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Well, always until this past winter. Back in January, one had trapped him at gunpoint in the stairwell of the previous building he’d lived in.

After that, he’d moved and started carrying his own handgun.

He’d also called the Suicide Prevention Hotline.

That had been ten months ago, and he still couldn’t stand the feel of his jeans against his skin. He’d have thrown all four pairs out if he could have afforded to. Instead, he’d burned the ones he’d had on that night and taken to wearing long johns underneath his pants, even in the summer.

So no, he didn’t like men at all.

Maybe that was another reason he responded to women like he did. He knew how they felt, being a target because they had something someone more powerful wanted to take from them.

Not that he was about to bond with someone over his experience or anything. He had no intention of sharing what had happened to him in that stairwell with anybody. He couldn’t imagine telling the tale.

But God, what if a woman asked whether he’d ever been with somebody? He wouldn’t know how to answer that.

A heavy knock hit his door.

John sat up in a rush, reaching under his pillow for his gun. He released the safety with a flick of his finger.

The knocking came again.

Leveling the weapon at the door, he waited for a shoulder to hit the wood and splinter it.

“John?” It was a male voice, low-pitched and powerful. “John, I know you’re in there. My name is Tohr. You met me two nights ago.”

John frowned and then winced as his temples stung. Abruptly, like someone had uncorked a floodgate, he remembered going somewhere underground. And meeting a tall man in leather. With Mary and Bella.

As the memories hit, something stirred even deeper in him. On the level of his dreams. Something old…

“I’ve come to talk to you. Will you let me in?”

With the gun in his hand, John went to the door and opened it, keeping the chain in place. He craned his head up, way up, to meet the man’s navy blue eyes. A word came to mind, one he didn’t understand.

Brother.

“You want to put the safety back on that gun, son?”

John shook his head, caught between the strange memory echo in his head and what was in front of him: a man of death in leather.

“Okay. Just watch where you point it. You don’t look real comfortable handling that thing, and I don’t want the inconvenience of having a hole in me.” The man looked at the chain. “You going to let me in?”

From two doors down, a volley of yelling rose to a crescendo and ended with the sound of breaking glass.

“Come on, son. Little privacy’s a good thing.”

John reached deep into his chest and felt around his instincts for any sense of true danger. He found none, in spite of the fact that the man was big and hard and undoubtedly armed. Someone like him just had to be packing.

John slipped the chain free and stepped back, lowering the gun.

The man shut the door behind him. “You remember meeting me, right?”

John nodded, wondering why his memories had returned in such a rush. And why a splitting headache had come with them.

“And you remember what we talked about. About the training we offer?”

John flipped the weapon’s safety into place. He recalled everything, and the curiosity that had struck him then came back. As well as a fierce yearning.

“So how’d you like to join up and work with us? And before you say you’re not big enough, I know a lot of guys who are your size. In fact, we have a class of males coming in who are just like you.”

Keeping his eyes on the stranger, John put the gun in his back pocket and went over to his bed. He grabbed a pad of paper and a Bic pen, and wrote: I don’t have $.

When he flashed the pad, the man read the words. “You don’t need to worry about that.”

John scribbled, Yeah, I do, and turned the paper around.

“I run the place and I need some help with administrative stuff. You could work the cost off. You know anything about computers?”

John shook his head, feeling like an idiot. All he knew how to do was pick up plates and glasses and wash them. And this guy didn’t need a busboy.