Page 78 of Manhattan Tormentor

Two arms that belong to the love of my life come around me from behind, the last ounce of anger falls away as I smile. I should have known she’d track me down.

Sena and I have always gravitated to each other. She’s my sun and air.

“I thought you were about to punch the punk for a second,” she says, coming around to cuddle into my chest. She’s as tired as I am and powered by adrenaline. Nothing motivates a parent faster to know one of theirs is hurt.

“Believe me, I wanted to, but getting bailed out tonight of all nights is not on my list of things to do.”

She’s silent for a beat. “I think he’s in love.”

“The punk?”

“Him, I don’t know. Sage. I think he’s in love with that boy.”

“Did he say he is?”

“He muttered his name when he was falling asleep.”

I don’t reply. I know more than most that the heart wants what it wants. But I hope for Sage’s sake this feeling for Finn Maverick is something that disappears.

With my arm around Sena, we go do what we do best.

Being a family and taking care of each other.

C H A P T E R 23

Finn

The last person I expect on the other side of the door when I pull it open is a Fierro. I thought if anyone, it would be Lachlan or Theo, and for days I waited for them. I didn’t think it would be their mom.

“Yeah?” I ask.

“I’m Sage’s mom. You will invite me inside so I can speak with you.”

I blink at her directness and the way she holds my stare with her own colder one. Standing aside, I beckon her in, closing the door behind us. She comes to a stop in the middle of the room, glancing around at first, before she brings her eyes to mine.

It occurs to me she might have bad news. My stomach muscles clench around the burritos I swallowed an hour ago.

“Is he…?”

“He’s fine. Recovering. Thankfully, with no broken bones. That boy of mine scared fifty years off my life. Thank God he’s Teflon like his father.”

“Good,” I rasp, dragging two hands through my hair. Maybe now I can sleep. The only good thing to come from the past few days of no sleep is I’ve gotten a few assignments finished.

She’s like any middle-aged woman. Dressed stylishly hot, in a mom way. But all I see is Sage when I look at her. She glances around my apartment and spies the heap of photos I was going through on the low coffee table. She peers down, and the back of my neck heats. No one other than my professor looks at that shit.

“These are good,” she remarks, running her fingers over some of them. They’re body parts. Forearms. Hands. Half of a torso. The rest are candid shots I took last night when I couldn’t sleep. I grabbed my camera, caught the subway to the Bronx and paid a homeless guy fifty bucks to take his picture. Mrs. Fierro isn’t looking at the homeless guy, she picks up a photo. “This is Sage.”

My gut flames and I want to grab it back, hide it away, hide my photography from everyone.

“How do you know that? Could be anyone’s hand.”

I took it when he was sleeping on my bed. The urge had been powerful to capture the moment.

She angles her gaze. “I gave birth to him, I know every freckle on his body. He has one exactly like this on his thumb.

That freckle made me reach for my camera. His hands are all out sexy.

I lift my shoulders and turn away.

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