Page 27 of Breathe
Azrael’s mouth turned down with a sad smile. “Nothing.”
“It is something.”
The man’s head jerked slightly to the apartment building.
“You like him, your hook-up?” Azrael asked so softly that Real had to strain to hear.
“It’s not like…” Real growled, clenching his hands.
He stopped his words of denial when movement at the open entrance to the building caught his attention and he launched from the jeep.
“Stay here!” Real ordered with a snarl over his shoulder and slammed the door.
Stay here? Azrael gazed after the running form of Real.
Yeah, that was so not happening.
He had to get the fuck out of here and back to the YA base before he did something really stupid like kill the guy upstairs…or even worse…confess his love to Real.
Either way was detrimental to his health.
Azrael slipped out of the Jeep and walked away, letting the darkness close in around him.
What if Real needed his help?
His footsteps slowed.
Since when had Real ever needed his help?
With the voice of reason ringing in his head, Azrael picked up his pace. A moment later, he slid behind the wheel of his vehicle.
Real didn’t need him at all.
Just as the man reached the top of the stairs, Real slammed into the guy and took the fucker to the ground.
“Help!”
It wasn’t what Real expected and he flipped the guy over.
It was the man from apartment 401, and Real gave a silent groan.
Fuck!
“Sorry, I thought you were a stalker,” Real muttered and rolled away.
He lifted the man to his feet and brushed off the guy’s coat. 401 was shaken, but managed to stumble away and up the next flight of stairs to the fourth floor.
Real rubbed a hand down his face. His distraction was going to get someone killed.
Retracing his steps to his jeep, he found it empty. He did a quick visual search for Azrael, but knew without a doubt the young man was long gone.
Making his way back to the apartment door, Real inserted his key in the lock and stepped inside before flipping the deadbolt. The only light in the small living room came from the table lamp next to an old-fashioned armchair.
“Patrick?” Real called and received only silence.
With a sigh, Real walked through the small one-bedroom place. When he found the bedroom empty, he headed to the bathroom and eased open the partially closed door.
The hinges squeaked in the quiet. He heard a muffled sob and gently pushed back the plastic shower curtain.
