Page 18 of Hold on Tight

There were books all over the coffee table, more than one left facedown and open. Mostly kids’ books, fat-chapter books he would have guessed were too difficult for a seven-year-old. Apparently his son was an advanced reader. He felt a peculiar, unwarranted sense of pride. He’d done nothing, other than make his unintentional and (if you considered the volume of fluid involved) piddling genetic contribution, to deserve any pride, but he figured maybe that was one of those things you couldn’t help.That’s my boy. Not that he’d been a great reader himself, not until high school, when he’d begun gobbling up nonfiction, mostly war histories.

“You like to read?” he asked Sam.

“Yeah.”

“What are these books about? Warriors?”

“About clans of cats who fight each other.”

“Oh, yeah? Like mountain lions and stuff?”

“No, like cats. You know, like pet cats, but these ones don’t live with people.”

“That is seriously weird, dude,” Jake said. “Warriors are wolves and lions and soldiers in Black Hawk helicopters, not fluffy house cats.” Any son of his should know that.

Son. His.

It was starting to get through to him, starting to penetrate. He had akid.

“They’re not house cats. They’re wild.”

Sam glared at him, his gaze never faltering, not even when Jake leveled a glare right back at him.

That’s my boy.

My boy.

Holy shit.

He had a son, this miniaturemanwho was meeting his challenge without flinching.

“Maybe you can read that to me later.”

“Or you can read it to me.”

Stubborn son of a bitch. A good trait. “Or we can take turns.”

“Maybe,” said Sam, but Jake thought he might be smiling.

Mira was watching him. He could feel it. He snuck a glance at her, at the scoop of her tank, the beckoning V of cleavage. He could seriously deal with taking some quality time with that top. He could just make out the bump of her nipples under the fabric, and he speculated that it would take just a touch to bring them to attention. She’d been so responsive.

You don’t deserve—you have no right—Mike can’t—can’t—not that, not anything.

Was it his imagination, or was that chant getting softer, the clamor in his body louder?

Mira was watching him with a look on her face that he couldn’t interpret.

“Show me the rest of the house?” Jake asked Sam.

Sam led him into the kitchen, which was small but serviceable, with wood cabinets painted white and speckled Formica countertops. The appliances were newer, and there was a small round kitchen table that still held breakfast dishes. “The snacks are here,” Sam said, and opened a cabinet at knee height.

“Very important,” Mira said. “Sam has serious nut allergies, so he needs to have snacks from the house. He can’t go out for ice cream and donuts and treats like that, because most of that stuff isn’t prepared nut-free. He can safely eat anything in this house, though, so you don’t have to worry about anything you feed him here.”

She was talking now like she was leaning toward leaving him with Sam.

“You said he has asthma,” Jake said. “Is there an inhaler?”

“I’ll get it.” Sam dashed off.

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