Shattered by CJ Bishop

glass. “It was the first free standing amphitheater and seated fifty thousand people.” he chuckled and shook his head. “that's a lot of people gathered together just to watch a couple guys slice each other up with swords.” he shrugged, “But I suppose it isn't much different than today, what with boxing, MMA, and such. Human beings seem fascinated by their own brutality.”
    Abel just looked at him, listening, taking an odd comfort in the casual way Kaplan rattled off facts, and his own thoughts on the matters.
    “To the defense of the gladiators, though,” Kaplan cocked his head as well as an eyebrow, “most of them weren't fighting of their own free will. The majority of them were slaves, condemned prisoners, or prisoners of war. They were forced to fight in the arena.” he chuckled, “Not nearly as gallant as fiction tries to make them out to be.” When Abel didn't reply, Kaplan smiled and sighed, “I'm boring you, aren't I?”
    “What?” Abel shook his head. “No. It's interesting. I always thought gladiators fought in those places because they wanted to, for...macho purposes.” he smiled and shrugged, “Or something.”
    “Sounds like a man thing.” Kaplan grinned then leaned back and tucked his arms behind his head and gave Abel a mock serious look, “Thank goodness, today money and power are the preferred weapons of male warfare, otherwise...I'm afraid I'd just be a stuck pig in an arena.” His eyes glimmered with humor as he gazed at Abel.
    A quick recollection of Kaplan's nude body, quite cut and fit, Abel suspected the man could have h eld his own in physical battle.
    ***
    “More coffee, sir?”
    Devlin glanced up at the waitress and smiled. “No, thank you.” She returned his smile and moved on to another table. Devlin glanced out the window; he was early. Perhaps to get his nerves calmed before Max Raines showed up. When Cole had come to the hospital and tracked him down, his first thought had been that Cole was back to finish the job he'd started at Abel's apartment. The rage was still there, simmering just behind the man's pale gray eyes. But Cole had merely delivered the message that Max wanted to talk to him. Upon questioning the man's identity, he'd learned that Max was the owner of the Phoenix club and, in a sense, Abel's benefactor.
    No wonder the boy had felt so at home at the club. In some ways, it literally was his home.
    Sitting here now, Devlin's guts twisted and knotted. His few visits to the club, he had never met Max. He didn't know what to expect. But if he was anything like Cole and Gabe, or even that guy, Dane – it wouldn't be wise to piss him off.
    He twisted his half empty cup of cooling coffee then rubbed his eyes. How had everything come to this? Life had been great – somewhat mundane, but great. His future bright. Coasting along on his brother's faith in him, Craig's final act in this life being that Devlin's dreams were financially secured.
    He was a fucking child molester!
    “No.” Devlin's face pinched and he dropped his face in his hand, nails gouging his scalp. It couldn't be true. It couldn't. Nausea squeezed his stomach. How did one put to rest an accusation such as that? Even if it had to be wrong?
    Images from his dream and...his memories...crept up. He shook his head, face pinching harder. God, I can't handle this...I can't...
    “Devlin?”
    Devlin's head jerked up, the man's face swimming before him. He blinked quickly, clearing his throat, swiping at his eyes. His vision cleared, a frown sliding across his brow. “Brandon?” He straightened, brow creasing. “Brandon Murray?”
    “The one and only.” The man smirked.
    “Oh my god.” Devlin stood and hugged the man. “I haven't seen you since...” he drew back and Brandon grinned.
    “Since we were fifteen and getting drunk in my parent's basement the night before my family moved away.”
    “Right.” Devlin nodded then chuckled. “Damn...seems like ages ago.”
    “Kind of was.”