Page 40 of Shark Bait

Shark might not tell me much, but in case he wants to, I’m here. I am here for him, and I’m grateful for him teaching me about tapping. It feels like he’s letting me in on a huge secret. Tapping might be his coping mechanism when he’s uncomfortable. I like it.

I like it because it’s rhythmic. It’s music. I used to play music as if my life depended on it, but I don’t hear music anymore the way I used to.

“It was a messy civil war situation,” he continues. “With politicians selling land for power and money. After the sale, people were forced out of their homes. In the wake of an invading army, my parents grabbed me and fled with all the other refugees, on foot or on tractors, or, if they were from cities or towns, in their cars. No fancy jets, you know.”

He’s making a joke, so I take a clue and invert my bottom lip into a pout. “Bummer.”

Shark’s gaze drops to my lips.

I swipe the pouty one with my tongue, inviting his attention, coaxing him to pursue me.

He looks up, and we lock eyes as he continues as if nothing else is happening between us. But something is happening.

Tap. One-two. Tap.

“The gaps in my memory are substantial, so I can’t tell you what happened during our journey from home to safety, but I’ve been told my parents died on the road. My memory kicks off again when I’m in someone’s house in a place where it’s safe. I’m sitting at the table with six other boys, finally eating after days of nothing in the belly.” He smiles. “Lard on a slice of bread. An older woman with her hair covered under a scarf, with only two front teeth, sprinkles a pinch of salt on my meal. Lots of other kids are running around behind me. I remember the noise, but not how long I was there or where I was.”

“Was it an orphanage?”

He shrugs. “Don’t know. Sounds like one. I think I spent a few years there but ran away in my early teens and started getting into trouble. Once, I stole from the wrong person, ended up on his radar, and he held that over my head while trafficking me through Europe.” Shark clears his throat. “For years, wetraveled all over the world. In Rome, I met Alessio. We were both teens at the time, but he was everything I wanted to be. His own man.” Shark smiles. “Bastard wore the nicest leather shoes. Still does.”

I chuckle.

The tapping stops, and Shark returns to the present with me, his eyes taking on the warmth they normally carry. “The man I traveled with along with his crew tried to drug Alessio, but I swapped our drinks and drank his. Don’t ask me why. I didn’t even know him. I only knew I couldn’t let them use him. When I started to feel the effects of the drug, Alessio figured out what had happened.” Shark swipes his lips with his tongue, bites the bottom one between his teeth, then releases it.

His face glows when he smiles. “Alessio left the party with me and blood on his leather shoes. I’ve worked for him ever since. But my work is cleaner. Much cleaner. He left a glorious and bloody mess.”

A little over six months in captivity, and I’m broken. Shark endured much more, and he’s whole again or at least able to speak of it with another person. He gives me hope, and hope is everything. “I hear shopping is nice in Rome.”

“It’s just another big city.” He lifts my hand as if to kiss it again, but I press my lips to his knuckles instead. Then I scoot closer and kiss him on the mouth. I close my eyes and move my lips, coaxing him to kiss me back. At first, he doesn’t. Not at all. He even grips my throat as if to push me back, but that turns me on even more.

I think it might turn him on too, because he growls and gives my throat a squeeze. “Troy, I’m twice your age.”

“Say that again,” I whisper against his lips.

His eyes widen. “I’m twice your age.”

“Which is why I have to collect the debt you owe me before you keel over and die.”

Shark laughs, and the moment is broken.

I snap open my eyes. “Why do I say the dumbest jokes at the worst times?”

“Nonsense. Your jokes are the best.”

“But said at the wrong time.” Also, he thinks my jokes are the best.

He rests his arm over my hip in a way that allows his hand to dangle behind me, his fingers tracing the top of my butt cheek. His firm biceps flex, and I squeeze them, watching his eyes, seeking the intimacy I ruined with my joke.

Shark presses a palm to the small of my back and pulls me into him. My pregnant belly keeps us apart, but the baby is quiet, as if he knows Mommy wants some attention from a man who makes her feel good.

“Hey,” I say, “I want to tell you something.”

“Now?” he asks.

“Is it bad timing again?”

“That depends on what you say.”

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