Savior Complex: An MM Age Gap Romance (Wild Heart Ranch Book 3)
Savior Complex: Chapter 4

Emotionally wrung out, I peruse the refrigerator. For a single guy, Erik’s got a pretty good food selection. Ant is hovering nervously in the background.

“You don’t really have to make us breakfast, you know.”

“I have to do something with my hands, or I’ll go crazy.”

Grabbing the carton of eggs, I hand them over to Ant before rooting through the various drawers.

“He’s got loads of veggies, so I’m going to make huevos rancheros,” I say, inhaling the cool air, letting it settle the disturbed parts of me.

If I think too much about what Ant went through, I’ll…fuck, I’ll never stop crying. That’s not what he needs right now. Hell, it’s not what I need right now either.

Grabbing the corn tortillas, I stack the onion, tomato, cilantro, garlic, and jalapeño on the counter. Ant points out the cutting board, grabs a chef’s knife from a block, and hands it to me.

Just as I’m washing the vegetables, the front door opens and Ant’s friend, Nacho, walks in.

“Hey, Nacho—why aren’t you at work?” Ant asks, going over to him for a hug.

“Justin said I should hang out with you. Make sure you’re okay today.” He darts a quick look between Ant and me. “Heard you got on a call earlier.”

Ant nods. “I got to talk with mis abuelos, mi tía y mi tío, and mi primo. It was…God, I felt every emotion in the world.”

“But you’re okay?” he asks, worry creasing his brow.

“Yeah.”

“Awesome,” he says, hanging out the door and waving at someone.

Moments later, Nacho’s guy—Bram, I think—Charlie, and the tall, gangly man who appears to be Charlie’s guy file in, each of them pulling Antonio into a big hug. I wonder if everyone here is some flavor of queer.

Huh. A queer ranch. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of such a thing.

Everyone exchanges pleasantries with me. Bram and Justin make sure I know their names, telling me how excited they are that we’ve begun the reunification process.

“Can I guess that my history has been shared with everyone?” I ask the group.

They all nod.

“You’re one of us,” Charlie says, smacking my shoulder.

Guilt settles in my belly. I’ll never be as genuinely heroic as he’s been.

“I try.”

He snorts. “You set fire to a huge trafficker compound in Columbia, but not before saving every single person in there first.”

I hold up my hands. “I did not save the traffickers. In fact, I may have tied down a few of them.”

Ant stares them down as he points at me. “See! It runs in the family.”

I lift my chin at Charlie, questioning.

He rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “We’ve had to establish some boundaries and guidelines with young Ant here about what he is and is not allowed to do. For instance, he has never officially been allowed on an operation.”

“Officially?” I ask, narrowing my eyes at my nephew.

“I saved the day,” he says, setting a large skillet on the stove. “And I was promised breakfast.”

Yeah, we’ll be getting into that later.

“Breakfast?” the tall, gangly man next to Charlie asks. “You’re making breakfast?”

Justin, that’s right.

“I’ve got enough for the salsa, but I’m going to need a few more eggs.”

Justin holds up his finger and races out the door, returning a few minutes later with another dozen eggs. In the meantime, I’ve tossed large chunks of tomato, onion, and garlic in the skillet, and their skins are blackening nicely. I transfer everything into a blender, then add cilantro, lime, and salt. Erik grabs a large cast-iron griddle from the heating drawer below the oven and sets it across two burners. Once that’s heated, I start the eggs while Antonio whips out the skillet and adds oil to fry the corn tortillas into tostadas.

“Do you remember this?” I ask.

“Christmas morning. You would char the veggies for the salsa, then give Mama the skillet to fry the corn tortillas, Yaya would make the eggs, and you would finish making the salsa.”

“Always.”

“The enchiladas were different though. Mama didn’t like oiling the corn tortillas. Said she always burned her fingers.” He pauses, unsure. “Did I remember that right?”

I nod. “I would oil the tortillas, your Tía Yaya would shred the cheese and chicken, and your mom would roll them.”

“Then Abuelita would make the green salsa.”

Suddenly, the fond memories darken his face.

“We don’t have to talk about this right now,” I whisper in Spanish.

He shakes his head. “I shouldn’t have believed my grandfather. He told me nobody wanted a little ‘maricón’ for a grandson. That the reason we were in San Miguel was because my family was embarrassed by me and didn’t know how to tell me. I was stupid to believe him.”

I squeeze his shoulder. “Kids believe what their adults tell them. You’re supposed to be able to believe the people who love you. He was lying. We were never ashamed of you. You always brought such a smile to your mom’s face.”

“What about mis abuelitos?”

“Did you not see their happy tears?”

“But I am gay. I’ve been through too much to pretend I’m somebody I’m not.”

I flip a few eggs, considering my words.

“When we realized you were missing and didn’t know how to find you, when we prayed you would come back into our lives, I took my mother and father aside. I’d never come out to them, so I told them who I was. I warned them that if we bring you back and they couldn’t accept you as you are, we would lose you all over again.”

“What did they say?”

“That they already thought you were gay and always suspected I was too,” I say, flipping the last of the eggs, grinning at the memory. “They are very connected to their indigenous roots and never cared for the colonizers’ viewpoint on sexuality.”

“They’re Catholic though, right? We would go to church sometimes?”

I hold out my hand and tilt it side to side. “They’re Catholic in the way that turquoise can be both blue and green. They go to church for the big occasions, use it as a place to socialize, but have many indigenous traditions the Catholic priests would frown upon.”

As I say this, Levy bumps past us, looking at all the food. “Damn, this looks amazing. Not as big a spread as we have on Fridays, but pretty damn good.”

Ant laughs, elbowing him. “Can we invite Javier to Shabbat dinner?”

I turn to Levy. “Are you Jewish?”

He blushes, showing me his Star of David pendant. “We’re secular, so it’s not officially a Shabbat dinner, but it has always been our favorite family tradition.”

I laugh. “Perfect. I am quite faithless, but the custom is lovely, yes?”

Levy nods. “It’s really important to Bram and me, especially since our parents are no longer with us.”

He rubs his neck as he says this, doing little stretches to loosen it.

“Of course, we would be honored if you would join us on Friday. Actually…” Levy pauses as his brother walks into the kitchen.

“Bram and I were talking, and it’ll be a lot more comfortable for you in the bunkhouse. There’s sort of two wings, one where me and Ant stay, and the other where visitors stay.”

Ant raises his brow. “I don’t want him to stay on the visitor’s side. We have Bram’s old bedroom on our side that he can use.”

Levy and Bram look at each other and shrug. Levy answers, “Of course. Also, just letting you know, I’m taking off a few days to fix up my little trailer next door, so I might stay a few nights there as well.”

Erik walks into the kitchen. “Did you say Javier could stay in the bunkhouse?”

“Yep.” Levy takes one of Ant’s tostadas, cracks it in half, and dips it into my salsa. Crunching on it, he looks supremely satisfied with his thievery.

“Do you see that, Tío?” Ant asks in Spanish. “Levy totally stole breakfast.”

“Rude,” I respond.

“I’m not being rude. I’m appreciating,” Levy says in English. Turning to Erik, he pops his brows. “We all know your grumpy ass doesn’t like company, so we’ve already invited him to join us.”

“Thanks,” Erik says stiffly, glancing at Ant before leaving the kitchen.

Now that everything has been cooked, we pull Levy into our assembly line, with Ant placing the fried tostadas on a plate, Levy adding two eggs to the tostada, and me pouring the warm red salsa on top of everything, following that up with a couple of avocado slices.

Levy’s care for Ant makes him special, but the ink on his arms is intriguing, as was his moment of vulnerability before getting on the call with my family. Now, his eyes dart to me every few seconds, and I don’t hate it.

Once we’ve served everyone, we all go to the living room, sitting around the generous coffee table, some on the couch, some on the floor.

Seeing Ant surrounded by so many people who would protect and love him fills me with a relieved sort of shame. Not only was I barely involved in Ant’s life until it was too late, but the people I spent my time with while avoiding my family were the ones responsible for his fate. I didn’t realize it until it was too late, but that doesn’t make me any less culpable.

Now, I can hardly believe that the consequences of my actions weren’t deadly, and while it’s a miracle that the long nightmare has finally ended, the real work of forgiveness and putting my family back together has only just begun.

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