Me:Thank you for the Gladiator at Abigail’s place. I appreciate you looking out.
Kane:Welcome. You take care of mine there, I’ll take care of yours here. It’s what family does. Bring my baby brother home, okay? Keep him safe.
Me:You have my word. What’s Abigail’s system password?
Kane:Did you guess yet?
Me:Is it ‘SpenceHasABigDick’?
I laugh, and know without a doubt that he does too.
Kane:No, motherfucker.
Kane:SpenceIsAPussy69
Still laughing, I switch screens and begin the process of logging into a new system. I type the password in and expect to be kicked out with aninvalidwarning, but it works. He really did set the password up like that.
Me:You’re such an asshole.
But then I switch back to Abigail’s screen and catch a glimpse of fiery red hair in the storefront camera as she instructs her assistant on where to set a massive vase full of yellow flowers. Abigail wears jeans today. A little tighter than usual, though not tight by social standards, and a cream-colored top that shows me the shape of her hips.
She’s becoming more outgoing with her outfit choices. She could wear a sack, and I wouldn’t give a shit, because I know what’s underneath. But her new confidence makes me smile. Her new comfort level makes me happy.
Whatever makes her happy is good with me.
Her skin is still as pale as usual, but it appears pastier in the security footage. She makes me constantly worry for her health, and that was before I found out she’d been sick.
Cancer! She had fucking cancer.
I should have known. I should have guessed. But it’s not something you expect for people our age. Cancer is a disease you associate with old people; grandparents, parents.
My mom.
Abigail and my mother suffered from the same illness. But more surprising is the fact that they suffered at the same time. A decade ago, they had both been diagnosed, but where my mother was nearing fifty, Abigail was only fifteen. Where Abigail lived, my mother did not.
Does God have a table set out in front of him, a deck of cards, or a set of dice? Two women, two completely different lives, but he gives them both the same disease and is forced to choose?
Let the woman live to see her son grow older and flourish, or let the child live, so she herself can grow older and flourish?
He chose for Abigail to live, so while I was busy burying my mom and pretending women were nothing more than disposable fun, Abigail was here doing her damned best to fight the war that was being waged on her small body.
She won, and I’m so fucking proud of her, in the same breath I’m ashamed for ever thinking her weak. I should have known better.
I do now. And I understand the second chance she’s been given, the chance we’ve both been given. From eternal bachelor, to eternally devoted to one, I’m staying, I’m sticking, and it’d take the damn jaws of life for her to get rid of me now.
I watch Abigail for a couple minutes as she bosses Nadia around, as a second delivery man walks through and has her sign a sheet of paper, as her brother walks through the front door and Nadia clams up like a live turkey about to be stuffed.
Mitchell Rosa struts through his sister’s shop, just as oblivious to the new security we have in place as his sister is to the raging affair he’s having right under her nose. I feel no anger at the Rosas now that I know the truth behind their protectiveness. But that doesn’t stop me from wanting to be in the same room as the trio right now, watching the couple squirm because they know I know their secrets.
I want to torment them, to tease and torture. I want to blow the lid on their sexcapades just so I can bear witness to the fireworks that’ll come because of it. I don’t understand why they’re so secretive. I don’t understand why Abigail might take issue with them being together, but I sure as hell wouldn’t mind being nearby when the shit hits the fan.
A loudthumphits the wall opposite my bed, so loud and hard that the framed image hanging there shifts off balance. For just a single second, I can play it off as something else. Maybe Sophia tripped and fell. Maybe a raccoon got in and snuck a bottle of whiskey first. Maybe, just maybe, Romeo made his shot and took my friends out.
But then Sophia’s groaning begins, and my cock thickens in my jeans.
Dammit.
It turns me on, not because I want in on the action with Sophia, but because I want so much more of Abigail. I want to slam her against a wall. I want to ride her like a wild animal. I want to make her weep from pleasure, and scream from the best kind of pain.