“I’ve heard this before. It’s not what we planned. But it’s a life. Right?” He pulled out the pitcher of water and poured himself a glass. “Yeah. It’s a life. A shitty one.”
“Watch how you speak,” Gus warned him.
Jerking his chin up, Alex said, “Or what? You going to spank me?”
Gus stroked his chin, studying him. “I think you can go to your room now. You want to act like a petulant child, then do it elsewhere.”
* * *
AS Alex disappeared down the hall, Gus dumped the bag on the table and dropped down into the chair. With a sigh, he covered his face with his hands.
There were days when he swore that this was some hell that had been dropped on him because of the life he’d led. The lives he’d taken, the lies he’d told. He hadn’t intended to go down that road, but it had just . . . fit. And some roads, once you started that walk, you couldn’t turn back.
Too bad Gus hadn’t realized it until it was too late. By the time he had, his hands were bloody, his soul was gone, and the life he’d thought would be his was just . . . a dream. So he distanced himself from his family. The world saw a scheming, womanizing bastard who’d had a few runs of good luck and he’d used it all to his advantage. His pretty face got him in doors and he played with the rich and famous, made connections—and while they weren’t looking, he slid a stiletto into the heart of a man who’d been planning to kill
el presidente
.
A few years later, he’d been some rich woman’s man-whore—that was the story she told everybody, including her husband. When she whispered to him one night about a ménage à trois at a pretty, private little villa
,
he agreed. And then he arrived thirty minutes sooner than planned, slit her throat, broke the husband’s neck, and set the stage to make it look like a robbery. He wasn’t even questioned and they were mourned by many at their funeral. He often wondered how the world would react if they knew the husband and wife had been in control of a child slavery ring, selling runaways or indigent children they found on the streets of Mexico into the sex trade.
Deeper and deeper into that life he fell.
And now, he was out of it and all he could do was hope he was fast enough, strong enough to keep Alex alive if trouble found them.
Because it would.
Whether it was karma or just shitty luck, he didn’t know, but they wouldn’t be able to run forever.
Sometimes he wondered if this was God’s way of punishing him. He’d taken lives . . . but if this was a punishment, then he would have been the one who had died that night.
Not Consuelo. She’d been the one who had made that ultimate sacrifice, and here he was, trying to make sure he honored her wishes.
Please . . . you must promise . . .
“I’m trying, love.” He tried every single day, and every single day, he was so very certain he was screwing this up. Keeping one step ahead of people who had endless resources, the money to buy and sell more than a few small countries, people who would just as soon kill you as argue with you.
And the boy was angry.
So very angry.
Sighing, he stood up and tugged off his cap, leaving it on a peg near the door before he retreated into his bedroom. He’d give Alex a while to calm down, then they could tackle his schoolwork. They’d eaten over at Mrs. Werner’s after he’d repaired the fill valve on her toilet, while she ogled his ass . . . again.
Inside his room, he stripped out of his dirty, sweaty clothes and pulled on a pair of worn cotton pants before dropping to the floor. Sit-ups. Push-ups. He had a few weights that he kept with him and he did the most thorough workout he could with them. He moved on to conditioning, although he was limited in how much he could train there. Without a partner, again he was limited.
He was working on teaching Alex. Alex was still a child, though, and his sessions with the boy were all about training Alex to defend
“Watch how you speak,” Gus warned him.
Jerking his chin up, Alex said, “Or what? You going to spank me?”
Gus stroked his chin, studying him. “I think you can go to your room now. You want to act like a petulant child, then do it elsewhere.”
* * *
AS Alex disappeared down the hall, Gus dumped the bag on the table and dropped down into the chair. With a sigh, he covered his face with his hands.
There were days when he swore that this was some hell that had been dropped on him because of the life he’d led. The lives he’d taken, the lies he’d told. He hadn’t intended to go down that road, but it had just . . . fit. And some roads, once you started that walk, you couldn’t turn back.
Too bad Gus hadn’t realized it until it was too late. By the time he had, his hands were bloody, his soul was gone, and the life he’d thought would be his was just . . . a dream. So he distanced himself from his family. The world saw a scheming, womanizing bastard who’d had a few runs of good luck and he’d used it all to his advantage. His pretty face got him in doors and he played with the rich and famous, made connections—and while they weren’t looking, he slid a stiletto into the heart of a man who’d been planning to kill
el presidente
.
A few years later, he’d been some rich woman’s man-whore—that was the story she told everybody, including her husband. When she whispered to him one night about a ménage à trois at a pretty, private little villa
,
he agreed. And then he arrived thirty minutes sooner than planned, slit her throat, broke the husband’s neck, and set the stage to make it look like a robbery. He wasn’t even questioned and they were mourned by many at their funeral. He often wondered how the world would react if they knew the husband and wife had been in control of a child slavery ring, selling runaways or indigent children they found on the streets of Mexico into the sex trade.
Deeper and deeper into that life he fell.
And now, he was out of it and all he could do was hope he was fast enough, strong enough to keep Alex alive if trouble found them.
Because it would.
Whether it was karma or just shitty luck, he didn’t know, but they wouldn’t be able to run forever.
Sometimes he wondered if this was God’s way of punishing him. He’d taken lives . . . but if this was a punishment, then he would have been the one who had died that night.
Not Consuelo. She’d been the one who had made that ultimate sacrifice, and here he was, trying to make sure he honored her wishes.
Please . . . you must promise . . .
“I’m trying, love.” He tried every single day, and every single day, he was so very certain he was screwing this up. Keeping one step ahead of people who had endless resources, the money to buy and sell more than a few small countries, people who would just as soon kill you as argue with you.
And the boy was angry.
So very angry.
Sighing, he stood up and tugged off his cap, leaving it on a peg near the door before he retreated into his bedroom. He’d give Alex a while to calm down, then they could tackle his schoolwork. They’d eaten over at Mrs. Werner’s after he’d repaired the fill valve on her toilet, while she ogled his ass . . . again.
Inside his room, he stripped out of his dirty, sweaty clothes and pulled on a pair of worn cotton pants before dropping to the floor. Sit-ups. Push-ups. He had a few weights that he kept with him and he did the most thorough workout he could with them. He moved on to conditioning, although he was limited in how much he could train there. Without a partner, again he was limited.
He was working on teaching Alex. Alex was still a child, though, and his sessions with the boy were all about training Alex to defend
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