Page 25 of Petrichor

“What is it?” I ask impatiently.

“He came to New York three months ago. He’s renting a small room in Harlem, he sells lingerie for men on his website; it’s calledFly to Honey, and he likes to go to gay clubs.” That explains him wearing lace underclothes “I’m still waiting for his background in Boston. Domenico will contact me as soon as he gets something,” he finishes.

“Hope it’s worth it this time.” The call ends on those cryptic words.

Worth it? What’sitsupposed to be? And whatothertime is he talking about? I just want my money back while getting to see if Fly knows anything about the wedding. Simple. No muss, no fuss.

I’m sitting on the sofa smoking again when, five minutes later, he marches in. He stops near his bag on the coffee table—his nearness sends a whiff of his fresh scent my way. He checks his phone first, then starts rummaging inside the bag.

“I’m sure I put it in here,” he huffs, and bends over to get a better look. He’s wearing a loose white shirt—mine again—which he knotted on his belly. The flushed skin of his neck is peeking out. From my position on the sofa, I can see that damn chain around his narrow hips as the shirt keeps rising the more he moves. He has on yesterday’s gray shorts and a pair of Converse. My balls tingle asmy eyes fall on his back. How can a guy have such a shapely, round ass?

“Found it!” He lifts his hand; dangling on his finger is a golden hair tie. He quickly makes a high ponytail and then declares that he’s ready.

“Do I need to fucking put a lock on my closet?” I growl, looking at my shirt on him.

“It was on top of the wastebasket in the bathroom. It’s the Bloody Mary one.” He points at the faint yellow ring on the front. “I can barely see the stain, and since I’ll pay for it, it is technically mine.”

“Not until I get my money. If you want your head to remain on your neck, stay away from my clothes,” I threaten him.

He makes what looks like a Boy Scout sign over his heart before shouldering his bag. Yesterday, his face was smeared in makeup, while today he is devoid of it, looking young and even prettier. He must have tried to cover the bruises, but I can still see the darker color on his cheek and around his puffy eye. There’s something about those eyes. Now they look ice gray. That cool lightness should give them a frosty air, but that’s not the case with the way they are always so intent on everything. Filled with inquisitiveness and a genuine interest I can’t quite understand.

I holster my Glock. His gaze follows my movements until my jacket covers the gun.

“Never go out without,” he states, more than asking as we pass the threshold. He doesn’t sound judgmental, more like he is contemplating out loud. And I let him, not caring either way.

Carlo follows us in the elevator.

“That’s a lovely stand-up collar on your shirt,” Fly suddenly says, leaning his body to the left to look more closely at Carlo’s neck.

Carlo turns his head slightly his way. A curious look in his eyes. “Thank you.”

“Fly. My name is Fly.”My crew already knows about him.“And you are?”

“That’s Carlo,” I answer for him with a flat tone. “Are you done distracting him?”

“Sorry, sir,” Carlo says, like it’s his fault Fly is such a chatter box.

“Issiralways this grumpy in the morning, or is it an all-day special?” Fly mutters.

I see the half smirk on Carlo’s lips before it quickly disappears. The easy sociability between them irritates me.

I shift until my lips are near Fly’s ear. Using a dark, threatening tone I utter, “These liberties you think you can take with me end now.”

He tilts his head back until our gazes meet. His seems studious. Our faces are so close, I can smell the minty scent of the ointment he applied this morning to the cuts on his face. I notice a small mole near his nose and the light tremble of his lower lip. The elevator’s doors open. I straighten again and walk across the lobby with Carlo in front and Fly near me. He offers a hi to Diego behind the desk.

Jo is waiting in the car outside, Fly waves a greeting at him, but as Carlo opens the back door for us, he stops. “Let’s walk. The gelato store is around one block from here. That way, on the big street.”

“Gelato Creamery on Park Avenue,” Carlo says as Fly nods, beaming at him.

Before I can refuse he starts walking.I grab his bicep with the intention of pulling him inside the car when I see him brush a solitary raindrop from a low branch of one of the trees lining on theedge of the sidewalk. The drop trails down, disappearing between his fingers as he stares at it almost transfixed by something so insignificant. His eyes move to mine and I notice a deepness in them I’ve never seen before. His arm moves back to his side, and the loose shirt falls down his shoulder taking with it the blue bra strap. An image of that bralette covering him comes back to me. The cotton thong. Why does such delicate and feminine lingerie look good on him? His skin so smooth and rosy.

“Sir?” Carlo’s voice catches my attention.

“Tell Jo to drive to the gelato shop. We’ll walk,” I utter before heading toward Park Avenue. Fly’s light, swift steps catch up to my long strides.

Carlo seems a bit taken aback but does as I order him. I don’t usually stroll around. I don’t find it particularly entertaining, more a waste of time. Fly seems to enjoy it though. Looking eagerly around at the colorful shop windows and tall buildings, letting his fingers move on walls, poles, and mailboxes. Breathing deeply the fragrant scents coming from a bakery shop.

“Do people call you Fly because of your appearance?” I ask, as we cross the street. Carlo is behind us, keeping himself a few feet away.

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