clenched tight for the past five hours. He needed to sit.

Lilah’s face went a little pink. “I didn’t do anything,” she denied.

“You held it together. Held me together.” Devon looked down at his feet propped on the glass coffee table. “I wouldn’t have made it through today without you.”

“Nonsense,” she said briskly. “You didn’t need me any more than you ever have.” Devon’s stomach plummeted. He knew what that meant. She wasn’t sticking around.

“Come on,” he said, trying for a charming smile. “I need you. I always needed you, Lilah Jane. Even when I didn’t know it.”

“I thought so when I first met you,” she said, her eyes soft and thoughtful. “I thought you needed shaking up, needed to be taught a lesson about how to treat people, needed to learn what it was like to love and be loved.” She paused, his pretty Lilah Jane, and Devon felt his breathing speed up like he was running a marathon. “But now I think you didn’t need me at all. You’re a natural at it, Devon.” Well, that was unexpected.

He blinked. “Lilah—”

She held up a hand, and Devon stopped talking gladly; his voice was on the verge of breaking like a spotty teenager’s.

“I should never have implied that you were incapable of loving your son,” Lilah said, standing. “Anyone seeing you today, while Tucker was missing, would know just how much you care about that boy.” Was she leaving? Devon managed a shrug, his eyes riveted to her nervous, stiff form. “Tucker makes it easy. And I appreciate all your help with him, I truly do. But if you think he’s the only reason I need you, you’re nuts.”

She had a look on her face, like she was afraid to ask what he meant, and it was so similar to the sensation pushing at Devon’s chest that he started to feel a whole lot more hopeful about the outcome of this conversation.

“You see,” he said, feigning casual confidence by lacing his fingers together behind his head, “and you should write this down, because you’re one of very few people in the world who’ve ever heard this from me: You were right. About the dream castles, about the happy family. About everything.” Lilah sat back down again, hard enough to bounce on the firm leather seat. “What?”

“Think I’m going to say it twice?” he scoffed, heart beating hard. “I may be head over heels for you, but I’m not an idiot.”

“You’re . . . oh, my stars and stripes, what did you just say?”

“Come on, Lilah Jane, I’ve never known you to be at a loss for words before. Or . . .” he stopped, forced himself to keep his eyes level on hers. “Maybe Tucker is the whole reason you’re here. I wouldn’t blame you, you know. If you loved him, but not me.”

Christ, this hurts. No wonder I never wanted to do it before.

She stared at him, her eyes huge and filled with some indefinable emotion. Until suddenly, they lit up like emeralds in a jewelry case at Cartier, and she launched herself across the coffee table and landed in his lap.

Framing his face in both hands, she had to raise her voice to be heard over Devon’s delighted laughter.

“Don’t get too big for your britches, Devon Sparks. You most certainly are an idiot if you don’t know how much I love you.”

Her palms were warm against his cheeks, her green eyes even warmer as she gazed down at him.

Warmest of all, though, were her lips when he tugged her closer and attempted to imprint the wild, surging emotion coursing through him onto her mouth.

This love stuff isn’t easy, Devon reflected as Lilah made a soft mewl and kissed him back, but it has infinite potential. And like everything Devon had ever decided to succeed at, he’d work tirelessly until he got it right.

Everyone had gone home. Paying customers, servers, line cooks, a bartender, even a restaurant manager. Market was as close to quiet as it ever got when Frankie was around.

Drained dry, Frankie stretched his neck and reached to crank the volume on the small CD player.

Halfway to Sanity was already in, and the first track, I Wanna Live, captured his mood perfectly. Johnny Ramone’s guitar screamed out of the tinny speakers, half jubilation, half desolation.

And as Joey started singing about lovers exposing the truth and being a damn fool, Frankie shivered.

Then footsteps on the stairs up from the employee locker room. He wasn’t alone. Yet.

When Jess stepped into the kitchen, all slicked down and freshly scrubbed in jeans and a blue striped Oxford with the sleeves rolled past his elbows, Frankie was ready with a grin and a lazy hip bump.

“Oi, changed into your muftis already, eh?”

Jess arched a brow as he dumped his messenger bag on the counter. “Watch it, you know that Brit-speak gets me hot.”

Frankie gave him a flash of tongue. “What makes you think I mind?” Blue eyes alight, Jess leaned up for a kiss, but Frankie jittered out of his reach and around the kitchen island.

Oh, bugger, oh, damn, oh fuckfuckfuckityfuck.

No, he told himself as sternly as a first-form teacher. You mustn’t. No teasing, no tempting, and absolutely no seducing.

It’s time to grow up, Peter Pan, and start thinking about what’s good for someone other than yourself, for a change.

Chance would be a fine thing. Frankie could almost hear his father’s rough, sneering voice saying the words.

But Frankie knew better. He knew how to love.

He knew how to do it so well, no one would ever suspect the depths of it. And what he knew, above all, was that it was impossible to love someone and allow him to sacrifice his future for you.

“It was mad tonight, yeah?” Frankie rushed to say, hoping to cover the momentary awkwardness of being unable to resist baiting Jess into coming closer while simultaneously vowing not to touch him.

Tricky, that.

“Yeah, it was,” Jess replied slowly, not fooled for a minute. “I was proud of you.” Frankie adored that quick mind, but he could wish it weren’t quite so speedy just at the moment.

“Frankie, what’s going on?”

Busted, as Adam would say. Frankie hid a wince. He was looking forward to getting his best mate back and available for war council. The recent relationship pow-wows with Devon, while enlightening and no doubt salutary, had left Frankie more gutted than uplifted.

And with a clear fucking sense of what he needed to be getting on with. So Frankie got on with it.

“Nothing, Bit. Just been thinking.” Mother of God, why was this happening in the kitchen instead of in the alley where he could have a smoke?

Because you and Jess talked, really talked, for the first time in that alley behind the restaurant. And you can’t handle doing this there, with the ghost of that all around you.

Frankie scowled. Damned perspicacious of the voice in his head. He didn’t like it.

“What about?”

Jess looked wary, his perfectly curved mouth pulling into a flat, worried line. Frankie’s heart stuttered.

“About your sister. She and Adam are probably back now.”

“They are!” Jess lit up all over again, his eyes shining. “Miranda texted me when they landed.

Something about how they’re going to Adam’s place to crash and will probably sleep for about eighteen hours straight. After which, she wants to see me.” He laughed.

Frankie arched a brow. Perfect segue. “Bet I know what she wants to talk about.”

“Oh, come on. She’s just been to Europe for two weeks! Surely she’s got more on her mind than my housing applications.”

“The way she was after you to turn them in before she left? Doubtful, Bit.” Needing to hide his face for this next part, Frankie ducked his head and started unbuttoning his chef’s jacket. He’d worn it tonight out of respect (grudging, unwilling, shocked as hell respect) for Devon, since it was the man’s last service. And a damn good thing, too, since Devon had shown up wild-eyed and doing his nut because Tucker’d gone missing.

Frankie might not ever be best mates with Devon Sparks, but he wouldn’t wish that kind of pain on his worst enemy.

And, wonder of wonders, Frankie didn’t bollocks it up too badly when he had to take over expediting while Devon dealt with the nabbed kid. Or not nabbed, with his druggie mum, and Grant said it was all fine now, which was a relief.

Frankie didn’t kid himself that he could run the kitchen every night. The very thought made his fingers twitch for a calming cigarette. There’d been far too much excitement around the place lately. Frankie wanted things back to normal. With Adam calling the shots, Grant organizing the troops, and himself . .

. pissing around and buggering off and generally being Frankie. An unrepentant fuck-up.

Or unrepentant until recently, anyway.

But just because he was suddenly aware of and embarrassed over his own shortcomings didn’t mean Frankie could suddenly grow a whole new personality, like growing out his hair after a bad bleach job.

It sucked, but there it was. He’d never be different. Never be better. Never be good enough for Jess.

“She knows why I don’t want to live in crappy student housing,” Jess groused. Sly, happy mischief twisted the annoyance on his handsome face into something almost elfin. “I’d rather live in crappy housing with you.”

This was why Frankie had to end it. Jess was forever trying to give up bits and pieces of his life as a student, as a young man with a future, to hang out with Frankie at Frankie’s grotty attic flat. It had to stop.

Instead of defending the Garret, as was Frankie’s vociferous habit whenever anyone slighted his much-loved domicile, he said, “I think your sister might be right.” All movement stopped.

Frankie froze like he’d been cornered by the police and Jess had the unnatural stillness of someone who’d been dealt a killing blow.

When Jess’s voice came, it was careful. Quiet. “If you want me to move out, that’s all you have to say.” He waited and Frankie could almost taste his desperate hope that the response would be anything other than what it had to be. “Yeah. You should move out. You should turn in those forms, get yourself a nice roommate.”

“I thought I had one,” Jess whispered, then squeezed his eyes closed. “Fuck. Forget I said that.” Frankie was sure he’d never forget it; memory wasn’t usually kind enough to allow him to remember only the lovely bits of life. Still, he waved it away.

“No worries, Bit.” The nickname almost made him flinch as it came out of his mouth here in this kitchen, where he’d thought it upon seeing Jess for the first time: a bit of al right.

Frankie didn’t let it show, though. He gave Jess a grin and said, “All settled, then? It’s been fun and all, but it’s time to move on. For both of us.”

And the band said Frankie didn’t have the onstage persona to be front man. Frankie deserved a fucking Tony for this performance.

As expected, Jess read between the lines and cast the worst—or best, depending on if what you were trying to accomplish was to rip his sweet heart out—possible interpretation on Frankie’s words.

“Bored with me, are you?” Jess shook his head, anger finally spilling in to displace the lost misery clouding his blue eyes. “Looking back, I guess I’m only surprised it took this long. I mean, what could someone like you want with a pathetic, inexperienced little twat like me?” Frankie couldn’t help flinching, and of course, Jess caught it. Eyes narrowed, color up, he looked magnificent, like an avenging angel out for blood. “And that’s all bullshit, isn’t it?” Jess breathed.

“Whatever’s behind this, boredom isn’t it. I know you, Frankie, better than anyone. I see you.”

“What do you see?” Frankie asked, voice destroyed like he’d shrieked along with the chorus to God Save the Queen. The Sex Pistols version.

Jess stalked him like a lithe young tiger, all slink and slide. Pinned by that hot blue gaze, Frankie let him get closer. Closer.

Until Jess was a breath away. “I see somebody who’s scared. Scared of responsibility, of commitment, and most of all, scared of what he feels. For me.”

Frankie’s mouth felt dry and cracked like the morning after a bender. Something in his face must have communicated his sudden, intense panic because Jess pulled back, a grim set to those pretty lips.

“Don’t worry,” Jess said. “I’m not going to fight you on this. If you can’t be bothered to fight for us, why should I?”

Fair point.

“I want you to know,” Jess went on, relentless. “I want it out on the table, so we both know, this isn’t about what’s best for me and my future, or whatever piece-of-shit excuse you’re giving yourself. It’s about you. And your fear. And the fact that even though I know--I know, Frankie--that you love me . . .” For the first time since Frankie dropped his bomb, Jess wavered. His breath hitched in a way that made Frankie want to kill whoever was responsible, as quickly as possible, which in this case meant hari–kari with a fish knife.

“Bit,” he murmured helplessly.

“No,” Jess said, his voice ragged. “Don’t call me that. I was going to say that even though I know you love me, apparently that’s not enough. And I can’t live like that. I have to be enough, Frankie. Just me.

So I’ll go without a fuss, like you wanted. I’ve still got the keys to Miranda’s old place; I’ll stay there tonight and get the rest of my shit from the Garret tomorrow.” Frankie took a shuddering breath.

“Okay?” Jess prompted, eyes hard on his face.

This was the moment where he could make or break them, Frankie knew. It was still salvageable, like a separated sauce that just need a few seconds more whisking and a little more oil to be perfect again.