“And now she’s a very wealthy, award-winning pop star. No wonder she looks at you like you hang the stars.”
“Like I said, I simply provided the opportunity and the means. I don’t have the power to make anyone a success. Like so many of the others my charity has helped, Nia’s forged her own path and worked hard for what she’s achieved.”
Sacha nodded but didn’t respond. He stared off into the distance, and Gio would have given anything to know what he was thinking. Instead, he enjoyed Sacha’s company, loving the way they could sit together observing their friends and family without needing to fill the silence. It was such a change from a few months ago when Sacha didn’t even want to be in the same room as Gio. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so… relaxed.
Jack and Fitz decided to stay in one of the guest rooms since both had been drinking, and wherever Jack stayed, Sacha was never far, so he and Chip took another guest room, the one next to Gio’s.
After two hours of lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, it became painfully clear he wasn’t about to fall asleep. With a sigh, Gio got up and left his room. He went into the living room and lay on the long couch near the glass wall. It was unlikely he’d fall asleep, but at least he could still hear the waves crashing against the shore.
Shadows moved around the room, and Gio startled awake, nothing but pitch-black surrounding him. He could have sworn he’d heard something. Probably just the wind or an animal outside. He’d been about to lie down again when a hand clamped over his mouth and several hands grabbed him. His heart thundered in his ears, and his breath caught.
“Gio!”
A familiar voice pierced the haze.
“Gio, wake up. It’s me. It’s Sacha.”
Gio’s eyes flew open, and he sprang forward, grabbing the man’s shoulders. Blinking through the wetness and fog, he stared into wide blue-gray eyes.
“Sacha?” The word left his lips on a whisper.
“Yeah, it’s okay. You’re okay.” Sacha cupped his face, his brows drawn together in concern. “What the hell aren’t you telling us?”
Gio swallowed hard. He shook his head. “It was just a bad dream.”
The expression that crossed Sacha’s face told Gio precisely what he thought about that bullshit. With a sniff, Gio pulled back and ran a hand through his hair.
“I’m all right.”
“That’s not what I asked you.”
As much as he wished he could confide in Sacha, he was far too exhausted even to contemplate the conversation that would entail. “Please.”
Sacha nodded, but he wasn’t happy about it. “How often do you have these dreams?”
“More often than I’d like,” Gio admitted.
“I know you don’t want to talk about it, and you don’t have to talk about it with me, but you need to talk to someone.”
“I know.” Gio had hoped the nightmares would end with time, but after almost a year of them, nothing had changed.
“When was the last time you had a full night’s sleep?”
Gio couldn’t remember, so he didn’t reply.
“Well, that’s just great,” Sacha grumbled. “There a reason you’re sleeping on the couch instead of the queen-size memory foam bed?”
“It’s… easier to fall asleep. What about you?”
Sacha motioned over his shoulder to Chip, who sat watching them. “Potty break.” He went thoughtful. “Okay.” Sacha straightened, then walked off.
Gio sat confused. Had he said something wrong? Sacha was unpredictable at the best of times, but he never simply walked off without a few more words, at least. Before Gio hurt himself wondering what he’d done, Sacha returned with a couple of pillows and blankets. He tossed a set to Gio, then dropped his pillow onto the couch across from him.
“What are you doing?”
“What’s it look like?” Sacha lay down and covered himself with the blanket. “Go to sleep, Gio. Chip, time for night-night.”
Chip padded over to Gio’s side, licked his hand, then curled up on the floor next to Gio’s couch.
“There you go. If a frog so much as farts, Chip will hear it, so go to sleep.” Sacha rolled over and pulled his blanket over his shoulder, his back to Gio.
Gio’s smile couldn’t get any wider or his heart any fuller as he lay down. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Knowing he was safe, Gio drifted off to sleep. For the first time in many months, he dreamed of being wrapped in the warm embrace of an untamable whirlwind with blue-gray eyes.
Three
“I don’t get it.”
“Get what?” Jack said through his earpiece.
“This whole modern art bullshit,” Joker said discreetly, motioning around him at the vast gallery lined with wall-to-wall artwork. “Standing in front of a bunch of scribbles and paint splotches with a constipated expression, pretending you see something, then being all”—he put a hand to his chest and gasped—“it’s incredible. Just look at these lines, the colors. See how it represents our crumbling environment and the decimation of man brought on by our mutual propensity for self-destruction.”
“My God,” someone gasped to Joker’s right. He turned and arched an eyebrow at the tall, lanky man who sported thick square-rimmed glasses encrusted in rhinestones, a chunky knit turtleneck sleeveless sweater—the collar of which was so ginormous and fluffy it looked like it was swallowing him whole—and a pair of matching harem pants. Oh, and translucent sandals. Let’s not forget those.
“You are so insightful,” the man drawled, hand to his chest. “Do you know the artist?” He studied Joker, his eyebrows lifting when it became apparent Joker was not a guest but security. A look of distaste quickly followed. “My mistake.” He caught sight of Chip and mewled, “Aw, what a pretty puppy!”
Sweet Betty White.
The guy completely ignored the tactical vest Chip wore and the five noticeable patches with white block letters that stated: “DO NOT PET. I’M WORKING.” He took a step forward, hand out, and Joker quickly stopped him. “Sir, please do not pet the dog. He’s working.”
The man blinked at him. “But he’s just sitting there. Can I touch his ears? They’re so big!” He leaned toward Chip, and Joker sighed.
“I hope you’re a lefty.”
The man paused and blinked at him. “What?”
“I said, I hope you’re a lefty because you’re about to lose that hand.”
Chip let out a low growl, and the guy squeaked before snatching his hand back. He power-walked the hell away from them, throwing glares over his shoulder as he did.
Cackling filled Joker’s earpiece.
“Shut up,” Joker said through a grunt.
“Oh my God, I can’t breathe.”
“That back there is why murders happen. The point is, I’m right.”
“You are,” Jack replied. “Because you are so insightful.”
“And you are so dead when I get my hands on you, Constantino. And what the fuck? Just because I don’t look like a cross between Elton John and an alpaca, I don’t know art?”