Jennifer Seasons - Throwing Heat

He nodded. “I did.”

“Sad sight he was, at the end.” She made a tsking sound and pulled her head scarf tighter around her chin, shaking her head.

“So I heard.” He hadn’t, really.

“Shame what happens to a soul when it gets lost like that.” She made a sign of the cross with three fingers over her thin chest. “May he rest in peace.”

“You have a good heart, Mrs. P.” In a lot of ways she’d been his surrogate mother, taking care of him and her grandson when her daughter had taken off in the middle of the night with a local kingpin on a drug run. Far as he knew she’d never returned.

“Pssh, boy.” She batted at him again, but her cheeks were pink. “You’re one to talk, the way you spoil Ivan and me every Christmas with your basket of goodies.”

He’d thought he’d been sending it only to Ivan as thanks for keeping a watchful eye out, and now he felt bad. This year’s basket was going to be even bigger now that he knew she was still around. His conscience was making him feel guilty for not keeping in better touch with Ivan. Mostly their interactions had consisted of him giving the guy his number to call in case of emergency and the gift basket every year at Christmas.

The old Slav must have read his mind because she patted his arm reassuringly. “You did what was right for you, boy. You got out of here. He was proud of you for that, you know.”

Peter made a face, unbelieving. “Could have fooled me.”

She cuffed his ear unexpectedly, reminding him just how much respect a tiny Slavic woman could command. “Hush. He loved you, Peter. It was himself he couldn’t stand.”

“I hear you, Mrs. P.” So she wouldn’t get worked up, he dropped another kiss on her cheek, diffusing her. It might have been a long time ago, but he still knew how to soften her up.

Just then a car turned onto the street and both Peter and Mrs. Petrov craned their necks to see who was coming. Most of the cars in this neighborhood didn’t run. And they certainly weren’t fancy.

This one was both.

Suddenly apprehensive, Peter wrapped an arm around the old lady and smiled charmingly. “Why don’t you get yourself inside where it’s warm. It’s freezing out. All this snow will make you catch cold.”

She patted his hand with one of hers and let him help her up her front two steps. “Come by and have something to eat before you leave.” It wasn’t really an invitation. He knew it too. It was a command, and he wouldn’t miss it. The woman made a mean potato stew.

Peter kept up the smile until she was safely inside where it was at least dry and warmer. Then he rolled his shoulders like a boxer and turned his attention to the sleek black sedan that was crawling down the street toward him. Coming from the opposite direction, the car stopped directly in front of his old house, confusing him.

As he watched, a man climbed out from the driver’s side, bundled up in a wool coat, hat, and gloves. Peter’s apprehension kicked up another notch. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but there was something familiar about the guy.

Peter took another sip of the rapidly cooling coffee and strolled over, taking his time scrutinizing the stranger. About his age, the guy had a lean and rugged build and a face to match. Though his clothes were tailored and obviously high quality, there was a toughness about the guy, an earthiness that no amount of designer clothing could completely hide.

“Nice day,” Peter broke the silent stare-down, keeping it casual as he strode over and stopped directly in front of his pop’s home.

The stranger rounded the hood of his car and gave a guarded smile. “Reminds me of home. Sean Muldoon,” he finished with an outstretched hand.

Peter’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. Was that an Irish brogue he heard? This neighborhood was Ukrainian. Who was this guy? “I’m Peter.” He held out his hand and was impressed when it was met with a solid handshake. “Where’s home, Sean?”

“Little town outside Dublin, Ireland.” Pale green eyes assessed him openly. “You’re not from here, either.” It was another statement. He was getting a lot of those today.

“I used to be.”

Sean visibly relaxed and tipped his head toward Peter’s childhood home, thick black eyebrows arched in question. “Then you know the man who used to live there?”

Oh hell. His pop hadn’t left a debt with the Irish mob, had he? “I do,” he replied neutrally, eyes quickly scanning the Irishman’s body for concealed weapons, a little trick he’d picked up during his youth, and found none. He relaxed some then too.

“Place is a shithole.” The guy’s gaze was locked on the crumbling structure that held all of Peter’s childhood memories.

He crossed his arms. “Yes, it is that.” Not that he hadn’t tried to change that. But his father had refused every attempt he’d ever made to help.

They both stood staring at the tiny bungalow, arms crossed, feet braced apart. It occurred to Peter that he still couldn’t place why the guy seemed so familiar. He should probably just ask. Yeah, he should do that.

“My father used to live there,” Sean said.

Peter’s gaze whipped to his right, locked on the Irishman. “Excuse me?”

Sean motioned to the house in front of them that looked sad and pathetic in the falling snow, all boarded up and crumbling down. “My father, Viktor Kowalskin, lived there. He just passed away. Did you know him?”

Shock slapped him upside the face and Peter swore, rejecting it. “What the fuck? He isn’t your father.” He couldn’t be.

Sean’s blue eyes went hard. “The hell he isn’t.”

Peter was reeling. “But he can’t be your father.”

“Why is that?” demanded the black-haired Irishman.

“Because he’s my father.”

Both men stared hard at each other in awkward silence as the truth of their relationship hit them. Then Sean swore something decidedly Gaelic and threw back his head, laughing. Peter scowled. Frigging Irish, always thinking every damn thing was a joke. How could he laugh at a time like this?

Could his life get any more fucked up?

“Well that was unexpected. Should we properly toast the old man’s passing with a stiff drink and get to know each other, brother?”

Yeah. Apparently it could.

“HEY Y’ALL, THANKS for coming tonight,” Leslie said as she opened the door to her guests. There were only two of them, Sonny and Lorelei, but it was all the girls she needed to help celebrate the return to her abode.

Lorelei was the first inside and was unzipping her coat when she asked, “Are you loving being back home?”

“So much.” Although she had gotten used to all the space in Peter’s house scarily fast. Made her apartment feel teeny.

Even so, it felt great to finally be home, even though she was still worried crazy over Peter and bummed over losing the bet. For the past week Leslie had been back in her apartment, thoroughly enjoying having her old bed back.

Missy hadn’t been as enthused. The kitten had kept yowling until, fed up, Leslie had driven to Peter’s place in the middle of the night and snatched one of his dirty T-shirts. As soon as the baby had gotten a good whiff of his scent she’d stopped crying and fallen asleep on it in a little ball of fluff.

If Leslie had held it briefly to her nose, inhaling his scent too, well, there was no proof.

God she missed him. So much so that she’d put the damn shirt on and slept in it, Missy curled up into her side, purring contentedly. It had been a darn good night’s sleep.

Sonny hung her coat and scarf in the entryway closet and looked around. “Your place is great, Leslie. I really love the bold colors. Mind if I snoop around?” Her gaze was already down the hallway.

Coming from the woman who had such a funky, easy style, Leslie took that compliment seriously. “Thanks, darlin’.” She gestured behind her to the open living room. “Snoop.”

The natural beauty grinned. “Awesome. I’ll be back in a few.”

“I’ve never been to a stitch’n’bitch before.” Lorelei held up a bag full of yarn and two large knitting needles. “In fact, I’ve never really even knitted.”

“I’m still pretty new at it myself, so it should be fun. Mostly it’s an excuse to sit around and bitch to your girlfriends about life.” There were one or two things she could get off her chest.

“You mean like about how I now vomit more times a day than a regular person eats meals?”

Leslie patted her shoulder. “Exactly, love.”

“Fabulous!” Lorelei’s smile was bright and full of humor.

Just then Sonny strode back into the room looking gorgeous and bohemian in black leggings and an oversized off-the-shoulder knitted sweater the color of plums in spring. “You have great decorating taste, Leslie.”

“Thanks.” She motioned to the empty chair next to her. “Have a seat.”

“I just need to grab my bag quickly.” She was back in no time with a picnic basket full of yarn and needles. “I’m so glad we’re doing this. Life has been so crazy that I’ve stalled out on this sweater I was making. This gives me the motivation to start again.”

Lorelei inquired, “Where’s the boy tonight?”

“On a date with JP. They went out to see the new big sci-fi flick at the theater.” Sonny tucked her feet under her and settled a ball of yarn on her lap.

Leslie did the same, tucking her bare feet under her and snuggling down inside her own baggy sweater. She was wearing her oldest, most favorite worn-in pair of jeans. The knees were about to blow, but that was okay. She was a loyal girl. She’d wear them until the ass ripped out.