Page 37 of Life

“Holy shit! What the fuck…” Phillip’s eyes widen, and he slams back against the wall, knocking over the other dining chair. No matter, it just adds to the pile already there. “You… You’re, you’re… What the fuck?” Apparently, he hasn’t been told about Eli.

“I’m Elijah Redding. Thomas’s twin brother. Now I will repeat. Who are you?” Eli speaks slowly but with a hint of impatience.

Phillip spaces out for a few moments, his gaze seeming to move all over Eli’s face and body, probably cataloguing the similarities and differences the same way I did at first. Then he glances at me and back at Eli and the protective way he’s holding me.

“Maria, you and this guy?” His accusation is warranted and exactly what I am trying to avoid. “What about Tom…” He shakes his head. “Never mind. What is going on?”

I shift out of Eli’s hold. “Phil, this is Elijah, Tommy’s brother. Eli, this is my friend Bree’s man and the father of her baby,” I add, in case he’s harboring any more macho-man issues over Phil’s appearance here. “He’s also been a close personal friend of mine and Gigi’s for the past several years. He knew Tommy.”

Elijah holds out a hand. “Any friend of my brother’s is a friend of mine. Sorry about the harsh words. The situation warrants it right now. I’m not taking any chances with her safety.” He nods to me.

Phillip shakes Eli’s hand, his face still showing signs of amazement. I know the feeling. Though now I’ve spent more time with Eli, I see more of the differences between the two brothers than their similarities. They literally are only similar in facial features. Everything else about Eli is a vast contradiction to his brother.

“No, man, I understand. Can someone tell me what went down? Who trashed your place and why?”

“We think it was Tony,” I mention, knowing I don’t have to go into too much detail. Phil was around when I met Gigi. He knows more than anyone else what I went through to put Antonio in jail. Sat with me and Gigi while the court put his ass away for ten years. Little did we know he’d be out in half that for good behavior.

Phil closes his eyes and drops his head forward. “He’s out? How?”

“Good behavior,” I answer flatly.

“This is good behavior? Has there been anything else?” he asks.

I clasp him on the shoulder, appreciating the worry in his stance and tone of voice. “Yeah, he sent a couple texts, but he went radio silent after Elijah warned him off almost two weeks ago. Then this. And worse, we’re not going to be able to prove he did it.” Of that I’m certain. Antonio is too fucking smart. Always has been.

“Let me get you out of here. Come stay with Bree and me.”

“And put you, your pregnant girlfriend, and your five-year-old daughter in harm’s way?De ninguna manera. No esta pasando,” I rattle off in Spanish, forgetting Phillip doesn’t understand the language.

He furrows his brow.

“I said, no way. Not happening.Gracias, mi amigo, but no.”

“She’ll be staying with me. It’s safest. I can protect her,” Eli counters.

“Obviously not, if this is what happens on your watch.” Phillip’s tone is harsher than I would have thought him capable of.

Eli glowers. “I was with her at your wife’s studio making sure she was safe when this went down. The building here is supposed to be secure. Davis and Porter are on that now.”

“She’s not my wife,” Phil shoots back.

Eli makes a startled snort sound. “Well then maybe you should be working on nailing down your own woman instead of worrying about mine, yeah?”

No. He. Didn’t. Ohhellno!

Phil’s eyes go wide, but there’s nothing I can say because I’ve straight swallowed my tongue and lost all ability to speak. Literally, my lips are numb, and no sound is coming out no matter how many times I open and close them.

Thank God Chase and Jack come up to our little huddle and slice through the tension surrounding us. I focus on Jack fully, ignoring both Eli and Phillip. The last thing I need right now is a pissing match, or worse, to explain myself. Mostly because I’m incapable of doing so.

And why the fuck didn’t I say anything? Deny what he insinuated?

One ticket to hell, please. I’m going over the edge kicking and screaming all the way down.

“There are no fingerprints,” Jack says. “The perpetrator must have been wearing gloves. We’ve got the spray paint can he left behind. We’ll see if it was bought locally. It’s a common, run-of-the-mill brand, but we may get lucky canvasing local stores that sell it in the area. Maybe somebody remembers the purchase, provided it was recent.”

“That’s it?” I ask, shock and fury layering my question.

“No. One of the neighbors on your floor saw the profile of a man in a painter’s uniform and a hat rushing into the stairwell. Said the man looked to be of Hispanic descent with black hair that curled around his collar. That’s about all he saw.”

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