Play Dirty (Wages of Sin #2) - Neve Wilder Page 0,22

of herbs, a pepper, and an onion onto the kitchen island before turning back to the other groceries. “Can you chop, or do your skills with a knife only apply to flesh and bone? Sometimes, my clothing.”

Madigan grinned. So, he was unsettled after all. But, likely, it was only Az’s ego taking the hit rather than anything deeper. Madigan pulled three knives from the butcher block and waited until Az glanced over before tossing one in the air, then the other. He juggled them slowly and caught Az’s reluctant smile at the edge of his vision. Az was quick to tilt his head as Madigan sent the first knife whizzing just past him to gouge into the far wall. He skirted to the left for the next one, and pulled his hand away, darting to one side just as Madigan sent the third slicing through the air and crashing into the butcher block counter. “I’ve always wondered if you danced as well as you fucked.” Madigan winked, and Az shook his head.

“Are you done with your performance?”

“For now.” Madigan crossed to the wall and pulled the knife free, then gathered the other two.

“Mine was better.”

“Lasted longer, I’ll grant you that. You going to tell me what we’re making yet?”

“Souvlaki. Not so difficult. Even you will be able to keep up.”

“Greek, hmm? How…ironic. Who taught you to cook?” Madigan shook the excess water from the pepper and began chopping it, keeping an eye on the shifting muscles of Az’s bare back, the sleek curves disappearing into the low-slung linen pants, as he took the knife that’d landed closest to him and sliced the beef.

“Me. My mother wasn’t much for cooking. We usually had a cook wherever we went.” The movement of the knife through the meat was surgically precise, and, in conjunction with the lilt of Azrael’s voice, Madigan had to remind himself to keep chopping and not get caught up in the hypnotic effect of both. “My mother wasn’t much of a mother, in fact. I left home as soon as I could. You?”

“How old were you when you left?”

“Sixteen.”

“Where did you go?”

“To look for my father.” Azrael took the bowl of vegetables Madigan handed him and then slid bits of meat onto the skewer.

“Did you find him?”

Madigan and Azrael have never spoken of their families. They’d rarely spoken of anything of substance at all. Madigan knew basic facts, but he didn’t know what kind of music Az liked. Or if he liked music at all. Madigan didn’t even know if Az had a home base or a place he returned to regularly. It seemed safer that way. He suspected Az knew he had a place in New York, but he wasn’t actually certain. Madigan had dead end addresses all over the country. When he tried to imagine Azrael with a home, he struggled. For some reason, that bothered him. Madigan required very little in the way of personal relationships, but he had what could very loosely be called a chosen family. People, at least, he could trust if he needed to.

“I did. My father wasn’t hard to find. He’s famous. Or he was. Before he met an unfortunate end.”

“Famous?” Madigan echoed.

“Hm,” Az replied, and Madi thought that might be the end of the conversation, but then Az continued, “Assad Arain. Nobel Prize-winning chemist and nanotechnologist. He was not at all interested in seeing me, his son from his previous failure of a marriage. His Jewish son was, as you can imagine, unwelcome among his devoutly Muslim Pakistani family. He had a new family, one with the correct pedigree. I was the mistake. His only mistake, to hear him tell it.” Az set the skewer aside and started on the next. “Your turn now.”

“To what?”

Azrael angled toward him with a rumbling laugh, a scintillating gleam in his eyes. “We’re exchanging information, are we not? I believe it’s called conversing. Commonly practiced in many cultures worldwide. In fact, a cornerstone of any civilization. And it’s your turn. Where is your family?”

Madigan hesitated, tempted to remind Az that they didn’t particularly fit into the social norms of any civilization, then shrugged. “We have similar stories, how about that?”

Az pointed the tip of his knife at him. “Expand.”

Madigan focused on sweeping a bunch of chopped parsley into a little pile. “My da was involved with the IRA back in Ireland. Who’d have guessed such a thing considering the exemplary human I’ve turned out to be, hmm?” He paused to brush the rest of