Page 71 of Hollow Heart

For starters, I’m straight. I have been my whole life. Never have Ieverhadfeelingsfor another man.

Attraction?

Maybe?

I’m not sure what Issax and I had could be classified as anything other than circumstantial. Yes, I loved the guy, but not like I loved my wife.

We were brothers in arms, not... boyfriends.

It was the damn eighties, man. We were all fucked up six ways from Sunday most of the time, and my wife likened to the filling in aHollow Pointesandwich. So sue me if Ilikedit, too.

Though I’m not entirely sure how much of that was me and how much was a desire to please my wife, and how much was because I was wasted and young.

It was just part of who we were.

I grip the steering wheel tighter as I grind my jaw.

Second, Felix is half my age. Christ, he’s closer to Bobby’s age than he is mine.

Third, I might’ve had my fair share of Issax and Marci, but prior to being in the band, I hadn’t really hadthatmuch experience with women, but I knew I liked pussy.

That has to count for something, right?

I groan as I count down all the reasons I should fucking put an end to this damn gig.

I turn up the radio, needing to focus on something else, because all I’m doing is thinking in circles, and every path cycles back to Felix Hart.

And because God has an awful sense of irony and humor, the first song I hear over the radio isCarnage.

You think you can escape the devastation you leave in your wake.

But you can’t fight the carnage, baby, because your carnage is mine to take.

God, it’s like I can’t get away from the guy.

But do I want to get away from him?

Or do I want him to ruin me?

When I finally make it home, much later than I planned, thanks to some construction hold up, I walk in the door and am immediately accosted with the smell of sweet, smokey barbecue and aromatic cheese.

My stomach growls at the scent and I see my son flitting about the kitchen.

He looks up to see me as I close the door.

“What’s all this?” I ask, knowing Ishouldstill be somewhat pissed at him for getting suspended for a day, but finding it very hard to be mad when he’s making dinner that smells better than any five star restaurant.

He knows just how to play his cards.

Smart kid.

“Dinner,” he says softly, his gaze dancing with slight alarm.

Before I can ask what’s wrong, or what he wants—because this dinner smells like he wants something—he opens his mouth.

“There’s... something I need to tell you. But first, let’s sit down, okay?”

The tone of his voice is uneven, and I can tell he’s nervous, which, on top of my already frayed nerves, makes my adrenaline spike again.

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