Engaging his Enemy (Shattered SEALs #4) - Amy Gamet Page 0,16
of the space.
Instead of pictures of Ben and Zach lining the walls, there were pictures of Wyatt and a few of Davina. The first one was Wyatt as a little kid holding a giant stuffed bear, smiling at the camera. Moto froze. The photo could have been of him as a child, so strong was the resemblance, though he did have Davina’s round cheeks and dimples.
Next were Wyatt’s class pictures. Moto’s throat constricted as he stopped to commit each image to memory. He found himself wondering where he’d been when each one was taken, from Kandahar to Germany or California, and what he himself had been doing at that exact moment.
He could guarantee it was less important than what he’d missed. He thought of his words to Davina long ago—I would have been a used car salesman like my dad—and knew it wouldn’t have been so bad if he’d had his son in his life.
He rounded the corner at the top of the stairs, his old bedroom coming into view. He poked his head in to find a neat room with a four-poster bed and a dresser. Definitely not Wyatt’s room. He made his way to the next bedroom. The door was closed, decorated with a soccer ball sticker half peeled from its backing. His pulse raced as he knocked.
“What?”
“It’s Zach.” The name sounded strange on his lips. When was the last time he identified himself by his given name? “I was hoping we could talk.”
After what seemed a lifetime, the door opened halfway, a scowling Wyatt framed across the threshold. “About what?”
“Can I come in?”
The boy stepped back for him to enter. The room was a hodgepodge of decorations and toys, Moto’s eyes catching on them one at a time. A Lego spaceship. What appeared to be a real bowling pin. Textbooks. A large computer screen atop a glass L-shaped desk, and a wooden pocketknife on the edge. “Nice place you’ve got here.” He crossed to the desk and picked up the knife, his finger running along the familiar monogram as he grinned. “This was mine.”
“Keep it.”
He looked at the boy, seeing the hurt etched into his features. He put the knife back on the desk. “Can I sit down?”
Wyatt was standing, looking as uncomfortable as an innocent man on trial. “Suit yourself.”
An innocent man, trying to look strong.
He lowered himself into the desk chair. “I’m sorry I missed dinner. I was helping your uncle Ben.”
“My mom was angry.”
“I know. I apologized to her.”
Moto leaned forward and braced himself on his knees. “You have every right to be angry with me. For tonight and for all the nights I wasn’t here. Trust me, if I knew you existed, I would have been here.”
Wyatt didn’t respond. Moto waited patiently for the boy to talk, the stalemate stretching out awkwardly. Moto leaned back. “I’m going to be staying here for a little while. I’d like to get to know you.”
“My baby book’s right downstairs.”
Damn, the kid had a smart mouth, and Moto didn’t know if he should be offended or impressed. He stood. “You think about it. I’ll bet you’ve got some questions for me, too.”
“Just one.”
“Shoot.”
“When are you leaving?”
“I don’t know yet. But here’s the thing. You’re a part of my life now, whether that sounds good to you or not. Even when I walk out of this house, I’m not going to walk out of your life. We’re family, and family is forever.”
Wyatt rolled his eyes. “I don’t even know you.”
Moto pointed at him. “Yet. You don’t even know me yet.” He winked and smiled. “But you’re going to.” He held out his hand for Wyatt to shake it, knowing full well a hug was too much to ask. But as his hand hung in the air between them, he feared a handshake was a bad idea, too. It left the ball in Wyatt’s court, and he clearly had no desire to play this game.
Wyatt’s hand slowly came up to shake his father’s, and Moto’s heart rose into his throat, emotion nearly choking him. The baby pictures from the hallway flashed in his mind as he touched his son for the very first time, shaking his hand. “It’s nice to finally meet you, son.”
He thought of the boy’s tense shoulders, the distrustful look in his eye.
I’m going to win you over. You just wait and see.
9
Moto sat across from his brother in a diner straight out of the 1950s, the bright morning sun shining in an unwelcome beam across