Page 23 of Shaman

“What? Oh, yes. Christmas. Well.” He cleared his throat because it felt tight, now.

Ghost’s expression shifted, edging toward concern. “You going to London to see your folks?”

“No,” Ian blurted, instantly, almost a shout. The idea horrified a shiver out of him. “I mean…no. No, we’re not. I’m not. No.”

Smooth, Byron, how 007 of you.

Ghost’s brows tucked low. “I thought you were back in contact with your sister.”

Shit, this conversation was getting away from him. “Yes. Well.” He got to his feet, wishing he was steadier. “She’s back home, and I’m – I’m here.”

Now the man looked positively stony, arms folded, jaw set. “Ian. Have you talked to your parents at all in the past year?”

He swallowed with difficulty. “No.”

“But I thought–”

Okay, this was enough. “You thought that just because my sister hugged me I’d go running back to Mummy and Dad?” he snapped. “I didn’t. And I told her not to tell them where I was. Either she obeyed my wishes, or when she told them I was living with a man, they decided they were better off pretending I was still dead.”

“Hey,” Ghost said, softening.

“My father is a very traditional man, Kenneth. There’s nothing about me of which he would approve.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Don’t I?”

“Whatever kind of asshole a guy is, if he finds out the son he lost is still alive, he’d want to see him.”

“I beg to differ.”

“You–”

“If we’re done.” Ian raised his voice. “Then I’ll be on my way.”

Ghost sighed but kept silent while he walked back to his gym bag and tugged on his thermal Henley, sweater, and jacket. Pulled his hat down over his sweaty man-bun.

He made it to the door before Ghost spoke. “Ian,” he said, and Ian froze, heart pounding against his ribs. “We’re having a guys night at my place on the twenty-second. Beer and a Stallone movie. Not your scene, maybe, but you’re welcome to come. If you want.”

Ian didn’t look back at him, but managed a nod, and then stepped out into the cold afternoon.

~*~

Bruce was waiting for him when he pulled into the building complex’s parking garage, standing in Ian’s appointed space. He stepped neatly to the side when the headlights slid across him, and opened Ian’s door for him.

Which was infuriating, in this moment.

“I can open my own bloody door, Bruce,” Ian snarled, snatching his bag out after him. He just felt so…so useless. Again. Always.

“Of course, sir,” Bruce said, unperturbed, and eased the door shut. “Did you have a nice time, sir?”

Ian growled in response and stalked to the elevator, Bruce’s hulking shadow following. As ever. Stepping into the elevator with him, operating the buttons, unflappable, and huge, his constant protector.

He hated that he needed him.

In that moment, as the elevator glided up to his floor, he couldn’t see logic – even hardened mobsters had guards; even Ghost had Mercy and the stone-faced Michael to watch out for him, because the boss was important and needed protecting – and could only feel inadequate and unmanly in every way. The kind of son his father would loathe and reject. The kind of son who allowed a wicked couple who’d used him to manipulate his business, over fear that his secrets would be spilled.

By the time he slammed the apartment door in Bruce’s face, he was fuming.

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