The rest of his sentiment rings clear as tears fill my eyes. I walk out further into the freezing night and envision my first dream. A dream I’ve long since forbidden my heart to imagine, the lapping of seaside waves on our feet as we walk down a shoreline, safe, in a faraway place I can picture so clearly because I’ve seen it. It’s then I finally answer his question aloud. “It’s possible, Tobias. It’s possible.”
After ushering Beau in, and with one last look at the lights, I close the door and flip the lock three times.
Age Twenty-Four
The echo of an obnoxious engine followed by the telltale ‘fuck you’ of horns sound as Dom whizzes through the terminal. I manage to smother my budding grin with a scowl just as the sleek muscle car comes into view. He’s spent nearly two years restoring it from frame. He skids to a stop a foot away, his dark tinted windows down, a menacing smirk firmly in place. Agitation fleeing just from laying eyes on him, I retrieve my duffle from the sidewalk, and he holds up a hand before lifting a poster board that reads Giorgio Armani.
“Hilarious,” I snap, “and you’re twenty minutes late.” I step off the curb and open the passenger door, tossing my duffle between us before sliding in and surveying the interior, unable to conceal how impressed I am.
“This looks…fucking amazing.”
Pride shines in his eyes at my reaction. “Just picked it up from the paint shop. That’s why I’m late. You’re the first passenger. I made sure of it.”
Cupping the back of his neck, I pull him to me and press my forehead to his. “MIT. I’m so fucking proud of you, little brother.” A rare but wide smile cracks his face as he sinks in the contact briefly before pulling away.
“I read a lot of books. They made me smart.”
I return his grin. “You remember that conversation?”
“I remember everything.”
“I’m still pissed I had to hear you got accepted from Sean.” Like me, Dom keeps his cards close to his chest, only showing them when his hand is forced, an issue we’ve butt heads on more than once, but he’s cut from the same cloth.
“It’s not that big of a deal.”
“Agree to disagree.”
He rights himself in the seat before peeling away from the curb, cutting a taxi off in the process. I shake my head at his deep chuckle.
“You’ll have this fucking thing impounded in a week.”
“Sean predicts days.”
“My money is with him.”
He glances my way, his dark hair scattering in the summer wind. “Who in the hell are you trying to impress with those expensive ass suits, anyway?”
“It’s called being a grown-up. You should try it sometime.”
“We aren’t allowed to wear suits, your rules.”
And that’s the truth of it because dressing up thugs in suits is an outdated tradition that may command respect—but also draws attention. It’s a uniform for men of a different breed with a completely separate agenda. We aren’t fucking thugs or anything like that breed, despite the fact we have to make thug moves on the regular. Our motives are entirely different. My corporate dealings give me an excuse to dress the way I want, and it’s part of my illusion. “You would be lost without your little black boots,” I jab, “and I have something better in mind.”
He lifts a brow, cutting off another car as he shifts and guns the gas. “What are you thinking?”
“You’ll know soon enough.”
“Are you spending the rest of the summer here?” The hopeful lift of his voice rakes my chest.