“I don’t think of you as a ten-year-old boy,” I corrected him, “or even as the eighteen-year-old who needed saving for the second time in his life. But maybe that’s where I fucked up, because I thought you had more sense.”
Owen blew out a long breath, standing there, shaking with fury, hands fisted at his sides. I was surprised that steam didn’t shoot out of his ears, as pissed as he was.
“I see you as the young man you are,” I added, hoping to ratchet down his anger.
“You don’t!” he roared back. “I’m thirty-two years old, for fuck’s sake, but you only see me as your dead friends’ son.”
Why were Ronan and Sara Moss being thrown in my face? “I don’t know what’s going on with you right now, and I’m sorry I screwed up your date, but—”
“David was not my date,” he said through clenched teeth. “I can’t date anybody until I figure out what I’m doing with you!”
It took a few moments for that to sink in. He’d roared the words at me. “I don’t understand.” There was no intuitive leap to be made. He’d completely lost me.
“And that’s the problem. You don’t get it because you don’t see me, Jared.”
“Of course I see you. What are you—”
“Not how I want you to,” he said miserably. “Not how I need you to.”
I shook my head. “Please tell me what you’re talking about.”
But instead, he charged out of the room.
Nothing made sense.
I’d come home and heard him and a young man talking in my kitchen—well, his too; he’d lived here since he was twenty-four, when he’d returned to Chicago to work for me after getting his master’s degree.
I’d tried to be quiet, give them space, and was on my way back out when he’d called to me.
“I forgot I had to see friends,” I’d yelled back and was almost to the front door when he caught up with me, having had to jog. It wasn’t a small house—close to six thousand square feet, all one level, built in a U-shape, with a flower garden and patio in the middle. My bedroom faced the kitchen, and the space from the kitchen to the front door would have normally allowed for my escape. But he’d run.
“Where are you going?” he’d asked, and already, he was scowling.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt—”
“You didn’t. David brought me files I needed from Aaron Sutter’s office. I’ve been doing some contract work for him.”
“I know, but c’mon,” I’d teased him, “it looks like dinner to me, kid. I can get lost so you can make—”
“No,” he’d snapped, pivoting and returning to the kitchen, where he told David how much he appreciated the files being dropped off, basically excusing the handsome young man from our home. I would not have let him go if I were Owen’s age. He was pretty, and as he walked to the front door, he gave me a smile.
At fifty-six, I had no business even looking at men that young. Forty was as low as I went, and even that made me slightly uncomfortable. A twenty-year age difference shouldn’t have bothered me, but it did. For starters, there was the whole issue of my musical preferences, and that was only the tip of the iceberg. Dating someone younger was fraught with challenges, and I honestly didn’t have the energy. At this point in my life, I wanted to exert energy in the field, not in my personal life. The exception, of course, being Owen. I would turn myself inside out for Owen.
Standing there now, alone, I ran everything back in my brain, trying to figure out what I’d done to elicit the reaction I got. I’d brought up the DEA hack because it had been weighing on me for months. We hardly ever talked anymore, but since he was pissed at me anyway, I thought why not go for the teachable moment. I should have known better, though usually he took it just like the others who worked for me. But suddenly he turned on me like a feral cat, defending himself and attacking me at the same time. My normal was to try and coach instead of blame, but he was decidedly not accepting the constructive criticism like he usually did. I couldn’t imagine what I could have done to piss him off. There was no moment I could point to where I could see the night taking a turn. All I’d done was walk through the goddamn door. When had my home become such a battlefield?
Most of the time, to help mitigate any kind of disagreement, I followed him. I would knock on his door, and when he gave me permission to step inside, only then would I enter. I’d take a seat in the wingback chair in his room, put my feet up on the ottoman, and we’d talk and figure out whatever the problem was.
It hit me suddenly that I was living in the past. How long had it been since the last time I’d done that?
Walking down the hall to his room, I knocked gently and waited.
“I’m going out,” he said through the door. “I’ll see you later.”
“Owen,” I said softly. “Please, let’s just talk. We’ve always been able to talk.”
The door was thrown open, and he had a backpack and a jacket on. It was the end of September now, so the temperature was starting to drop a bit. “I don’t wanna talk to you,” he admitted sadly. “I’m all talked out.”
“How? We hardly ever talk.”
“No,” he disagreed, biting out his words. “We talk all the time, but you don’t hear me. You never listen.”
But that wasn’t me. “I always listen to you,” I insisted. “Please, let’s go get pie or something and you can explain about whatever this is.”
His eyes went so cold, I was startled. “I’m not a child. I’m more than man enough.”
“Man enough for what?” I barked at him.
“For you,” he said flatly, his eyes searching mine before he charged down the hall. I heard the front door slam and his Mustang roar to life a moment later.
I stood there, unsure of what had just transpired and having no idea what to do. What the hell was “for you” supposed to mean? Did he want me to see him as combat ready? Did he want to go into the field with me? Was he waiting for an invitation to accompany me on ops where I sometimes partnered with the military that were insanely dangerous and where he could be killed? Because if so, that was never going to happen. I’d lost his parents, who’d been close, dear friends of mine, and if he thought I would let them down by not keeping their son safe—forever—he was insane. And since Owen could never be accused of that—crazy was not something he was—and as he’d never even alluded to wanting to fight by my side… I really was lost in the tall weeds. But perhaps it was best to ask. At least then I would know.
Of course, when I called him, it went directly to voice mail. I left one, asking if that was what this was. If his man-enough comment had something to do with combat. Perhaps he thought I considered him weak or something else equally ridiculous.
I checked to see where his phone was, and there was nothing. He’d turned off the location feature. When I checked my backup, the GPS I had on his phone and car, both were dead as well. It wasn’t surprising; if Owen wanted to still be on the grid but look like he was off, he could. He was very gifted, and he’d had many legitimate—as well as criminal—offers for his services over the years. I was always impressed with his skills, but now they were being used against me, and I was not a fan. It made no sense that he would want to worry me. His rage made no sense. This was Owen, my friend Owen. My murdered friends’ kid.