Throwing Heat: A Diamonds and Dugouts Novel (24 page)

The busted sign declaring that he’d arrived at his designated street came into view as a damp, frigid wind blew a gust hard enough to have him sucking in a breath. Damn, that was cold. He’d forgotten how different Philly winters were from Denver. The cold here was wet and heavy and had a way of seeping right into the bones, chilling a person to the core.

Turning off the main road into a small, sad-looking ethnic neighborhood, Peter scanned the barely-habitable shacks, noticing a curtain flutter in one of them as he went by. It wasn’t every day that these people had a random guy walking in their hood. And if they did it was normally a cause for concern. If it was him, he’d be peeking out his window wanting to know who the hell was out there too. It was a matter of safety.

He didn’t have to be there. Didn’t have to go back to his roots. But after avoiding it for almost a week by busying himself with all the legal hoopla and logistics of burying his old man, he’d finally accepted that he couldn’t stay away. Who he was now stemmed from growing up in this place.

The shacks he walked past were really worn-down, buckling old bungalows. Nothing more than rectangles with front steps, the tiny houses butted right up to the street. There was no grass, no green. Lawns were for rich people.

His old place came into view down the road as the memory of Leslie asking him about food came to mind. That woman saw everything—things about himself that he didn’t even recognize. It was more than a little scary. And now she said she was in love with him.

It ruined everything.

Peter didn’t want to be loved, or so he told himself as he strolled down his old street. The heavy sky kicked into gear and snow started to fall steadily now, covering the ground in minutes. He just kept on walking, taking reassuring sips of steaming coffee.

What the hell was he supposed to do with love?

Sex, he understood. Passion, desire, lust—those emotions he got. But love? About that, he didn’t know a fucking thing. All he knew was that it always screwed everything up. His mother leaving his pop for another man under the premise of “love” was his only point of reference, and it was a pretty shitty one.

Nobody loved him.

And that was okay. It was a flawed concept anyway. So why did Leslie have to go and mess it all up by claiming to be in love with him? They were good the way they were. Two independent people with a ton of sexual chemistry. That he understood. It made sense. Besides, even if she was in love with him now, it would only be a matter of time before she realized he wasn’t worth it.

She was a princess. He was this.

Peter shook his head, lips pressed together tightly as snowflakes clung to his dark hair and he approached his childhood home. He could see it up ahead and his gut went greasy, unsettled. The squat shack was literally falling down. Its roof was bowed and one of the back corners drooped, leaning listlessly to the side like the foundation had washed out from under it. The gray paint was mostly peeled and some of the windows were boarded up with a combination of cardboard and duct tape.

Pretty much looked the same as it always had.

Still two houses away, Peter whipped his head around when a front door nearby creaked open. Bracing himself, his body instantly relaxed when he saw who stepped out.

“Hey, Mrs. Petrov,” he greeted in Ukrainian, his breath releasing white puffs into the air. He couldn’t believe the old lady was still alive. She’d been ancient when he was eighteen. It was her grandson Ivan who’d called him Halloween night. Peter had assumed she’d died ages ago. Tough old Slavic bird.

“Is that you, Peter Kowalskin?” Her voice was paper thin and raspy with age. He could still remember the way it used to get all shrill when she yelled at him and some of the other neighbor kids, including Ivan, for stealing fireworks and setting them off in the middle of the street.

Peter smiled at the memory and strolled over to give her a kiss on each of her frail cheeks. Her faded blue eyes crinkled and she swatted a hand at him, chiding, “You stay away too long, boy. But look at you all grown and strong and handsome. Doing well for yourself. You came back for him,” she ended, not asking but rather making a statement.

He nodded. “I did.”

“Sad sight he was, at the end.” She made a
tsking
sound and pulled her head scarf tighter around her chin, shaking her head.

“So I heard.” He hadn’t, really.

“Shame what happens to a soul when it gets lost like that.” She made a sign of the cross with three fingers over her thin chest. “May he rest in peace.”

“You have a good heart, Mrs. P.” In a lot of ways she’d been his surrogate mother, taking care of him and her grandson when her daughter had taken off in the middle of the night with a local kingpin on a drug run. Far as he knew she’d never returned.

“
Pssh
, boy.” She batted at him again, but her cheeks were pink. “You’re one to talk, the way you spoil Ivan and me every Christmas with your basket of goodies.”

He’d thought he’d been sending it only to Ivan as thanks for keeping a watchful eye out, and now he felt bad. This year’s basket was going to be even bigger now that he knew she was still around. His conscience was making him feel guilty for not keeping in better touch with Ivan. Mostly their interactions had consisted of him giving the guy his number to call in case of emergency and the gift basket every year at Christmas.

The old Slav must have read his mind because she patted his arm reassuringly. “You did what was right for you, boy. You got out of here. He was proud of you for that, you know.”

Peter made a face, unbelieving. “Could have fooled me.”

She cuffed his ear unexpectedly, reminding him just how much respect a tiny Slavic woman could command. “Hush. He loved you, Peter. It was himself he couldn’t stand.”

“I hear you, Mrs. P.” So she wouldn’t get worked up, he dropped another kiss on her cheek, diffusing her. It might have been a long time ago, but he still knew how to soften her up.

Just then a car turned onto the street and both Peter and Mrs. Petrov craned their necks to see who was coming. Most of the cars in this neighborhood didn’t run. And they certainly weren’t fancy.

This one was both.

Suddenly apprehensive, Peter wrapped an arm around the old lady and smiled charmingly. “Why don’t you get yourself inside where it’s warm. It’s freezing out. All this snow will make you catch cold.”

She patted his hand with one of hers and let him help her up her front two steps. “Come by and have something to eat before you leave.” It wasn’t really an invitation. He knew it too. It was a command, and he wouldn’t miss it. The woman made a mean potato stew.

Peter kept up the smile until she was safely inside where it was at least dry and warmer. Then he rolled his shoulders like a boxer and turned his attention to the sleek black sedan that was crawling down the street toward him. Coming from the opposite direction, the car stopped directly in front of his old house, confusing him.

As he watched, a man climbed out from the driver’s side, bundled up in a wool coat, hat, and gloves. Peter’s apprehension kicked up another notch. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but there was something familiar about the guy.

Peter took another sip of the rapidly cooling coffee and strolled over, taking his time scrutinizing the stranger. About his age, the guy had a lean and rugged build and a face to match. Though his clothes were tailored and obviously high quality, there was a toughness about the guy, an earthiness that no amount of designer clothing could completely hide.

“Nice day,” Peter broke the silent stare-down, keeping it casual as he strode over and stopped directly in front of his pop’s home.

The stranger rounded the hood of his car and gave a guarded smile. “Reminds me of home. Sean Muldoon,” he finished with an outstretched hand.

Peter’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. Was that an Irish brogue he heard? This neighborhood was Ukrainian. Who was this guy? “I’m Peter.” He held out his hand and was impressed when it was met with a solid handshake. “Where’s home, Sean?”

“Little town outside Dublin, Ireland.” Pale green eyes assessed him openly. “You’re not from here, either.” It was another statement. He was getting a lot of those today.

“I used to be.”

Sean visibly relaxed and tipped his head toward Peter’s childhood home, thick black eyebrows arched in question. “Then you know the man who used to live there?”

Oh hell. His pop hadn’t left a debt with the Irish mob, had he? “I do,” he replied neutrally, eyes quickly scanning the Irishman’s body for concealed weapons, a little trick he’d picked up during his youth, and found none. He relaxed some then too.

“Place is a shithole.” The guy’s gaze was locked on the crumbling structure that held all of Peter’s childhood memories.

He crossed his arms. “Yes, it is that.” Not that he hadn’t tried to change that. But his father had refused every attempt he’d ever made to help.

They both stood staring at the tiny bungalow, arms crossed, feet braced apart. It occurred to Peter that he still couldn’t place why the guy seemed so familiar. He should probably just ask. Yeah, he should do that.

“My father used to live there,” Sean said.

Peter’s gaze whipped to his right, locked on the Irishman. “Excuse me?”

Sean motioned to the house in front of them that looked sad and pathetic in the falling snow, all boarded up and crumbling down. “My father, Viktor Kowalskin, lived there. He just passed away. Did you know him?”

Shock slapped him upside the face and Peter swore, rejecting it. “What the fuck? He isn’t your father.” He couldn’t be.

Sean’s blue eyes went hard. “The hell he isn’t.”

Peter was reeling. “But he can’t be your father.”

“Why is that?” demanded the black-haired Irishman.

“Because he’s
my
father.”

Both men stared hard at each other in awkward silence as the truth of their relationship hit them. Then Sean swore something decidedly Gaelic and threw back his head, laughing. Peter scowled. Frigging Irish, always thinking every damn thing was a joke. How could he laugh at a time like this?

Could his life get any more fucked up?

“Well that was unexpected. Should we properly toast the old man’s passing with a stiff drink and get to know each other,
brother
?”

Yeah. Apparently it could.

Chapter Twenty-Three

“H
EY Y’ALL, THANKS
for coming tonight,” Leslie said as she opened the door to her guests. There were only two of them, Sonny and Lorelei, but it was all the girls she needed to help celebrate the return to her abode.

Lorelei was the first inside and was unzipping her coat when she asked, “Are you loving being back home?”

“
So
much.” Although she had gotten used to all the space in Peter’s house scarily fast. Made her apartment feel teeny.

Even so, it felt great to finally be home, even though she was still worried crazy over Peter and bummed over losing the bet. For the past week Leslie had been back in her apartment, thoroughly enjoying having her old bed back.

Missy hadn’t been as enthused. The kitten had kept yowling until, fed up, Leslie had driven to Peter’s place in the middle of the night and snatched one of his dirty T-shirts. As soon as the baby had gotten a good whiff of his scent she’d stopped crying and fallen asleep on it in a little ball of fluff.

If Leslie had held it briefly to her nose, inhaling his scent too, well, there was no proof.

God she missed him. So much so that she’d put the damn shirt on and slept in it, Missy curled up into her side, purring contentedly. It had been a darn good night’s sleep.

Sonny hung her coat and scarf in the entryway closet and looked around. “Your place is great, Leslie. I really love the bold colors. Mind if I snoop around?” Her gaze was already down the hallway.

Coming from the woman who had such a funky, easy style, Leslie took that compliment seriously. “Thanks, darlin’.” She gestured behind her to the open living room. “Snoop.”

The natural beauty grinned. “Awesome. I’ll be back in a few.”

“I’ve never been to a stitch’n’bitch before.” Lorelei held up a bag full of yarn and two large knitting needles. “In fact, I’ve never really even knitted.”

“I’m still pretty new at it myself, so it should be fun. Mostly it’s an excuse to sit around and bitch to your girlfriends about life.” There were one or two things she could get off her chest.

“You mean like about how I now vomit more times a day than a regular person eats meals?”

Leslie patted her shoulder. “Exactly, love.”

“Fabulous!” Lorelei’s smile was bright and full of humor.

Just then Sonny strode back into the room looking gorgeous and bohemian in black leggings and an oversized off-the-shoulder knitted sweater the color of plums in spring. “You have great decorating taste, Leslie.”

“Thanks.” She motioned to the empty chair next to her. “Have a seat.”

“I just need to grab my bag quickly.” She was back in no time with a picnic basket full of yarn and needles. “I’m so glad we’re doing this. Life has been so crazy that I’ve stalled out on this sweater I was making. This gives me the motivation to start again.”

Lorelei inquired, “Where’s the boy tonight?”

“On a date with JP. They went out to see the new big sci-fi flick at the theater.” Sonny tucked her feet under her and settled a ball of yarn on her lap.

Leslie did the same, tucking her bare feet under her and snuggling down inside her own baggy sweater. She was wearing her oldest, most favorite worn-in pair of jeans. The knees were about to blow, but that was okay. She was a loyal girl. She’d wear them until the ass ripped out.

She gestured to the tea tray in front of her. “In honor of the pregnant lady we’re doing decaf tea. There’s a variety of flavors to choose from, so help yourself.”

Lorelei was already pouring a cup. “So, have you heard anything from Peter?”

She shook her head and pulled out her knitting basket from its cubby tucked under the end table. “I haven’t, actually. And it’s been a week since he left.” One very long, very worrisome week.