"Have a good night, Mr McCall?" the front desk attendant questioned as she accepted the credit card.
Ronin pulled his attention from the business people and faced the woman. "Yes. Slept like a baby."
"Good!" She handed back the credit card and an invoice along with a complimentary pen. "Have a good one."
"Thanks," Ronin said, tipping his hat at her with a smirk. The woman giggled and he noticed the blush that
rose in her cheeks. He never got used to women doing that around him. Most of the time he'd put them out of their horny daze by explaining he was gay. They would then chuckle, give him that look that said if you weren't I'd rock your world and mutter, "Such a shame."
He turned on his heel and hurried out the door. His rental car glistened in the newly risen sun. He smiled—now he didn't have to wash the thing for another few days.
Ronin chucked his bag into the back seat before falling into the driver's seat. He drove to a nearby corner store and picked up a few things for the road; potato chips, a large bottle of orange juice, chocolate-covered almonds, and a large bottle of water. He hated going on drives without junk food to snack on. Sure, none of it was good for him but who cared?
The drive into Eros wasn't what he expected. It was scenic. Of all the places to move to after his stint in the Navy, Eros seemed the most logical. He needed the peace and quiet of a small town and the ease of ranch life. A week prior all his stuff had been moved into his new place and he hoped they hadn't broken anything. He rubbed his eyes and was glancing at the rearview mirror when his gaze caught the bag on the back seat. It had once belonged to his father.
At times like this he missed his brother Mack most of all.
With a low groan, he switched lanes, checked his mirrors,
and exited the highway. He checked traffic again, then grabbed a handful of the chocolate-covered almonds and popped some into his mouth. He drove the long road leading into Eros until the trees broke, exposing the beautiful blue of the ocean. The sight of the water and the scent of salt on the air left him at ease, perfectly relaxed as he made his way east, past the center of town.
A moniker caught his attention—Anatolis . It looked to be one of those posh restaurants. He arched a brow, pulled over, and stopped with the engine still running. The golden letters on a concrete column at the front said 3425
Baiser Street. Normally he wouldn't be caught dead in such a quaint place. It reminded him of every little café in every horrid movie he'd ever seen—perfect building, perfect views, and deadly secrets.
"Anatolis." He sounded like the guy with the deep voice from every movie commercial he'd ever seen.
"Dun, dun, dunnnn!" Ronin chuckled.
The building itself was a brownstone with beautiful flower trays in the windows. The door looked like that of a home—red with a golden knob. He shut off the engine and was exiting the car when he sniffed his shirt. He made a face and climbed back into the car. There was no way he was going into public with his shirt smelling like he'd been wearing it for days. With that thought, he hurried to his
new home and took a quick shower. He didn't take time to look at anything. The truth was Ronin was the king of procrastination and starting to unpack would ruin his reputation and harsh his buzz. Also ignoring the flashing red light on the voicemail, he glanced at his face in the mirror and shrugged. He rubbed a hand over his beard before squirting on some cologne.
When he exited the house again and jogged to the car, he was dressed in a pair of black jeans with a black dress shirt along with his black Stetson. It wasn't long before he climbed from the front seat of his car and jaywalked across the semi busy street to the restaurant. He turned the knob and stepped inside.
The interior was warm and homey. A fireplace crackled quietly in one corner. Classical music—good classical music—played from unseen speakers all around him but the place didn't seem to be open yet. The memory of his grandmother's living room floated through his mind and gave him the same calmness he'd felt each time he spent time with his nana before her death. He smiled and blinked so his eyes would adjust to the low light. When he opened them again, he stared at the picture above the fireplace. It was a beautiful abstract, something Ronin loved just staring at. Sitting at a table was a group of men, one of whom he recognized as the basketball player Jamal
Kendricks. The other men were a large African-American with cornrows, an Indian male, a Caucasian man with long, dark hair, and a rough-looking cowboy. They looked up.
"I'm sorry. I thought you were open for dinner,"
Ronin said.
"We won't be for a few more minutes," the man with the long, brown hair said as he rose. "You're welcome to stick around if you'd like."
"I don't want to intrude."
"Nonsense." The man batted a wrist at him. "Pull up a chair. Have a glass of wine."
Ronin stepped forward and extended his hand. "I'm Ronin McCall. Just moved into town."
"I'm Savaro Kendricks-Anatolis, and these men are my brother Rajan, my husband Jamal Kendricks, Xavier Crawford, and this…" He stopped and turned to the cowboy with the stubbly facial hair and dark, finger-raked hair. "This is Race McKade."
Ronin shook each man's hand before pulling up a chair and sitting down. It felt rather strange but they seemed to be friendly people. When he was offered a
