“Not a gang. One man. One very dangerous man.” Jacob let the door go and

  Logan spilled into the room.

  He jerked himself off the floor. The ugly grin on his face returned. He grabbed the door.

  “You close that, and you seal your coffin. Marcel doesn’t share.”

  “You mean that old man I’ve seen you with?”

  “Yeah, him.”

  Logan laughed. “You have to be kidding me.” He jabbed his thumb at his chest. “You think I’m afraid of him?” Another laugh. “That old fart probably has to call 9-1-1 to get his ass off the toilet.”

  “That’s your mistake, not mine. You touch me, and he’ll take care of you the same way he did Frankie. Ear to ear. That’s how he kills a man. He cuts him ear to ear and looks them in the eyes as they bleed out.”

  The anger in Logan’s eyes lost some of its burn. “Is that what he told you?”

  “I was there. I watched Frankie die. Marcel made me watch.” Jacob still had nightmares. But it was the price to pay. Marcel’s price.

  “You watched that old geezer kill a man. You?” He snorted.

  “Life is a gift.” The image of Frankie’s fear-filled gaze begging for mercy was enough to make Jacob regret wanting the man dead. But it was too late. Marcel did not threaten. He did not make promises he would not keep. And he never spared a life he’d marked as his.

  “A gift?” Logan snorted.

  “That’s what Marcel says. It’s a gift. Frankie’s life was his gift to me. Even if he didn’t want to give it. So I watched. I watched because a gift like that deserves to be treasured.” Jacob swallowed back the bile in his throat. He’d puked for hours after the life faded from Frankie’s eyes. And he didn’t sleep for days.

  The fever of guilt had nearly burned Jacob up. It was the only time he’d stayed over at Marcel’s for more than a night.

  Some days it still did.

  But it had to be done. Frankie might have left Jacob for dead after beating him, but he would not hesitate to reclaim what he saw as his property.

  Jacob wouldn’t have survived another torture session. He might keep breathing, but there would have been nothing left of his soul.

  “You really believe your own bullshit, don’t you?” Logan started to close the door.

  “He’ll kill you, Logan. He’ll kill you, and he’ll make me watch. And I don’t want to.” No matter how much Jacob despised the man in front of him, he’d learned there was no amount of hate to make killing a man acceptable to a sane person.

  But there were only so many ways to deal with a rabid dog. If anyone had been rabid, it was Frankie.

  Logan flexed his grip on the door. The slide of his expression went from sure to worry. “Fine. If he wants that worn-out ass of yours so bad, he can keep you. There are plenty of pretty boys out there with fewer miles.” He tried to smile, but it wouldn’t hold up. Logan slammed the door on his way out.

  Jacob caught himself on the edge of the bed. Chills ran down his body, and he was helpless against the tears. It wasn’t self-hate, or fear that tore his emotions, it was the relief of knowing he would not have to watch another man draw his last breath.

  He would not have to take another gift he did not want.

  “You ready?” Joe jogged over to Sam, where he waited at the top of the steps.

  “Been ready.” And why did that sound so wrong? Sam headed down the steps, wading through the crowds. An arm caught him on his shoulder, and he stumbled. Joe caught him.

  “Thanks.”

  “No problem.”

  There were just as many students outside on the covered walkway, stampeding the buses, as there’d been inside trying to get to their lockers. At least outside, there was more room for everyone to spread out.

  Sam and Joe cut around the back of the school and down the hill. The student parking lot had more empty spaces than full. Almost everyone who drove had a work pass and got to bail out an hour earlier than the rest of them.

  “So, are you going to go to the spring dance?” Joe tugged his backpack higher on his shoulder. Even swollen with books, he acted like it weighed nothing.

  “Nah.”

  “Why not?”

  Sam shook his head. “Not my thing.”

  “C’mon, Sam, this is high school. You’re supposed to go to dances.” Joe nudged him with his shoulder. “Even a few parties you don’t tell your parents about.”

  It was high school. The four years Sam had dreaded since grade school. Joe was two years older, two grades ahead. In another two years, he’d be off to college. Knowing that is what drove Sam to fight for those high test scores so he could take some of the sophomore classes with Joe.

  Unlike a lot of students in the advanced curriculum, Sam was desperate, not gifted.

  He wasn’t sure he’d find the will to keep up the charade after Joe shipped off to college. Already there were days when the stress of a coming math test would send Sam to bed in tears.

  The past couple of months keeping late hours so he could put in the time he needed to get those A’s had started to wear on him. The B on his last paper was proof he was slipping.

  “Hey.” Joe put a hand on Sam’s shoulder.

  The contact sent an electric thrill right to the pit of his stomach. And that was another complication weighing on Sam.

  “Are you mad at me?” Joe said.

  “What? No. Why?”

  “You look pissed.”

  “I’m not, I’m just…” Tired. And so messed up. Messed up over Joe. “I’ve got two papers due and a chemistry test next Friday. Just a lot on my mind.”

  Joe gripped the back of Sam’s neck. “See, all the more reason to go to the dance. Kick back. Relax. It’s only one night. Hell, just a few hours.”

  “Like I said, it’s not my thing.”

  “C’mon. Who doesn’t want to get dressed up and stand around listening to music that went out in the 90s? It’ll be fun.”

  Sam laughed. “Yeah, you make it sound like a regular barrel of monkeys.”

  They turned onto Kale Street. A school bus roared past, dragging away the shouts of students.

  Joe said something that Sam missed. “What?”

  “I said maybe you should ask out whoever you wrote the poem for. Sounds to me like you’ve got it pretty bad.”

  The burn in Sam’s cheeks went so hot his eyes watered.

  “Hey, why are you embarrassed?”

  Sam squeezed through the split rail fence. Normally, they only took the short cut when it rained. Joe climbed over the top.

  “C’mon, Sam. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

  “You didn’t.” At least Sam was pretty sure he hadn’t. But it was hard to tell because the feelings inside him did hurt, just not in the way Joe probably thought.

  “Look. Just ask her.”

  “Who?”

  “The girl.”

  “What girl?”

  Joe rolled his eyes. “The one you wrote the poem for. Which, by the way, in my unprofessional opinion, was pretty good.”

  “You failed English Lit.”

  “I did say unprofessional.”

  Sam laughed. “Yeah, you definitely qualify.”

  “Hey.” Joe gave him a shove. “I thought you and me were best friends.”

  “Just calling it like I see it.”

  “We can’t all be geniuses.”

  Sam’s smile shriveled up.

  “There’s nothing wrong with being smart.” Joe ruffled Sam’s hair.

  “I know that.”

  “If you hadn’t dropped out of wrestling, you’d be smart and kicking ass. You should sign back up.”

  “I told you, I don’t have the time.”

  “It’s an hour a day, twice a week.”

  “And I don’t have an hour a day, twice a week. I don’t even have an hour a month.”

  “Drop a class or two.”

  If only he could. “I don’t want to be stuck at a state college.” He wanted to go to the same college Joe got into. Whichever one it would be.

  It was unlikely Joe would target one of the more prestigious universities. His grades weren’t high enough. But even a lesser-known college costs money.

  Joe’s parents had the means to pay tuition. Sam needed a full scholarship if he had any hope of following.

  “State colleges aren’t all that bad.”

  Sam cut him a look.

  Joe shrugged. “I might get stuck going to one if I don’t bring my chemistry grades up.”

  “That bad?”

  “Great big D on my last test.”

  “Told you I’d help you study.”

  “What about your classes?”

  “We’ll be cracking open the same book. I can study with you.” Sitting closed up in a room with Joe was a dangerous scenario, but Sam couldn’t think of a better way to spend an evening.

  “If I take you up on that offer, will you go to the dance?”

  Sam dropped his shoulders.

  “C’mon. It’s a dance.”

  They headed into the woods. Yellow and red leaves blanketed the creek nestled in the cleft of the valley.

  “I don’t have a date.”

  “Give that poem to the girl of your choice, and she’ll drag you there by your ankles.”

  Only it wasn’t a girl Sam wanted to drag him.

  “Do you have any idea how incredible it was you wrote that?”

  “Incredible?”

  “Hell, yeah. I mean, how many guys would? Or could. That took a ton of guts. I bet you stayed up half the night.”

  All night. Because every time he closed his eyes, all he saw was Joe rolling around on that damn wrestling mat. Then it would be him with Joe on the mat. Soon after that, their clothes would fall off.

  Sam rubbed his temple.

  Joe shrugged. “The only reason Karl was a dick is because he’s jealous.”

  “Of what?”

  “You’re able to write poetry, for one thing.”

  “It’s not that great of a poem.” It had seemed like a work of art at the time, but then Sam had been sleep-deprived. Now in the daylight, under the scrutiny of other people, it was cheesier than a bag of Doritos.

  “It doesn’t have to be great. I mean, you wrote it. You thought enough about someone to write it to begin with. That alone makes it pretty awesome.”

  “Awesome? Since when did you hit your thirties?”

  “Hey, I picked it up from my old man. Blame him.”

  Sam stopped. “What if I gave it to the person I wrote it for, and they don’t like it?”

  Joe adjusted his backpack again. “Why wouldn’t they like it?”

  “What if they don’t like it? What if they don’t like me. That way, I mean.”

  “Who wouldn’t like you, Sam?”

  “But what if they don’t?”

  “Then they’re an idiot. But you won’t know unless you tell them how you feel.”

  Joe might be failing chemistry, but he wasn’t an idiot. And he was Sam’s best friend. Had been since they were in grade school. Long before Joe hit his growth spurt when the highlight of their days was swimming, bike riding, and killing each other on the Xbox.

  “You really mean it?”

  Joe nodded. “I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t.”

  And there was always the chance Joe would like him the same way.

  Sam slipped off his backpack and unzipped the side pocket. He’d done his best to smooth out the wrinkles before he’d folded it back up.

  If he did this, there was no going back. He took a breath and met Joe’s confused gaze. Sam held out the paper to him. “Here.”

  “What?”

  “Take it.”

  “Why?”

  “You said I should give it to the person I wrote it for.” The lump in Sam’s throat made it almost impossible to swallow. “I wrote it for you.”

  The easy smile on Joe’s face turned into a thin line. “That’s not funny, Sam.”

  “I’m not trying to be funny. I like you. A lot. In the same way most guys like girls.”

  Joe’s gaze went from the paper to Sam’s and back. Joe’s face reddened. “What the hell? I thought we were friends.”

  “We are, but I want to be more than just friends.”

  “You’re serious.”

  “Yes.”

  “You really like guys.”

  “Yes.”

  “When did this happen?”

  Sam shrugged. “I guess I always have.”

  Joe’s hands curled into fists. “So you’re telling me you’re a bona fide faggot?”

  Sam had known this would be a mistake. How? He had no idea. Joe had never made fun of the kids who were out, but he also acted like they didn’t exist.

  If only Sam could go back five minutes. Make up some lie about a girl. Ask her out, knowing she’d say no, then move on with his life and keep pretending everything was okay.

  It was too late now. He’d spoken, and the only thing Sam could do was finish his confession.

  The pain in Sam’s chest made it difficult to breathe. But he stayed there, head up, holding Joe’s gaze. “Yeah. I guess I am.”

  Joe snatched the piece of paper away, shredded it, and threw the remnants in Sam’s face. “Well, I’m not. So keep your sick self the hell away from me.” He shoved Sam hard enough to send him to the ground. “And if you tell anyone about this…” He raised a fist. “Just keep your faggot mouth shut, and don’t ever talk to me again. Fuck, don’t even look at me.”

  Joe jogged across the field and disappeared between the houses, leaving Sam elbow deep in the leaves with only his tears to keep him company.

  3

  Inside the paperback book from Uncle Greg’s: a key, a small piece of paper with a person’s name, the address of a bank, and a safe deposit number.

  International Bank and Trust was located just a block from Uncle Greg’s apartment.

  An expanse of pale gray marble accented in brass welcomed Ben into the front lobby. Loan officers discussing terms with would-be clients occupied desks on the floor. At the end of the open space, a counter quartered off into sections for tellers.

  Ben took the piece of paper out of his pocket.

  “Can I help you?” The redhead smiled at him as he walked up.

  “Yeah, is someone named Christophe Mason here?”

  “He’s the bank manager.”

  “Would it be possible for me to speak to him?”

  “And you are?”

  “Ben Corbin.”

  “Well, Mr. Corbin, if you’ll tell me what you need, maybe I, or one of the other clerks, can help you.”

  “I was told to ask for him.”

  “By who?”

  “My uncle, Greg Dejardi.”

  “Is he a manager at another bank?”

  “No, he rented a safe deposit box here.”

  “Ashley can answer any questions about a safe deposit box.” The teller nodded in the direction of one of the offices on the right side of the glass wall. A woman with dark eyes and long braids had a phone to her ear while she typed on a computer. “I’m sure if you have a seat, she’ll only be a few minutes.”

  “I really need to talk to Christophe about this. Can you call him? Please?”

  Her smile stayed, but there was only frustration in her eyes. “Yes, I’ll call. But don’t be surprised if you have to make an appointment. He’s very busy.” She tossed him a smug look and picked up the phone. “Marie, this is Cherie, I have a gentleman at my counter requesting to speak with Mr. Mason. Yes, I know. I told him that. No, he insisted.” She fiddled with a pen beside her keyboard. “Yes, ma’am. Yes.”

  “Tell her Greg Dejardi sent me.”

  “I’m sorry, hang on.” She covered the receiver with a manicured hand.

  “Greg Dejardi. Tell her his name.”

  “He wants me to tell you a Greg Dejardi sent him. I asked him that, and he said no. Yes, ma’am. I’ll tell him.” She hung up. “Mr. Mason is in a meeting right now and can’t be disturbed.”

  “Is she at least going to tell him who sent me?”

  “I’m sure she will.” Her expression said otherwise.

  “Can you call her back and ask her to please tell him?”

  “I’ve done what I can, Mr. Corbin. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have other customers.”

  A man in a nice suit waited a few yards back. Ben started to argue, but a security guard headed in his direction. Winding up in jail definitely wasn’t going to get him a meeting with Mr. Mason.

  Ben put the piece of paper back in his pocket as he crossed the lobby. He had a hand on the door handle when someone called his name. A tall gentleman in a dark blue suit hurried across the lobby. “Mr. Corbin?”

  The tellers and clerks tracked the man’s path with their gazes.

  “Yeah?”

  “You came here to speak to me?” He stopped in front of Ben.

  “Mr. Mason?”

  “Yes. I apologize for the confusion.” He ran a hand down his silk tie. His rapid breathing slowed. “My secretary didn’t know.”

  Several of the clerks continued to stare.

  “They said you were in a meeting.”

  “I was. But I’m here now. How can I help you?” The fine wrinkles around his eyes tightened.

  “I have a key that belongs to a safe deposit box my uncle rented.”

  Mr. Mason waved Ben in the direction of an elevator. When they were inside, Mr. Mason said, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “How did you know he died?”

  “You have the key.”

  “I don’t understand?”

  “Your uncle rented a box at this bank because he knew I’d make sure you got what was inside it after he died.” The elevator stopped, and the doors opened. Mr. Mason led Ben down the hall to where two guards stood, stance wide, eyes forward. They wore black uniforms, and their high polished holsters gleamed under the fluorescents.

  “How did you know my uncle?”

  “We had mutual associates in Europe.”

  “He said he spent time in France.”

  “Yes, that’s where we met.” Mr. Mason stopped at a vault door at the end of the hall. He entered a key code, then pressed his thumb against the black pad on the side. A metallic clank followed a high-pitched beep and electronic hum. The pneumatic arm hissed and the door opened, revealing a retractable gate.