We Have Till Dawn - Cara Dee Page 0,32

work was sex work, it could be uncomfortable for anyone, with or without a diagnosis.

“Gideon, this is my brother Anthony. Anthony, Gideon,” I said. “We’re gonna go grab a beer. You wanna come with?”

I knew he’d say no.

“Nice to meet you.” Anthony shook Gideon’s hand firmly before addressing me. “Nah, I gotta be up early, but you have fun.”

He was a pro. He’d save his questions for later. And he really did have to be up early.

After grabbing our jackets, we made our way outside, and Anthony activated the alarm before locking up.

“I guess I’ll see you at Nonna’s?” he asked, pocketing his keys.

“Always. But I’ll call you tomorrow to bug you with worries and so on.” I felt like a mothering fretter around my brother at times, but it was what it was. I wanted him happy and cared for.

“Can’t wait.” He offered a wry smirk, even though I knew he appreciated the concern as much as it bugged him. At least on the topic of his love life.

Anthony veered right with a two-finger wave, aiming for the parking lot next to the building, and Gideon gestured toward the street for me, where my gaze landed on a car that didn’t belong in this area. And Park Slope was nice.

Just not Bentley SUV with a private driver nice.

“Madonn’, Daddy, this is a $200,000 car.” I drew a finger along the glossy black exterior as Gideon opened the door for me.

“Do you have an interest in cars?” He cocked his head, looking like he hadn’t expected me to have such a hobby.

And I didn’t. I shook my head and slid into the car, offering a nod of greeting to the driver—who offered absolutely nothing in return. “My pop had his own body shop before he retired,” I answered. “He lives and breathes cars. I used to run around down there all the time as a kid.”

“Back to Manhattan, sir?” the driver asked.

Gideon looked to me in question. “Where would you like to go?”

I knew just the place, and I was suddenly antsy to show Gideon a little about my life. I gave the driver the address to Sueños, a small bar in Williamsburg where I’d had my first legal shot of tequila after turning twenty-one.

Gideon wouldn’t feel overly overwhelmed there. It was a lively place, but the booths were designed as little pockets with cabana themes that provided a semblance of privacy. Plus, it was gay-friendly, and I knew the owners.

“You’re about to discover why my Spanish is better than my Italian,” I joked.

The other day, he had quizzed me about my ancestry after I’d called him papi. Like so many others in the Northeast, I was Irish and Italian, though the only stereotypically Irish thing about me was the color of my eyes. They were from Ma’s side, and she hadn’t been solely Irish herself. The Italian dominated. But growing up in a Latin neighborhood had left its marks, and I was a professional language butcher, mixing Italian, English, Spanish, and slang. More so than Anthony, who’d done the adult thing and polished his skills to be able to say he was fluent in three languages. Me? Half the time, I didn’t know what was what.

When I told Gideon this, I thought he’d find it funny. Instead, he pursed his lips and eyed me like he’d just solved a math problem.

“You always place your brother a little higher than yourself,” he noted. “He’s better at languages, at singing, at playing the piano, he’s higher educated, he’s more business-minded, et cetera.”

Damn. Did I do that? I squinted at nothing and scratched my ear.

“I hadn’t thought of that. It’s not a way to put myself down, though,” I replied. “If you want a good Sunday dinner and our grandmother’s not around, you want me, not Anthony. I’m better with the guitar, and I think I’m scrappier than he is. He’s calmer and more careful. I’m impulsive and don’t mind taking some risks.”

He chuckled. “You list traits about yourself that I usually abhor and do anything to stay away from, and yet…” He released a breath and shook his head. “You’re all I can think of, Nicky.”

There was no stopping the shit-eating grin on my mug.

I was fairly certain it was the first time he’d called me by my name, too. Or nickname.

“Nicky,” he repeated to himself. “Normally, I don’t even like nicknames.”

“Fuck normal, baby. I like that I stand out.” I grabbed his hand and kissed the top of it, then