Page 5 of Hush
Silvio’s words bounced around his skull, the petulant tone of a child not getting his way. What he’d done, fucking another man in Mike’s home, wasMike’sfault?
No. Never in a million years.
Dealing with prisoners, with criminals, and with the scum of the earth had inured him over the years to emotional manipulations, empty platitudes and frantic reaches from desperate men and women struggling to save themselves from the inevitable. He blinked and saw Silvio suddenly in a new light. The bubble around him burst, vanishing with a pop.
Silvio was teetering on the edge of a full Mariah Carey meltdown. He could see it in the quiver of his chin, the flatness of his lips. The angle of his jaw, set just at that fuck-you angle, the one that begged for a no-holds-barred fight.
Part of him, still rocking and rolling on the waves of rage and indignation, still sloshing in the turgid waters of hurt and disbelief, wanted to dive right in, scream and shout and bellow about the whys and the wherefores. He wanted to tear into Silvio, hurt him with his words, shred him with every terrible thought he could dredge up, every frustration, every sideways, unkind thing he’d ever thought.
But, why fight about this? What would the end be? Would fighting change what had happened?
Or… what he had already decided?
Mike pulled open the front door. He swept his hand out toward the hallway, an ironic gesture of chivalry. “Buh-bye.”
“What?” Silvio’s jaw dropped. The fire in his eyes turned to lava spewing from a volcano, erupting with enough force to reach the moon. “What thefuckdo you mean ‘bye’?”
“I mean get out, Silvio. Get out right now.”
“You can’t kick me out of our home!”
“It’smyhome, you don’t pay for a Goddamn thing, and Iabsolutelyam throwing you out.”
“All of my stuff is here!”
“It will be waiting for you in the morning.”
“Don’t youdare—” Silvio hissed.
Mike gave Tall & Swarthy a long look, sighing. “Will you control your boy, please? And get thefuckout of here?”
Silvio’s breathless gasp could have broken glass. He might have sprained a lung. His eyes boggled, practically leaping from his face, and his jaw nearly unhinged. “His boy?” he shrieked. “I am nothis boy!”
“Well, sweetheart, you’re not my boy either.” Again, Mike swept his hand to the door, dramatically inviting Silvio to get the fuck out of his life. “Buh-bye.”
“Mike—”
“Leave, Silvio. Get out. Before I call the cops.”
“Mike!”
“Go. Come back in the morning for your stuff.”
“Michael!”
Finally, Tall & Swarthy moved. He grabbed a dish towel and covered himself—a little fucking late—and then scooped up his clothes, left in a trail on the way to the kitchen from the front door. Designer jeans with ridiculous bling on the ass, a bromo t-shirt with too much design on the front, swirls that looked like stupid tribal designs and sleeves purposely cut too small to cling to the biceps. Ugly underwear. “Come on, Siv,” he grunted. “Let’s go back to my place.’
Siv. What a stupid nickname. He never called Silvio dumb nicknames like that.
Silvio sashayed across the living room, plucking his clothes off the floor one by one, as if flaunting the savagery of their undressing, the stripping that had sent socks and jeans and Silvio’s button-down halfway across the room. His ass twitched with every step, hips swaying. A line of lube smeared across one cheek. He held Mike’s gaze, staring him down as he stalked toward the door. “Don’t fucking touch my things,” he hissed, passing Mike by. He tossed his head, lifted his chin, and strutted into the hall, naked, glistening ass shaking like a flustered peacock.
Mike choked back his laughter, the shouts he wanted to holler at the haughty ridiculousness of Silvio, his petty tyranny making him seem like a toddler with a broken tiara, stamping her foot as she wailed at the indignity of the world.
Tall & Swarthy had the good sense to at least appear embarrassed about their ejection from Mike’s home. He shuffled to the door quickly, his clothes held in front of him.
He offered Mike the dishtowel he’d used to cover his cock.
Mike didn’t take it.
