ON FIRE FOR HIM

The Ask

“Come in.” Macs heard the familiar voice of his father from the other side of the oak door.

He stepped inside.

The man’s silhouette was against the window, staring into blank space.

“You sent for me?” Macs asked.

“Michelangelo.” His father didn't turn.

“Your time to fulfill your purpose in this club has come. You’re to be married and bear a child who will become your heir.”

“I have told you several times that I have no interest in continuing this legacy,” Macs replied sternly, his voice flat and cold. “You can pass it on to another family.”

“You have an obligation to your people!” His father finally turned, his face with obvious anger in his expression.

“You cannot keep avoiding it. You’re grown, Michaelangelo. It’s time to make the right choices to secure your future.”

“Who is she?” Macs said, wanting to know what kind of alliance his father had made.

“The Santos' second daughter, she is beautiful and smart, you should go visit her sometime to prove your interest” his father said, shakily because he knew what it meant.

“Jesus…what do you mean? The Santos family? After everything they did to us?” he said with a horrified look on his face.

“This could be an advantage to us and our business, we’re running on fumes, owing the cartels millions” his father replied raising his voice.

“I will never do that. That’s putting us more at risk and eventually it’s going to blow up in our faces.

“You have to” his father replied in a low, calculated tone.

“I’d rather walk away from all this than get married to a spoiled entitled brat. I don’t care what my choices do to this empire, I didn’t ask to be here anyway” Macs replied and he saw guilt in his father’s eyes.

“You cannot walk away” his father said.

“Watch me” Macs replied, turning to walk away.

“Michaelangelo” his father called out and he stopped without turning back.

“I didn’t ask for it either” his father said and Macs took a deep breath and after a moment he walked away.

Meanwhile, across town…

Reese sat on the edge of his bed, his phone pressed hard against his ear.

“We just think it’s best if you stay there for Thanksgiving, Reese,” his mother said without a trace of warmth he remembered from his childhood.

“Your father... he isn't ready to see you. Not after the things you told us.”

“The 'things' being the truth, Mom?” Reese’s voice trembled, but he kept his face set in a hard mask, not wanting to let the emotions break free.

“I’m still your son, I’m still the same person, being gay doesn’t change that”

“A 'Prince' doesn't live the way you do, Reese, It’s better this way.”

And the line went dead.

Reese stared at the blank screen, the rejection was worse than anything he’d imagined.

“Hey,” Grace said softly, leaning against the doorframe of his room. She’d clearly heard the whole thing, she walked over and pulled him into a side-hug, letting him rest his head on her shoulder.

“Forget them. They don't deserve the best parts of you.”

“I just wanted to be myself with them, Grace,” Reese whispered. “I was tired of living a lie.”

“Then let’s go to work,” she said, tugging his arm. “The Tavern is messy, but at least we know who we are there.”

The Tavern was quiet when they arrived, the mid-afternoon sun cast long, orange shadows across the bar. Reese was trying to distract himself by organizing the top-shelf liquor when the bell above the door chimed.

He didn't have to look up to know who it was. The air in the room simply changed with the smell of a familiar cologne that had been registered in his mind since the last time.

Macs walked in, looking like he’d just come from a war zone. He wasn't wearing his club vest, just a plain black t-shirt that stretched over his broad chest and a pair of dark jeans.

He sat at the bar, right in front of Reese.

“You look like hell,” Reese said, skipping the pleasantries.

“And you look like you’ve been crying,” Macs countered, his sea-green eyes narrowing as they searched Reese’s face.

Reese stiffened, wiping the counter a little harder. “Bad phone call. You?”

“Bad life,” Macs muttered. He spotted the book Reese had left on the corner of the bar a collection of essays on cinematography and French film. He reached out and flipped it over.

“Portrait of a Lady on Fire? You have a thing for tragic endings?” Macs said curiously.

Reese paused, surprised. “You know it?”

“I know the ending,” Macs said, his voice dropping an octave.

“The way they look at each other across the fire. Knowing they can’t have it, but looking anyway because the memory has to last a lifetime.” He said like he totally grasped the emotional layering behind it.

Reese felt a chill run down his arms. “I didn't think the heir of a gang would be into 18th-century French lesbians.”

“I like being the odd one in the room. And I like things that are... honest.” Macs said, leaning closer until Reese could smell the faint scent of cinnamon on his breath.

“I have the movie,” Macs said suddenly. “At my place,”

Reese hesitated, he knew the reputation of the Fuertes family. He knew Macs was a man of violence, but he also saw the intrigue in Macs's eyes, this man was curious about him.

“Is this a date, Macs? Or are you just looking for a distraction?”

There was a moment of silence between the two of them, Macs just stared at him, trying to decide.

He reached out, his thumb grazing the back of Reese’s hand on the counter, and the touch was electric.

“It’s a date, Reese. 9:00 PM, I’ll text you the address.”

“I'll be there,” Reese whispered.

Macs stood up, gave Reese one last look, and walked out.