Chapter Five

Frank retraced his steps from Rand’s apartment to Paddy’s Place. He looked through the front window of the joint and everything appeared quiet and dark.

He couldn’t wait to open that box and look inside. Did Rand have any idea what he carried for this man named Paddy, any idea at all about the contents in the box? Something in his wide-eyed look of denial told him Rand had spoken the truth, had no idea what was in that fucking package tucked under his arm. Frank didn’t think he’d find the street drugs he first suspected were hidden inside but what, then? More to the point, why would Murphy give the box to Rand, swear him to secrecy? What did the man have to hide and from whom?

With dread churning his gut and the box tucked under his arm, Frank left the front of the bar and headed for the Denali. He started the engine and pulled from the curb, needed to get out of this part of town.

His breath still heaved and shivers from his core spread outward to every limb when the images of Rand resurfaced . The young kid he remembered had turned into a gorgeous man, head to toe. His features were flawless, his thick hair, even disheveled, shone like fine gems in the dimly lit room. Frank couldn’t find the words to describe his well-muscled, toned body, and thanked whomever watched over mankind, he had the good sense to leave before he did something he would regret.

The rundown streets of Baltimore─blocks of dilapidated storefronts, roaming druggies and hookers selling their wares on every corner─sped by in a blur of motion. He took the exit on the freeway that led to a quiet, suburban neighborhood and parked the car alongside the curb. Pushing the button for the interior lights, he plucked the box from the passenger seat and attempted to lift the lid. Rand hadn’t lied about that either; it was locked up tighter than Dick’s hatband. He opened the glovebox, found a screwdriver and pried the top open.

And then his heart came to an abrupt halt for an infinitesimal moment. The innards stared up at him. He didn’t know what to expect, but certainly not what he found. “Damn, what a fucking mess,” he said after looking up into the rearview mirror. Everything had changed in the breath of a heartbeat. About now, he almost wished he’d found a stash of heroin or cocaine. With a curse on his lips, he made a U-turn, reentered the freeway and drove toward Emily’s house.

An eternity passed before she answered the door, but then, what did he expect at this time of night? The clock had struck midnight over an hour ago. Frank took in her appearance, the dark circles under her eyes, the glossy stare, remnants of many sleepless nights. The thin satin robe clinging to her slender body would have turned on any red-blooded man, every man, except him. Her lips were full and soft, her porcelain skin flushed from sleep. He had to admit, Emily was a beauty, even if her earthy sex appeal did nothing for his libido.

Instinctively, she took a step back, her expression oozing alarm. “Oh, no, you wouldn’t be here this time of night unless Rand is─"

"No, no, Em, Rand is alive and well." Very alive and well. "I just came from his place."

He almost smelled her relief. Her shoulders sagged and she closed her eyes for a brief moment. When she opened them, she searched his face, waiting for an explanation.

“Perhaps, I should come in and sit down so we can talk.”

“Of course. Forgive me, I’m not at my best right now.”

She pulled the door open, stretched out an arm and nodded toward a room abutting the foyer, the den is what they called it in the past. Spacious, yet exuding a cozy ambiance, a brown leather loveseat and matching recliner graced the fireplace. An end table, a floor lamp, and an enormous surround-sound television above that same fireplace added to the welcoming setting. She pointed to the loveseat, flipped on a lamp and then settled into the recliner opposite him.

He placed the box on the coffee table and turned to her. “I’m sorry I came so late at night but you made me promise if I found Rand or found anything out about him, you wanted me to notify you right away.”

“Don’t apologize, please. You said, “I just came from his place.”

“Yes, that’s true. I hit all the billiard halls in a two-block area, but the last one I entered, I happened to see him. . . or what I thought was him, walk down a hallway carrying a crate of clean glasses for the bar.”

“It was him, right? I mean, you spoke with him?”

Remembering his encounter with Rand, a flock of sparrows took a nosedive in his gut. “It was him, all right, but I didn’t even try to approach him at the bar. Something dark and sinister about that place. Gave off bad vibes.”

“I’m sure it won’t mean a thing to me but what’s the name of the billiard hall?”

“Paddy’s Place.”

“So how did you have a chance to speak with him?” She thrust an arm out. “Wait, I’m bombarding you with questions and haven’t even thanked you.”

Frank gave her a dismissive wave. “You don’t have to thank me, Em. I care about Quinn’s kids, your kids. Just because I went MIA for five years doesn’t mean I didn’t think of them often.”

“I know, Frank. Okay, so what happened next?”

“I waited in the alley, figured he’d come out the back door and he did. He had no clue I’d followed him home and slipped into his apartment.”

Emily’s eyes widened but a small smile brought out the tiny creases around her mouth. “Oh. My. God. He must have been scared shitless.”

“I suppose so, especially when he saw the black hood and the gun I waved in his face.” He put a hand up. “I left the bullets in the glovebox of the car so he was never in danger.”

“A black hood? Well, yes I suppose you wouldn’t want him to recognize you?”

“I don’t think he did, but, if I remember Rand, he was always one step ahead of you and Quinn, isn’t that right?”

“You pegged it. Quinn used to say Rand entered the world with a noetic mind. Noetic, a Greek word meaning “to think” or “the act of thinking. He blamed my side,” she added with a laugh.

Frank drew a deep breath and struggled to keep his latent battered senses at bay. What in hell was he thinking having the kid strip in front of him? He’d never get the image of that sleek, naked body out of his mind now. At the time, he thought to put Rand at a disadvantage─police procedure 101─intimidate your suspect, make him feel vulnerable. Besides, once he saw him hanging on to that box for dear life, he had to get him to surrender it.

Emily’s words broke into his thoughts. “Rand was devastated when his father died. Shortly after, you left his life too. He idolized you, Frank. I think losing both you and Quinn sent him over the brink. He lost interest in sports, school, everything after that."

Guilt cloaked him like a heavy, wool blanket. He didn’t want to hear the words but knew she spoke the truth. He remembered how destroyed he felt when he lost his own father. Eager to change the subject, Frank nodded toward the box on the table between them. "We need to talk about this box I pilfered from your son."

Dejection masked her face. "Must we? Now that I know Rand is safe, one good night’s sleep before we decide what to do next sounds heavenly."

"I wish I could give you heaven, Emily, but I have to show you something."

She searched his eyes. "What?"

He picked up the box and handed it to her. "Open the lid and I’ll tell you what this is all about."

* * *

Rand remained face down on the bed long after the man in the black hood left his apartment. When complete, total silence enveloped the room again, he eased his tense, aching body from the mattress, pulled his boxers up to his waist, and rubbed his ass through the thin fabric.

Angry welts met his hand, no surprise there, and for some reason, goosebumps ran the length of his arms and abdomen. The entire encounter was so surreal, he scratched his head and wondered if he possibly dreamed it. Ah, no stupid. Dreams don’t leave physical pain and raised ridges.

He brought his fingers to his temples and rubbed in an endeavor to stop the throbbing in his head. He recalled a session with a therapist after his dad died (one of many his mother had insisted he attend). He’d been plagued with similar types of headaches then. “Tension headaches occur when the neck and scalp muscles become tense or contract,” the counselor had said. “Or any activity that causes the head to be held in one position for a length of time without moving can bring them on.”

“Well, yeah there was that,” Rand said to no one in the bedroom when an image of the tall, strong and cocky stranger emerged.

“Also”, the doctor added, “ muscle contractions can be a response to stress.”

“Well, fuck,” Rand said. “No stress involved in what just transpired, right? Nope, the man had been real, right down to the martial arts’ weapon and the Glock he shoved in his face.”

Memories returned from his childhood. His dad had an identical Glock. He used to sneak into his parents’ bedroom while they were occupied downstairs, and grab the gun from the top drawer of the dresser. Once or twice he even waved it around the room or pointed it at the mirror, pretending he was his father, a policeman. Thinking back, the prank could have killed him. About now, he wished it had. He’d made such a mess of his life, abandoned his mother and sister when they needed him, dropped out of college like a low-life without goals or dreams, and lived in an studio apartment not fit for rodents.

He paced the crowded bedroom, wore out the tattered rug at the end of his bed. Something about the man who scared the shit out of him sent a niggling thought of familiarity tumbling about his brain. What is it, Rand? Think, man, think. The voice? The confidence he exuded? Christ, from the moment he’d uttered the words, “Get up,” all the air had been sucked from the room.

Crazy that in the back of his mind he didn’t think the man would kill him. Yeah, he terrified him with his cock-sure attitude, not to mention the Glock, and yet, at times, the man breached the boundaries of intruder versus victim. Rand plunked down on the bed, and when the pain reminded him of his sore ass, rolled onto his side.

He wondered about the hood. The asshole didn’t want him to recognize the man behind it. There must be a clue there. Druggies usually didn’t take the time to don a hood. Robbers did, but the man wasn’t there to rob him. Not once had he rifled through dresser doors or asked about money. He wanted the box, had followed him home to get it.

The questions of why and who drove him crazy. Not long before Zorro left, he said, “Go home, kid.” How did he know he had a home? He told him he had family, but didn’t mention a home. Did the man behind the hood know him? Guilt washed over Rand. If he did, then he also knew he had a sister and a mother that loved him, no doubt cried every day that he wouldn’t answer their calls or didn’t let them know he was alive.

What an example he’d set for Marlow. His heart sank to some unknown place below his knees. His sister must be worried sick about him. They’d always been close and when his father died, he stood beside his coffin and promised to take care of Marlow.

Standing over his casket . . . at the cemetery. Standing over his casket . . . “That’s it!” he screamed at the ceiling. A montage of images ran through his mind like a movie trailer. At the burial site, Rand had lifted his head and looked into a pair of intense blue eyes staring back at him. Frank McGuire’s eyes. His dad’s partner’s eyes. Damn. Rand had worshipped the man back then, the epitome of courage and badass ruthlessness. And then, that idolization turned to bitter hatred when McGuire walked out of their lives.

To this day, his mother kept a framed picture of his father and Frank McGuire on her dresser, her prized possession. His dad’s arm was draped over Frank’s shoulder and both men were smiling as if they hadn’t a care in the world. “You’re too young to understand why we haven’t seen him in a long time, son,” his mother had said with a tussle of his hair. “They were best friends and your father died in his arms. I think when Frank sees us, his heart hurts.”

Rand had come close to screaming the words, “I don’t care if I never see the man again!”

But he’d seen him tonight. The same dark blue eyes looked down on him while he lay on the mattress handcuffed to the bed. He’d bet his life on it. God, how would he ever forget the delirious sensations McGuire provoked when he ran his hands down his hips, wrapped a knowledgeable hand around his dick? At that moment, he would have done anything the man asked of him, had he actually hoped the man would take it to the next level, fuck him?

Thoughts ran rampant in Rand’s brain. Frank must be gay like him. Is that why he never married? Is that why every time he came to the house for a visit, wild thoughts and unchecked sensations took over his own body? Oh. God, is that why he walked out of their lives?

Rand checked his watch . . . two o’clock in the morning. He rescued his phone from his jeans’ pocket and glared at the bright screen. He had to call Paddy, ask him what in the hell was in that box, the box that Frank McGuire now had in his possession. Paddy would flip out over that little piece of news.

It didn’t contain drugs of any kind. Paddy wasn’t into mind-altering substances or the trouble they brought. But he’d never seen his boss so nervous and secretive when he asked him to take it home. Rand had asked Paddy what was inside. “None of your business,” he’d said with a sneer. “And if I find out you tried to jimmy that lock, I’ll have your balls in a brown bag quicker than you can blink. Got that, kid?”

Rand had nodded.

“Take it home, hide it somewhere and I’ll let you know if and when I want it back. Remember, you fuck with that lock, you’re dead.”

He couldn’t call Paddy at this time of night. He’d have to wait until seven a.m. Rand pushed his body up on the bed until he met the pillows and then he set the alarm on his cell.

He didn’t sleep, but rather tossed and turned and thought about the masked man’s rough hands stroking his coc