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One who didn’t have a rich and famous dad who did everything in his power not to be a part of Javi’s life.
One whose every second of his existence didn’t lead him to forming the Shadow Soldiers in order to look out for people like him when he was a kid, and his mom, when she was trying to raise her son on the streets while coping with an untreated illness.
One who hadn’t lost two of those soldiers last December when they’d jumped into a situation Javi had advised them against jumping into and got themselves shot to death because of it.
Instead of all this, lying in bed beside me was a Javier Montoya who’d experienced none of that.
He’d gone to school, like most kids do.
He’d had a home, like most kids do.
He had two healthy and functioning parents, like all kids should have.
He didn’t have to worry where his next meal would come from, like all kids shouldn’t.
Though he still had this kick-butt, new townhome he was in the midst of doing up with things he liked, like displaying his growing collection of expensive kicks on the wall.
Also, he still had a job he enjoyed and friends who loved and respected him.
But he had all of these things with a mom who made awesome Thanksgiving dinners he looked forward to every year, and a dad who clapped him on the shoulder with pride every time he saw him.
Falling into this fantasy at seeing Javi sleeping so peacefully, it didn’t occur to me that we’d apparently had one weird date after a lot of dancing around each other, this ending with Javi lashing out at me, something we hadn’t yet fully processed, and now we’d slept in the same bed together…twice. And neither time had I known it was happening.
No, that didn’t occur to me.
Happily ensconced in my fantasy for Javi, I didn’t think of that.
I also didn’t hesitate to do something I’d wanted to do practically upon meeting him: reach out a hand in order to trace the perfect arch of his thick, dark brow.
But I gasped when my hand was still several inches away and Javi’s eyes shot open just as his fingers caught my wrist in a punishing grip.
It was then I watched as the weight of the life he’d led settled immediately on his features, and into my consciousness. This came from the strength of his grasp of my wrist, not to mention the speed with which he caught it, and the clear demonstration of the latent instincts that came to the fore instantaneously when he sensed something was on approach when he was vulnerable.
Right then and there, in his bed, staring into eyes that had not even an iota of sleep lingering in them, my heart shriveled in my chest as the wholeness of his life, and the devastation of it, settled into me.
His grip loosened, his eyes grew lazy, and he pressed my hand to his bare chest as he muttered, “Sorry, baby.”
He had nothing to be sorry for.
But me?
I couldn’t fight it anymore.
It wasn’t that I no longer had the strength.
It was that I no longer wanted to.
It was as if Javi read my mind, because as I scooched across the minimal distance his way, he tugged my arm around to his back, pulling me even closer.
Our bodies touched.
He bent his neck, I tipped my head back, he hesitated a fraction of a second, and in that fraction of a second, I pushed up, and our lips touched.
His were strong, insistent.
Mine were ready, willing.
They opened.