Page 23 of Slow Heat
“You look like you’re going to pass out or run away.”
Jason put up his chin. “I’m progressive. I believe in in omega rights.”
Vale sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose again. “You’re so damn young. What am I going to do with you?”
“And you’re so damn condescending, what am I going to do withyou?” Jason snapped, irritation at being so easily dismissed charging out of his mouth.
Vale stared at him a moment and then threw back his head in laughter.
Jason half wanted to do just as Vale had suggested and run away. “What?”
“If we can both get past how incredibly strange this is, I think we could learn to like each other, Jason Sabel.”
Jason crossed his arms over his chest and stood his ground. The scent of mint wafted to him from beneath his feet. “What’s your favorite dessert?”
“Cherry tart. Yours?”
“Rhubarb pie.”
“Oh, my. That’s sour. You must have a very sweet heart. That’s what my pater always said: a taste for sour foods reveals the sweetest heart.”
“Is your pater…?”
“They’re both long gone. It’s just me in the world.”
“Not anymore.” Jason approached the window again to reach one hand inside, palm up. “I’m here now.”
Vale slowly crossed from his desk, his eyes on Jason like he couldn’t quite trust him, and then he gently pressed Jason’s hand back out the window.
“Yes. You’re very much here and you shouldn’t be.” He smiled kindly. “You should go home now. Or else I’ll have to call your parents, and neither of us really want that.”
Then he lowered the sash and shut the curtains, leaving Jason alone in the garden.
CHAPTER SIX
“Where have youbeen?”
Father jerked Jason in through the front hallway and toward the back of the house where Pater liked to relax and listen to music on their newfangled record player.
Dressed in crisp dark pants and a white shirt, Father looked like he was ready for business. In the conservatory, though, Pater was reclining on the navy leather sofa, wearing his softest pants, an old t-shirt from a trip to the zoo when Jason was nine, and slippers. He was smoking, too. That was never a good sign.
Smoking meant Pater was upset.
Smoking meant Father was going to get worried.
“Hey,” Jason said weakly, as Father dragged him deeper into the room.
Neat and tidy, with every book and sheet of music filed alphabetically by author or composer, the conservatory was masculine but soft. Comfortable blankets draped over the backs of padded leather chairs and the sofa, and the windows and glass door opened out to a well-tended garden, bursting with robust autumn flowers and warm with fading leaves. Three guitars, a piano, a violin, and a tall, thin drum that produced a soothing tone when patted were all on prominent display.
The solid wood side tables and large card table, mainly used for sorting through Pater’s music, leant a thick stability to the room, and the radio and record player had places of honor on a sideboard next to the piano Pater sometimes played.
A flat circle of thick vinyl spun on the record player, and the music drifting from the horn was lyric-less and moody, some dark piece with violin and piano combined. It didn’t bode well, so Jason was unsurprised Pater looked even more fragile than usual when he leaned up on one elbow and focused his worried hazel eyes toward them.
“Where have you been?” Pater whispered, a tired echo of Father’s earlier demand. He sat up slowly, in obvious physical pain, his cigarette dangling from two fingers.
Jason winced. “Are you okay, Pater?”
Pater ignored him. “Did you go harass that man?”
