Page 27 of Shaman

Tango walked carefully into the room, swinging wide around the table, too far away to touch as he turned the full force of his concern on Ian. “What’s going on?”

Ian, surprisingly, looked to Ghost first.

Ghost gave another nod.

Ian sighed, thumb tracing imaginary patterns on the side of his wineglass. “Do you remember Rebecca and Daniel Scott?”

“Oh, shit,” Tango breathed.

Ian smiled tightly. “Yes, well, turns out they’re running a modeling agency now. And they’ve threatened to ruin me.”

“I said we could help him get rid of them. If that’s what he wants to do,” Ghost said.

Ian’s head snatched up, a little fire and life coming back into his eyes. “Did you listen tonothingI just said?Youshould want themgotten rid of, too. If the whole world learns I was a pole-dancing house pet, that’s going to be bad for business.”

It would be, yeah, but Ghost wasn’t thinking about that right now. At least not trying to. Before he could say as much, though, Tango put a hand on Ian’s shoulder and said, “Let’s go outside.”

Ian looked up at him a long moment, trying to get a read on him. With one last glance at Ghost, checking, he finally said, “Alright.”

~*~

It was awkward. It really couldn’t help but be. Shortly after they’d sat down on the top step of the porch, Ian realized he hadn’t been alone with Kev – withTango– since the night Mercy killed Carla for them, when they’d lied back across the hood of the Jag, drank vodka, and watched the sun come up together. That had felt like a goodbye of sorts; there had been clear parameters. But now, though Ian was the one who’d insisted on the whole “being friends” business, he realized he hadn’t a clue how to actually be anyone’s friend. He didn’t think that was a skill set he possessed.

Tango finally broke the silence. “You know. If you’re really dead set on this, we can just have Fox do it.”

Ian had refilled his wineglass on his way out, and sipped at it now. “No. I need to do it myself.”

“You didn’t kill Carla yourself,” Tango pointed out.

Something clicked into place, then. “No, I didn’t,” he said. His thoughts, so long stuck, like a roller coaster car caught at the base of the first big hill, gears grinding, lurched, and grabbed, and started climbing. Faster, faster. His breath hitched a little. “I didn’t, but I should have.”

“What?” Tango looked at him then, face twisted into a confused grimace. He’d had his ears pierced again, after the silver hoops had been ripped out by Ellison’s men; the new rings caught the moonlight, a faint glimmer in the dark. “No. Ian,no. I thought I needed to do that, too, okay? But what Mercy did – that was a good thing. You don’t need to have nightmares the rest of your life about killing somebody.”

“I see. Someone like Mercy, or Ghost can have them, that’s fine. They’remenand they can handle it. But we’re too limp-wristed and weak for the likes of such terrors, yes?”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

“Do I?” Ian snorted. “You want to talk about nightmares. I have them every night, and in them, I’m helpless. I watch a man press a gun to Alec’s head over and over again, and I can’t do anything but watch. Completely fucking helpless.” He sent his ex a pointed look through the gloom, hoping his expression was readable. “Guilt doesn’t feel worse than that. Itcan’t. If I go to my grave wishing I hadn’t killed those monsters, so be it, but I want – Ineed– to be the sort of man who can protect the people I love.”

Tango was silent a long moment. “You’ve never done anything like that.”

“There’s a first time for everything, darling.”

Tango faced forward again, shirt rustling as he shrugged. “Yeah. Guess so.”

Silence reigned once more, still awkward.

Ian cleared his throat. “Did you really let that French monstrosity act as yourtherapist?”

Tango snorted. “He was surprisingly good at it. Or, maybe not surprising – he’s good at most things.” His gaze landed on the side of Ian’s face, warm and weighty as a physical touch. “Do you have someone you can talk to?” he asked, quiet now. “I mean, really talk to.”

Ian didn’t answer.

Hesitantly, Tango said, “I go once a month and talk to this really great doctor who–”

“Who doesn’t judge you for getting fucked by grown men your entire childhood?” Ian bit out, meaner than he should have been. He was just sotiredof being told he had totalkabout all this. Talking solved nothing. “I don’t need a doctor. I need to get rid of the bastards trying to ruin my reputation.”

“Right,” Tango said, flatly.

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