Manipulate Page 6

  Camila’s voice floated from Tate’s bedroom down the hall. She and Tate, always hard at work, were ironing out a strategy to decimate the latest human sex trafficking ring in Austin.

  Everyone in this house had a role in their small vigilante group. They had all put in a full day on the current mission and decided to stay in tonight.

  Except Ricky. The man had an insatiable sex drive and particular tastes. He was always prowling. Always searching for something.

  A key turned the deadbolt, and the front door opened.

  Ricky stepped in, and those brown eyes unerringly found and held his.

  Martin knew his best friend well enough to discern the meaning behind every expression and subtle movement. The soft look hooding Ricky’s eyes confessed he’d just gotten laid. The twitches in his biceps indicated challenge, bracing for whatever Martin might say about it.

  Ricky’s chest lifted, stretching the tight t-shirt he’d deliberately worn to accentuate his muscled physique. His pretty-boy hairstyle had been disheveled by a night of restless yanking. Not by someone else’s hands, but his own. For whatever reason, he’d been nervous.

  He was still nervous, yet the cause was different now. He seemed to have trouble holding Martin’s gaze.

  He was hiding something.

  “Hey.” He gave Martin a chin lift, smiled at Kate and Tomas, and shook his head at a snoring Luke. “I knew that guy would be passed out before I got home.”

  “Where were you?” Martin asked casually.

  “Out.” With a shrug, he headed down the hall.

  Frustration curled Martin’s fingers against the armrests of the recliner.

  Who had he fucked tonight? Where did he meet her? Or him?

  Better not have been a him.

  His heart rammed against the rungs of his ribs, a caged beast trying to escape.

  “Three…” Tomas said from the couch. “Two…”

  Martin glared at him.

  “One.” Tomas arched a brow.

  He launched from the chair and strode toward the hall, surrendering to his predictable nature with a middle finger in the air. “Happy, asshole?”

  “Love you, man!” Tomas called after him, laughing.

  He passed the bedroom Camila shared with Kate and paused at the second door, which led to Tate’s room. Camila was in there, her voice carrying through the walls as she argued with Tate about which strategy was less dangerous.

  She took on more risk than any of them were comfortable with. Hell, they all did. But her mysterious connections made everyone uneasy.

  Every time they killed a slave-trading shitbag, some unknown person helped her dispose of the body. Cartel was the most popular assumption, but she refused to confirm it. Tate couldn’t even pry the secret out of her.

  She demanded they trust her. Which they did. Emphatically.

  Martin continued down the hall, stalking through the massive, five-bedroom, ranch-style estate. Tate, Luke, and Tomas had their own rooms. Martin and Ricky shared the master suite.

  One of them could’ve moved into the finished attic, but after being held captive in Van’s windowless hell, no one volunteered.

  They sat on millions of dollars—the money Van had collected selling slaves. At any time, one of the Freedom Fighters could buy his or her own house.

  No one was in a rush to do that. They were secure here. Happy and comfortable. Not because it was the nicest place any of them had ever lived. It was definitely that.

  They loved this house because it kept them together. Close. Like a family.

  Family was a concept most of them had never experienced. At least, not in a positive way.

  Someday, they might find partners, get married, and move out. Until then, all they needed was one another.

  At the end of the corridor, he stepped into the master suite and found Ricky exiting the walk-in closet. Ricky’s shirtless chest glowed with a deep natural tan, enunciating the definition in his pecs and abs.

  Martin averted his gaze. “What was the skank’s name tonight?”

  “Is that what you think of me? That only a skank would hook up with me?”

  “No.” A vein of possessiveness ran through him, hardening his jaw.

  “You know what I find interesting?” Ricky toed off his shoes and kicked them in the direction of the closet. “You support me in every aspect of my life. You’re always there for me, always listening and offering advice on anything… Except when it comes to this. I can’t mention dates, relationships, nothing related to sex without you looking at me like I’m disgusting and undeserving of someone’s company.”

  “That’s not it at all.” Guilt hardened his stomach. “No one is good enough for you.”

  Ricky’s Adam’s apple bobbed, and he clutched his nape, glowering at the floor between them. “Right.” He let out a hollow laugh and pivoted toward the en suite. “Now you’re just being a dick.”

  “It’s the truth.” He followed Ricky into the bathroom, simmering with irritation. “As if you don’t know the effect you have on people. Women flock to you, with your ridiculously ripped physique and suave smile.”

  The broad muscles of Ricky’s back went rigid as he turned on the water in the shower.

  “You’re fun to be around. Smart and easygoing.” And painfully good-looking. Martin gripped the edge of the vanity, taking in the sharp angles of Ricky’s jawline. “You put so much damn heart into everything you do it makes the rest of us look bad. I don’t say it enough, and God knows I’m an asshole on my best day, but I respect the hell out of you. You deserve more than a one-night stand.”

  Ricky grunted and slowly turned to face him. “You should’ve led with that.”

  “Probably.” He rested his hands on his hips, his head down, but his eyes remained locked on Ricky’s.

  “I don’t keep anything from you.” Ricky unzipped his jeans and shoved them off. “Ask me again.” He reached into the shower stall and adjusted the water temperature. “Ask me where I went tonight.”

  Steam curled around them, saturating the air and making it difficult to breathe.

  The question sat on Martin’s tongue, trapped behind teeth and dread.

  “Ask me who I was with.” Ricky pushed off his briefs and leaned toward him, all nude flesh and chiseled muscle.

  No tan lines. Not on Ricardo Saldivar. The gorgeous bastard had been born with skin the color of sand on a beach after it rained.

  And some stranger’s hands had explored every inch of that flawless landscape tonight.

  “Who was she?” He tried to cover the rasp in his voice with a jovial remark. “I bet she was hot.”

  “He. Not she.”

  Shards of ice hit his gut, and his nostrils widened with a harsh inhale. He felt like he was going to puke. Or break something.

  “Why do you look so fucking repulsed whenever I tell you I was with a man?” Ricky narrowed his eyes. “You think I should only date women?”

  “Yes.”

  “Jesus fucking Christ.” Ricky glared at him, utterly unabashed about having this conversation in the nude. “Are you really that homophobic?”

  He gestured at the shower. “You’re wasting hot water.”

  “Don’t give a fuck. Talk to me.”

  “What do you want me to say?” His pulse hammered in his throat.

  “I have sex with men. Tell me why that bothers you.”

  He leaned his hip against the vanity for support and constructed a truthful response, without revealing the whole truth. “If you fall in love with a woman, you’ll still need someone to shoot hoops, talk about sports cars, and drink beer with. There’s a place for your best friend in that equation.”

  “Sexist much? Women can do all those things.”

  “Not your type. You like your women feminine and your men masculine.”

  “True.”

  He could give Ricky everything he ever needed—friendship, protection, loyalty, and love.

  Everything except sex.

&
nbsp; “If you get hung up on a dude…” He crossed his arms over his chest and kept his tone even. “Not sure where I fit into that. The guy in your bed would be the guy you’re hanging out with. He would become your best friend, and I can’t stomach the thought of being replaced.”

  “Do you know how selfish that sounds? What about my happiness?”

  “Fuck your happiness.” He exhaled a grunt. “Because you know what? Yeah, I am selfish. I don’t want to lose you, and what kind of friend would I be if I didn’t fight to keep you in my life?”

  “Okay, well… First off, I’m not falling in love with anyone.” Ricky cocked his head. “And do you really believe I would let a lover—man or woman—wreck our friendship? Your reasoning is ludicrous.”

  Didn’t matter if it made sense or not. He felt threatened by every man Ricky hooked up with. Not just threatened. He felt murderous.

  “Your best friend is bisexual.” Ricky’s voice cut like a knife, sharp and penetrating. “Don’t ask me to be something I’m not.”

  “I would never… Fuck. You’re right.” He drew in a slow breath and dragged a hand down his face. “I’m such a prick.”

  “A possessive prick. Could be worse.”

  “Whatever. I was out of line, and I’m sorry.” He turned to leave. “I’ll get out of here so you can shower.”

  “Tell me about your first night with Van. How did you meet him?”

  “What?” His breath left him as he glanced back and met Ricky’s eyes.

  “How were you captured?”

  Shame dug in its claws. “It’s in the past. Talking about it changes nothing.”

  “Why is it such a huge secret?”

  “Why are you so hellbent on making it one?”

  “Forget it.” With a scowl, Ricky spun toward the shower.

  His back rippled with muscle and strength, tapering into a trim waist and tight ass encased in tanned skin and…

  All the air vacated the room.

  “What is that?” He lurched forward and gripped Ricky’s arm, his gaze sweeping over dozens of red welts. “Who the fuck hit you?”

  “I asked for it.” Ricky yanked his arm free and set his jaw.

  “Who?”

  “Calm down. You know I like it rough and—”

  “Give me a goddamn name!” he roared.

  “Van Quiso.”

  He stopped breathing. “What did you say?”

  “You heard me just fine.”

  “How did he—?” His heart rate careened into the red zone. “Did he force you? I’m going to kill him. I’m going to fucking—”

  “I went to him, Martin. Willingly. I drove to his cabin and told him to hurt me.”

  His arm moved on its own, catching Ricky around the throat and shoving him against the wall.

  “The man who held you captive? The motherfucker who tortured all of us? You gave him permission to hurt you?” He seethed, pushing Ricky harder against the tiles. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

  “I’m not afraid of Van.”

  “Did he fuck you?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Answer me!” He shoved Ricky higher up the wall by the throat, putting them face to face, chest to chest, hip to hip. “Did. He. Fuck you?”

  “No.” Ricky pulled at the fist around his neck. “He’s married, remember?”

  Relief spread through him, magnified by the proximity of Ricky’s six-foot-two brawny frame. The shared heat of skin and sinew evoked sensations—tightening, pulsing electricity—that should’ve felt awkward, not pleasant.

  They’d touched so many times his body craved every fist bump, one-armed hug, wrestling scrimmage, and brotherly pat. But never this. He should’ve cringed away from such close, intimate contact with his best friend.

  Yet he didn’t.

  Hypnotized by the energy in the air, he held Ricky to him. Foreheads drifted together. Breaths mingled. Tension stretched, waiting for that one twitch or sound that would break the trance and snap them apart.

  Ricky’s dark brown eyes searched his face as if trying to understand what was happening.

  Christ, he didn’t know. He didn’t know what he was doing or thinking. Instinct had put him in this position. The instinct to keep Ricky away from anyone who might take him. The impulse to possess, control, and protect so that no one could ever hurt him.

  “Martin.” The hungry glare in Ricky’s eyes stole his breath. “Either kiss me or let me go.”

  He yanked his hand from Ricky’s throat and staggered backward, reaching blindly for the exit behind him.

  “This conversation isn’t finished.” Ricky stepped into the shower, his gaze stony. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

  With a nod, he strode out of the bathroom and sat on the edge of his mattress.

  The spaciousness of the master suite comfortably accommodated two large beds and a sitting area. The need for privacy had never been an issue between Ricky and him. They didn’t bring strangers home. No regular lovers or friends with benefits.

  None of his roommates were in relationships. Most of them sought out one-night stands. One of them didn’t have sex at all.

  He shared the latter category with Kate, even though his roommates thought he was a manwhore. He let them believe the lie because the truth was too painful to explain.

  Ricky slept around the most and would jump at the chance to fuck him if he so much as crooked a finger. Ricky’s interest in him wasn’t a secret, but they didn’t let it complicate their friendship.

  Their bond transcended sexual urges and uncomfortable moments in the bathroom.

  Bracing his elbows on his knees, he waited as Ricky finished showering and dressing in the closet. A few minutes later, his best friend joined him on the bed, perching beside him in the same elbows-on-knees pose.

  “Tell me what happened tonight.” He studied Ricky out of the corner of his eye. “Start at the beginning.”

  As Ricky talked, it was hard to hear the details. The phone call to Van, the table in the woods, the leather belt, the stimulation of hands and fingers, and the ultimate orgasm… He despised every provocative word, every hitch in his friend’s breath, and every jealous reflex that clamped his own airway.

  Why was he jealous? Because Van Quiso could give Ricky what he couldn’t? His reaction was unreasonable.

  “So you’ll go to him again?” he asked quietly. “Make it a regular thing?”

  “No. I don’t regret it, but it’s not what I need.”

  He didn’t expect that and couldn’t stop the relief from sighing past his lips. “What do you need?”

  “Still trying to figure that out. What about you?”

  He grunted. “You know my situation. I can’t live like this forever.”

  Ricky was the only one who knew he hadn’t had sex since his captivity with Van. No matter how many times Ricky pressed for an explanation, Martin refused to burden his friend with the horrors of his past.

  “You’ve been celibate for five years.” Ricky gave him a sober smile. “What’s another five or ten years?”

  “Wow. No jokes about you curing my problem?”

  “The offer’s always there.” The words scraped from Ricky’s voice. “Wanna talk about it?”

  “Nah. Nothing’s changed.”

  Amnesia would cure him. Until then, the thought of sex would continue to turn his stomach with haunting memories.

  “What are we going to do?” he asked rhetorically, not expecting an answer.

  “We’re going to focus on ridding the world of predators.” Ricky rose to his feet, his eyes on the door and head tilted as if straining to hear Camila’s muffled voice. “Is she still arguing with Tate about his search for her sister?”

  “They moved on to arguing about the trafficking ring.” He stood and headed in that direction. “Let’s go see if they’ve made progress.”

  Ricky followed him out, down the hall, and into Tate’s bedroom.

  “Hola.” Camila paced around piles of di
rty laundry on the floor, her black hair swinging around her arms where they folded across her chest.

  “Hey.” Ricky sprawled beside Tate on the bed and propped his head on his hand. “What’s on the agenda for tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow,” Camila said, “we start trailing Larry McGregor.”

  “The mailman.” Stepping to the desk, Martin traced a finger along the link chart they’d built on a bulletin board that took up the entire wall.

  The chart showed people, locations, jobs, crimes, cars, and so on, each one connected by crisscrossing lengths of colored string. Different colors represented different links—family, friend, colleague—between the suspects.

  “We’re pretty sure the mailman moonlights as a slave trader for this piece of shit.” Camila tapped a picture of an average-looking, middle-aged white man. “And he’s not even a big player in the operation.”

  He trailed his gaze along the strings, following each connection until he landed on the man in charge of it all. “All roads lead to Hector La Rocha.”

  “The notorious leader of La Rocha Cartel,” Camila breathed behind him. “God, Martin. He’s responsible for thousands of missing women and children. All abducted and sold into slavery.”

  “If he’s our ultimate target—”

  “We can’t focus on him right now.” She waved a hand over the bulletin board. “We need to pick off the little guys, learn what we can from them—”

  “Or we can just cut off the head of the beast and bring down the whole thing.” Martin flexed his hands and shifted to face the group, expecting the same murderous spirit.

  Instead, Tate heaved a sigh and tossed his phone on the bed. “There’s seven of us. What are we going to do? Run into the cartel’s city with our little guns and kill his army of thousands?”

  “I’ll go in.” He rubbed his head, thinking through the risks. “Undercover, I can gather intel and scope out the operation.”

  “And she’ll be right there with you.” Tate jabbed a finger in Camila’s direction. “I can’t stop you from risking your life, but I won’t let her—”

  “You’re not my boss, chingado.” She thrust up her chin, her dark eyes glinting with attitude. “If I want to go—”

  “The answer is no.” Tate shot her an unwavering glare before setting his gaze on Martin. “We’ll work our way up to Hector La Rocha. Right now, we don’t even know how to locate him.”