The Right One - Felice Stevens Page 0,13

real?”

“Nothing physical,” Leo snapped, shifting away from Peter’s probing gaze. “You know I don’t do that shit. He just annoyed the hell out of me, and I told him off.”

Get physical with Morgan Cantrell? Yeah. He’d like to get physical with the man and feel that smartass, back-talking mouth on his. Leo bet he tasted soft. Soft and sweet. He smelled good too, when they’d gone nose-to-nose in the basement, like vanilla and something spicy. He’d like to tangle those silky curls in his fingers as he bent him over.…Leo blinked and gulped more water.

“Uh-huh. You don’t get all red in the face neither whenever you’ve gotten pissed off at someone. Which is usually all the time. So, what? You got a hard-on for the guy?”

Leo choked and wheezed. “What the fuck?” He wiped his mouth, angry that Peter saw right through him, and used the time to gather his jumbled thoughts. He focused on the dirty linoleum floor and Peter’s big, black Doc Martens. A hollow laugh pushed from his lips. “Hard-on? You’re nuts.”

“Why? You ain’t been with a guy in forever. Not since Diego.”

“Diego wanted a relationship, and he wasn’t getting it from me, so he went elsewhere.”

It wasn’t Diego’s fault. He’d wanted more than easy hookups, had said so from the start, and after eight months of waiting for Leo to change, had finally given up. Leo couldn’t give the man what he wanted, so he couldn’t blame him for getting it somewhere else. The last time he’d seen Diego was the last time he’d allowed himself to care.

He just hadn’t cared enough.

“You know, having a boyfriend could help you with whatever’s going on inside that thick head of yours. I’m not pushing, but lately you don’t seem like you’re in a good place.”

They’d had this conversation over the years, increasing in frequency since Peter married Marla and had the boys. It rankled that he kept pushing when Leo had made it obvious he wasn’t about spilling his life story.

“I’m here, which is supposed to be a good place, and yet you’re acting like fuckin’ Dear Abby with the relationship psychobabble. What’s next, my mommy issues? Trust me, bro, I know the score.”

Did he fucking ever.

Tired of the conversation, Leo pushed off his chair. “I’m gonna go out back for a few rounds.”

Peter regarded him solemnly, and Leo hoped he wouldn’t start the lecturing again, but after several moments, he simply nodded. “Have at it.”

With a tip of his head, Leo left the office, and after making his way through the cars in various states of repair, opened the door of the garage to the open-air area where Peter had set up a makeshift boxing space. Not an official ring, of course, but a roped-off, large, square space. In the corner he’d installed standing bags, wall bags, and body-opponent bags for practice, and various weights and benches for heavy lifting. He, Peter, and Peter’s brother, Georgie, as well as their friends, all used it to keep their skills sharp.

But that wasn’t what he was there for today, he decided as he wrapped his hands. He needed to punch something hard, so he slipped on the gloves Peter kept hanging on the wall, and flexing his shoulders, stretching out his muscles, he walked under the short metal roof, where a heavy bag hung suspended by thick chains.

A quick toss of his shirt and jeans to the bench, and he was ready to begin. Leo assumed a fighter’s stance and took sharp, quick jabs at first, then began a grueling routine. He fell into a zone where all that remained was him and the quick motion of his hands against the hard bag. Sweat ran off his brow and poured over his face, obscuring his vision, and he lost himself, hitting the bag over and over until his arms felt dead and he stood shaking, chest heaving, gasping for breath. Soaked and numb, Leo stared blankly at the swinging bag.

Still, the enemy remained. Locked inside.

“If you want to take a shower, go ahead. I’m just cleaning up.” Peter laid a big hand on his shoulder. “Lemme know if you need anything.”

“Thanks.”

Head hung low, Leo shrugged off Peter’s touch and trudged to the tiny bathroom, where he stripped off his underwear. The hot water beat down on his aching shoulders, and he tipped his face up, letting the spray teem over his face.

After a perfunctory wash of his hair, he turned off the shower and gave a quick, rough pass