Page 5 of Wreaking Havoc
“Skating on the lake…”
Nope.
“Ice fishing.”
Fuckno.
Seth seemed to see something in Sascha’s expression as he handed over the croissant, because he suddenly grinned. “Or, you know, indoor stuff. Weekly karaoke. Drag night at the Lighthouse. But not the literal lighthouse,” he told Sascha, like that was a common mistake people made. “The bar.”
Sascha perked up a little at that. He’d known the town hosted a gay bar, but he’d avoided it like the plague, assuming it would be too tragic to bear.
But a drag night was promising.
He noticed for the first time, as his coffee was placed in front of him, that Seth’s nails were painted lime green. Seth saw him looking and wiggled his fingers. “You like?”
God, Sascha did. He’d never been allowed to paint his nails. His father would have chopped his fingers off, probably.
But Papa wasn’t here, was he? Neither was Ivan, the controlling fuck. “You get that color at the drugstore?” he asked.
Maybe he’d need to make another stop.
“Yep! But I’ve got the bottle in my bag. One sec.” Seth disappeared into what Sascha presumed to be a back room of some sort and reappeared, setting two bottles of nail polish—one lime green and one electric blue—onto the counter next to Sascha’s pastry and coffee.
Sascha eyed the bottles skeptically. “You’re awfully friendly, aren’t you?”
Seth shrugged. “It’s a small town, especially in the winter. Everyone’s friendly.”
That was true enough. But so far everyone had been treating Sascha with the vague, distant friendliness given to tourists. This was the first time he’d been treated like he actually lived here.
It made him vaguely uneasy. Like any second friendly Seth was going to pull a handgun out from behind the counter.
God, he was damaged.
His phone buzzed again. Almost like itknew.
Fuck it. Sascha grabbed the nail polish bottles, pocketing them both in his oversize coat. “Thanks. I’ll bring them back tomorrow.”
Seth smiled brightly. “No rush.”
Sascha paid for his goods. As he was walking out the door, Seth called out, “The restaurant down the street—Darcy’s—they make a killer cappuccino. And they’re open all winter.”
Sascha nodded his thanks and walked out the door to the sound of his phone buzzing again.
He yanked it out of his pocket. “What?”
A familiar cold voice was on the other end. “I’ve been trying to reach you all morning.”
“My apologies, brother dearest. I just have somanysocial engagements here, in the middle of bumfuck nowhere. It’s hard to keep track.”
“You chose your own hiding spot,” Ivan reminded him.
He had, it was true. Ivan had given Sascha a choice: a bodyguard contingent or temporary exile. And when Sascha had picked exile—fuck no was he going to agree to being trailed twenty-four seven by any of Ivan’s goons—Ivan had told him to pick somewhere no one would expect. Sascha had pointed a finger on a random town on the map. Seacliff Harbor, Maine. Population: 11,000.
But it was Ivan’s stupid fault he’d needed to point to any town at all.
Sascha made a quick about-turn and headed down the path that left the small downtown to run along the cliffs.
He needed some dramatic ocean views in order to deal with his brother this morning.
