Heartbeat Repeating - E.M. Lindsey Page 0,1

he can count four blue cars. It’s enough to settle the white-hot, painful sparks of anxiety hovering at the base of his spine.

He drums his fingers on the steering wheel as he counts. One, two, three—tap tap tap. One, two, three—tap tap tap. He shifts over and pats his pocket to make sure he has his key fob. He checks the console to make sure he hasn’t left his medication in there. They’re in his small carrying bag that he loops around his wrist. He shakes it to hear them rattle, then he gets out.

Putting his hand into his pocket, he thumbs the fob, feeling for the bumps before he pushes down. The car beeps twice, and he grabs the handle to check, knowing he’ll only check again before he gets in. But this helps. He knows his face is passive—he knows strangers can’t read him. He knows his tongue won’t do much to form words or to settle whatever fears Avery might have the moment he sits in front of him for the first time since they signed the contract.

Alejandro thinks about the first time he saw Avery—the way he was messy and wet and flecked with dirt. He looked like he radiated rays of the sun in his smile, and it was the first time in so many years that Alejandro’s heart skipped a beat. He should have kept driving—if he knew what was good for him, he should have kept driving.

But, Alejandro supposes, he’s never really known what was good for him. And something about the younger man triggered a feeling in Alejandro that he thought long dead. A feeling that eclipsed even the strongest desire he’d ever had for Connor. It was senseless need that was eclipsing all of his rationale, and it had him pulling over into the charity car wash, digging for what cash he had in his pockets, and sending a prayer to the universe that he wasn’t making the biggest mistake of his life.

He’d never forget the way Avery looked when he approached—the slack-jawed, wide-eyed wonder and suspicion. Alejandro hadn’t even counted the bills he shoved at the younger man, he just kept their gazes locked and hoped he could invoke the same, powerful want, so Avery would be helpless against anything except telling Alejandro yes.

He’s not sure it worked. Avery had showed up to sign the contract, but there was a tremble in his hands and expectation in his tone that Alejandro knew would ruin them both. Because Avery wanted more than Alejandro would ever give, and his only hope was that Avery would be willing to settle for less. He felt like a bastard—because he was one. The worst kind of man, but he had no intention of changing. He knew the hell weakness could bring. He was too bloody intimate with the pain that loving and losing caused, and although he was a selfish prick, he knew it would be better this way.

He’d have Avery—and Avery would have him. But only in the form of a contract that promised two things: money, and an eventual end. In reality, he expected the younger man to turn him down, but Avery said yes. To all of it. And now here they were.

Opening the restaurant doors, Alejandro’s aware that all the eyes are on him. He’s used to it, of course. It’s the nature of the beast. It’s bearing the Santos name, which is also emblazoned on a massive tower above his building downtown. It’s on products and boxes and letterheads—a legacy in print that means less when the stock market crashes and more when it soars.

He doesn’t squirm under the attention, but he wants to. If this had been his teenage years—before the therapy and the medications really started working, his brain would go to strange places. He’d get stuck in a loop of thinking something was wrong, and he wouldn’t be able to rest or calm down until he tapped his fingers and counted in his head and found every single blue object in his room. And it’s still like that, sometimes, even if those spirals are fewer and far between.

But those are the days he desperately wishes Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder was the way they always showed it on telly. That it started and stopped with wanting his cupboards organized and his grass cut in even rows. Those are the days he wishes it was just a matter of washing his hands and clicking locks, because maybe he wouldn’t spend some