Page 39 of Wicked Rivals

His gaze swept around the room. He ignored everything until he settled his eyes on me.

“Can we talk? Alone?” he asked.

I met his gaze and held it, then flicked my wrist at Tony and the doc.

“Give us the room.”

Doc quickly finished with the tape, repacked his bag, and headed for the door.

“I’ll come back tomorrow, sir, to change the dressing and examine you again for any signs of infection.”

Tony went to the door, holding it open to usher the doc out while gesturing for the kid to step inside.

“I'll get started on those leads,” he said.

As he and the doc left the room, the boy kept his eyes locked on me.

I motioned for him to come closer and take a seat on the antique couch my mother had picked out for my father when I was about this boy’s age. If she’d known a child would be sitting on it now, grandson or not, she would have killed me.

“Do you want something to drink?” I asked.

I didn’t know if we had anything appropriate for his age. What the hell did a kid his age drink?

“I might have chocolate milk or something more suitable for you in the kitchen.”

“Just water,” he said, taking a seat.

I walked over to the stocked bar in my study and poured him a glass, dropped in an orange slice and a cherry, and then mixed myself an old-fashioned.

After handing him his glass and taking a seat in the chair opposite the couch, we sat there for a moment in an oddly comfortable silence, taking each other in, gathering our thoughts, and sipping our drinks.

He looked so much like the pictures of me as a child, but with the added stoicism that reminded me of my older brother Anthony.

“Where does your mother think you are right now?” I asked.

“Asleep,” he said, “She’s taking a bath. That’s where she likes to think. She’ll be there for probably an hour.”

No sign of shame or any other indication that he thought he might have stepped out of line.

The instant image of Val soaking in the bathtub entered my mind, but I quickly pushed it aside.

“And why are you here if you should be in bed sleeping?”

“I have questions,” he said with a shrug. “I’m pretty sure you have answers.”

To a child, I supposed that would make perfect sense.

“I think I have more questions than answers myself, but I’ll tell you what I can,” I said.

“You won’t just lie to me, will you?” he asked. “I want the truth.”

The way he said it sounded nothing like an attempted insult or insinuation that I was some pathological liar. His question was genuine. The boy simply wanted to know beforehand whether I would choose to be up front with him or to treat him like the child he was.

All things considered, his question was more than fair. He didn’t know me, my name, my face, or my reputation.

“I will answer as honestly as I can, boy.”

He nodded like that was an acceptable answer.

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