Page 67 of Mr. Perfect
Jude had seemed so sincere. Was it all a lie?
Felix’s confusion cemented him in place. He could run, but he’d never get answers to the questions zooming through his brain. They were coming fast and hard, one right after the other with no reprieve. Every time Felix started to analyze a piece of the puzzle, another would take its place. A solid picture couldn’t form because Felix had only seen fragments of the danger facing him, including the man staring into his eyes so intently.
Hadn’t he known there was more to Jude’s story? Hadn’t he known Jude was protecting somebody?
Run.
“Don’t run,” Jude said, reading Felix’s mind. “I know you have questions. I’ll answer every one of them, but not until after you eat.”
Felix pulled free from his grip and crossed his arms over his bare chest. He felt naked and exposed, and so fucking cold without Jude’s hands on him. “I j-just found out that Jack Mercy t-tried to kill me, and you expect me to c-calmly sit down and eat like nothing h-happened.”
Jude reached for him, but Felix took two steps backward. “You also heard me threaten Jack Mercy if he came near you again.”
“And you think it makes everything okay?” he asked, backing up two more steps.
Unfortunately, Felix’s shoulder caught the edge of the archway between the kitchen and the great room. Searing pain fried his synapses, and Felix would’ve slid to the floor if Jude hadn’t lunged forward to catch him. Once again, Felix found himself in Jude’s embrace. This time, Felix was the one crying.
“You’re safe with me,” Jude told him. “Safer than you are on your own, especially when you get so busy that you don’t take time to eat.”
“Give it a rest, Jude. I’ll eat your damn food after I get answers.” Felix’s stomach growled its protest, making a mockery of him. Maybe he didn’t need all the answers before he ate.
Jude nodded. “Ask me anything.”
“I need to know why,” Felix whispered, sounding like a lost, little boy. He resented Jude for reducing him to a quivering mass of pitifulness more than any betrayal—past or present. He pulled free from Jude’s embrace. The motion was clunky on wobbly legs. Felix saw the protest in Jude’s compressed lips, but he remained silent. “Why would Mercy think killing me would send you a message?”
“Because losing you would hurt me the most,” Jude said without hesitation.
“Don’t take me for a fool. There’s more to the story.”
“Mercy ruined my career in Atlanta, but that didn’t stop me from pursuing the truth. The son of a bitch upped the ante. Fuck,” Jude roared. “I told you to stay away. Why couldn’t you have listened?”
Felix opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out. He was trying to process too much information without sufficient fuel. “So, you didn’t move to Savannah because of me?”
He just found out Jude was connected to the mafia, and this was the part his brain chose to latch on to?
“Okay, maybe I could use a few bites of food.”
Felix didn’t care about having diminished physical functions, but he couldn’t tolerate an impaired brain. It was his most potent weapon. His head got him into trouble, but it also found solutions to sticky situations.
“You’ll eat an entire sandwich and at least one bowl of soup,” Jude said.
Felix narrowed his eyes. “You’re in no damn position to negotiate.” Stepping around Jude, Felix intended to walk to the stove to claim a sandwich for himself but stopped when Jude gripped his forearm. He glanced over his shoulder and caught Jude’s worried expression.
“I want to make sure you’re not bleeding again.”
“Maybe I should borrow a shirt so I don’t ruin any of your furniture.”
Jude made an indecipherable noise as he turned to face Felix. “I don’t care about my stuff. I’m more concerned about you getting an infection. Do you promise not to snatch my car keys and leave when I go upstairs?”
“You could take them with you, or you could trust me. After all, you’re asking me to believe you’re not involved in a plot to kill me. Trust your instincts.”
“Fair enough. I’ll be right back,” Jude said.
Felix glanced at the car keys and briefly debated running. Then he saw the grilled cheese sandwiches resting in the cast iron skillet. Just as he suspected. No basic-bitch white bread and Kraft singles. Jude had chosen sourdough bread, ham, and gruyere or another super melty cheese.
“Fuel before fleeing.”
Felix picked up the spatula and put a sandwich on each of the plates Jude had set on the counter. Then he ladled soup into the matching bowls. The smell wafting from the porcelain dishes made his mouth water.