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

It’s hard to believe, but I’ve cried harder in the last eight hours than when we lost him. The information I gathered led me to believe he’d either stayed in Mexico or had been taken south, but his nearly flawless English means he’s been in the United States, probably the entire time.

For a decade, I’ve had variations of the same nightmare. Running through a dark and forbidding landscape, always missing Antonio by mere minutes. I’d wake in a cold sweat to the horrifying sense that my nephew was forever being held just out of my reach.

Last night I discovered I was never even close.

In all those wasted years, it turns out that the only facts I learned with any accuracy were ones I wish I could forget. Ant was only eleven when he was taken from us. The simple math means I didn’t sleep a single second last night. Instead, I stayed up, imagining—knowing—the horrors he’s been through.

Even after years of hunting for him in the worst places I could imagine, some desperate part of me had held out hope that he’d been adopted by some wealthy benefactor, not fed into an insatiable machine that inhales bodies and exhales few survivors.

Seeing Antonio with Charlie and his team killed the fairy tale I’d been telling myself. Antonio may not know this, but Charlie Wills is a legend in the antitrafficking community. Hell, he’s damn near mythical, known for his big daring rescues from some of the worst places. I’ve kept an eye on his reunification lists, almost relieved to never see Antonio’s name.

It allowed me to continue hoping for the impossible. When Antonio confirmed my worst fears, I wished I had thought to reach out and ask Charlie for help.

The protectiveness of Charlie’s crew clued me in on how bad things have been for my nephew, but even more damning is the fact Antonio doesn’t recognize me. And I don’t know if it’s because of trauma or my neglectfulness as an uncle.

Just as I attempt to revisit every failed decision I ever made, my spiral is interrupted by a light knock.

“Come in,” I call out, my voice low and rough as I gingerly sit up on the fold-out couch in Erik’s office.

Like a dream, or maybe a nightmare, Antonio opens the door.

“Did I wake you?”

I shake my head. “No. Not at all.”

He pauses in the doorway, uncertainty in the hold of his body.

“Is there something wrong?”

He shakes his head. “Um, Erik texted me this morning. You passed their initial background check.”

“Were they able to verify we are related?”

He nods, staying in the doorway. “Did you really give Erik a cheek swab last night?”

I run my fingers through my hair and swing my legs over the side of the bed. “Yes, of course. Someone showed up and took it. Some guy with long, blond hair that looked related to Erik.”

“That’s Anders. He and Erik are cousins.”

“How did he get the results so quickly?”

Antonio’s knowing grin—so like his mother’s—takes my breath away. “I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”

“You’re funny, Antonio. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that Charlie Wills has connections,” I say, getting up with an ache in my lower back.

Antonio’s brows meet in the middle, something his mom used to do. “I—can you call me Ant? My friends back when…it’s what my friends used to call me.”

“¿Como una hormiga?” I ask, then switch to English since I haven’t heard him speak Spanish. “Ant like the bug?”

“Sí, como una hormiga. Porque soy tan pequeño,” he answers in beautifully accented Spanish.

Like an ant because I am so small.

I rub my chest, grateful his language wasn’t stolen from him.

Misunderstanding the gesture, he holds up his hands. “They meant it to be sweet. They weren’t making fun of me. Promise. We gave each other nicknames, like, to remember we were people too.”

Stay in the moment, Javier.

“It makes perfect sense. I’m glad you and your friends knew how to hang on to your humanity. You speak English so well, and it makes me very emotional to hear you can still speak Spanish.”

“I didn’t speak it a lot before, but then I started working with Nacho, and he kept speaking it. Like he knew it was still inside me. That was the guy who spoke Spanish to you last night when you were…”

“…hyperventilating,” I finish for him.

We stand in the softly lit room for an awkward moment, then I ask, “Were you not allowed to? Speak Spanish that is?”

One of the ways traffickers dehumanize their victims is to make them stop speaking their native tongue. Instead, they’re forced to adopt the tongue of whatever country they end up in.

He juts his jaw out, then brings his eyes to mine, showing me his palms. My first thought is how much they look like his mother’s, but my second is the realization that, right along where his lifelines would be, there’s a deep, narrow groove on each palm. Scars put there by a knife.

As someone who uses knives extensively, I know how painful that must have been. No wonder he learned English so well.

“I see. Would you like me to speak Spanish with you whenever it’s just you and me talking?”

He nods. “With Nacho too.”

“Of course. Thank you for letting me know.”

Taking a breath, he gestures his thumb over his shoulder and continues in Spanish, “Uh, work gave me the day off, so I came by to see if you’d like to get breakfast or something.”

“I would love to,” I say, even though I’m nowhere near hungry. “I don’t want our first breakfast to be around a ton of strangers if that’s okay with you. Do you think Erik has eggs?”

“Yeah, he likes a big breakfast. He might even have some chorizo.”

I follow Ant into the hall, skeptical. “Is the chorizo in Texas any good?”

“Tastes good to me.” Pointing down at my borrowed pajama pants, he asks, “Are those Erik’s?”

I chuckle. “Yes. I may be tall by Mexican standards, but he’s white-guy tall.”

I wave my foot in the air to show that the hem goes an inch past. Ant cracks up and smacks my arm. I wonder if he knows how much he and his mother have in common.

“He’s an odd one, Erik. Quiet but doesn’t hold back from speaking his mind.”

Ant, still chuckling at my expense, nods. “That is the perfect description for him.”

“When he handed me these last night, he said, ‘You better be who the fuck you say you are, or you are going to have a very bad day tomorrow.’”

“That is a terrible imitation. You have to think Rip Wheeler meets Erik Northman.”

“Mm, Alexander Skarsgård. Now he’s hot.” I immediately realize my mistake and grimace. “Sorry. I haven’t had my coffee yet. You probably don’t want to know who your ancient gay tío thinks is hot.”

“You’re gay?” he asks, looking up at me.

“Yes. And I’ve suspected you were gay since you were three and drooling over Legolas’s long hair.”

Ant’s jaw drops, and he smacks my chest. “Seriously?”

“Dude, you had no chill about it either. Gigi and Yaya used to crack up so much every time Lord of the Rings came on. When you discovered the actor didn’t actually have long hair…”

“I was so devastated! I’d forgotten about that,” he says, leading me through the living room—large for a mobile home—past the bar and into the spacious kitchen, where coffee is already brewed. He reaches into the cabinet above the coffee maker and hands me a mug, already familiar with the place.

“So…is Erik your boyfriend?” I ask as he grabs a mug for himself. He startles and drops the cup, but I manage to catch it before it hits the floor.

“Good reflexes,” he mutters. “And no.”

“But you are gay?”

“Yes, obviously.” He quiets a moment, then asks, “Do you think that’s why my grandfather sold me?”

He asks the question lightly, but I suspect it’s one that’s weighed heavily on his mind for a while now. When working with someone trafficked, I’ve learned that trying to soften the truth isn’t helpful. So I tell him what I think.

“I didn’t know your grandfather well, but what I could see made me think he was very much like your father. Your father wanted you to be super macho, something you never were. So, yes. I believe your grandfather sold you because you are not the grandson he wanted.”

He takes a solid breath, squares his shoulders, and, looking me dead in the eye, gives me a sharp nod. “I always thought so. Thank you for telling me the truth.”

“I’ve spent the last ten years looking for the truth,” I say, barely above a whisper. I ache to put my arms around him, but I’m letting him lead the way.

“What was that noise?” Erik asks, coming in from his bedroom. He strides across the living room and stands on the other side of the bar, his eyes pinning me down.

I hold up the coffee cup. “Almost had a mug tragedy, but I caught it.”

Erik thins his lips at my words, his eyes taking in every particle of me from head to toe, weighing and judging. His eyes flick between Ant and me, and I sense he doesn’t like how close I’m standing.

I step back, and Erik’s body relaxes just a little.

“Ant was telling me you like a big breakfast. I do too. If you like, depending on what you have in your refrigerator, I’m happy to pull together a big Mexican breakfast for us.”

Erik looks to Antonio—Ant. “What do you think?”

He runs his thumb across the edge of the counter, swaying to and from it. “I think I’d like that.”

Pinning me in place with a sharp gaze, Erik gestures to the refrigerator. “You’re welcome to anything in there. I’ve got flour and corn tortillas, so use whatever you like.”

Pivoting on his heel, he goes back into his room.

I let out a measured breath. “He doesn’t like me very much, does he?”

“He’s probably waiting on the rest of your background check.”

That begs a question.

“I’ve got to ask… Why didn’t they do a background check on you? We’ve done everything possible to make it easy for you to find us. We put posts on adoption websites and genealogy websites, we ran ads…”

Ant shakes his head. “Charlie offered to look into my family, at least put my name on the reunification list, and I told him I didn’t want anything to do with that. Erik disagreed, but Charlie says the number one rule for working with people recovering from trafficking is to honor their requests. As far as I was concerned, that part of my life was over, and I didn’t want to be dragged into it ever again.”

I swallow thickly, remembering the shock on his face last night. “Is it because you thought we all rejected you? Because of the lies you were told?”

He bites his lower lip and carefully bobs his head.

“Does knowing that we never stopped looking for you…help?”

He grabs the carafe, sloshing some of its contents onto the counter, then goes quiet as he pours himself a cup.

“Help is a weird word,” he finally says, opening the refrigerator and grabbing a carton of half-and-half. “But yes, it does. I…I guess I wish I would have let them look.”

“I was just thinking this morning that I wish I’d thought to reach out to Charlie. I was looking in the wrong place, and…”

Ant turns to me and puts his hand on my chest. “Hedy, my therapist, would tell us that we made the best decisions we could with the information we had. I won’t have you second-guessing the last ten years.”

I take a deep breath, amazed by this slight man who must’ve been so very brave to survive what happened to him. A little of the guilt eases, at least enough to settle my heart.

Ant nods to himself as he pours a crazy amount of half-and-half, following that with two heaps of sugar.

I laugh, wanting to kiss the top of his head. “You take your coffee the way your mom always took it,” I tell him softly, hoping he finds some comfort in their similarities.

He nods, chewing the inside of his cheek as he stares out the window over the sink. “Yeah. I remember.”

“Do you remember much?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know how much of my memory is real or fake. I know I have an uncle named Javier Hernández, but he had black hair and no wrinkles.”

I knock into his shoulder, then immediately step back. “Sorry.”

He shakes his head. “It’s okay. You said I have a tía, right? Yaya? That’s real, right?”

Something about his question and the uncertainty in his voice breaks me all over again. I grip the counter, my shoulders rising and falling, unable to stop the tears that have been going since last night.

“I’m sorry. Was I wrong?”

“No. You are right. She was your mom’s best friend. Gigi and Yaya were two peas in a pod. You couldn’t separate them. I don’t know if you remember your primo, Gael…”

“Gaelcito,” he says, a fond smile crossing his lips before darkness shutters his expression. “I remember playing with him. My grandfather didn’t like it when Yaya and Gael came over.”

I nod, remembering Yaya’s stories. “No, he didn’t. The Allendes wanted you for the family line. Meanwhile, you and Gael would draw together, and you always drew pictures of two men in tuxes getting married.”

“Guess he figured I wouldn’t be carrying on the family line anytime soon.”

“Yeah, well, fuck him for that,” I say, with everything I have.

We go quiet for a moment, and I fill my mug with coffee, adding about half the cream and sugar Ant did. I’m sipping the excellent brew as a thought spins up.

“I…haven’t called the family yet. Would you want to…?”

“Yes,” he says, probably too quickly.

“It’s a big thing. You absolutely don’t—”

“What’s a big thing?”

We turn toward the question, and the cute, heavily tattooed guy from last night—Levy—is walking in the door, looking between Ant and me.

Ant gives him a hug, which Levy readily returns, kindness radiating from his core despite the heavy ink covering the backs of his hands and the large gauges adorning his earlobes. It’s the sort of kindness born of difficulty, and I wonder a little about his story.

“Javier hasn’t told the family yet. He asked me if I wanted to be on the call, but I said yes before he could get the words out, and he was trying to tell me I should think about it for a minute.”

“What do you need to think about?” Erik asks, walking into the living room wearing an old Viking F.K. T-shirt, Wranglers, and boots.

“If I should get on the call with Javier when he talks to the family.”

Erik’s jaw shifts from side to side, and I’m grateful for these men who are so concerned for Ant’s safety and well-being. I immediately know I’ll do anything for this cobbled-together family.

“Well, your background check came in. Most of what they found did not come from legal channels.”

“No, it wouldn’t,” I admit.

He continues, ticking off my history more accurately than I thought possible.

“You are who you say you are. Javier Hernández, son of Javier and Mirena Hernández, brother to Yesenia and Gabriella. Born in a hospital outside of San Luis Potosí. You got into some legal trouble when you were younger, had some pretty shady connections, but you’ve spent the last ten years working with antitrafficking organizations in Mexico and Central America. You’re a bit of a legend down there. A man on a mission. Like a heroic Mexican bandito. Mythical.”

I give a wry laugh. “So are you and Charlie.”

“Did you know who we were when we pulled up?”

I nod. “Nobody knows your name though. It’s always Charlie and the Silent One. Took me a minute to realize that’s who you are because you actually spoke last night.”

“People always think I’m quiet. I’m not quiet. I just don’t speak unless I need to,” Erik says, a grumpy wrinkle on his nose.

“Of course,” I say, smoothly pivoting to the more important topic. “Knowing Ant as you do and now knowing me as you do, do you have any objections to his being on this call with me?”

“Wait. Why does he get a say?” Ant asks, crossing his arms over his chest.

“He knows you. You’re an adult, so you make the final decision, but you should check in with your friends. They clearly want what’s best for you,” I explain gently.

Ant looks up at Erik, arms still crossed, a defiant jut to his chin. “And? What do you think?”

Erik steps in front of Ant, mirroring his crossed arms, narrowing his eyes as he looks down at him. “I was gonna say that it’s going to be a lot—”

Ant makes an angry sound at the back of his throat, and Erik holds up a hand.

“Let me finish.”

“Fine.”

“I think it’s going to be a lot, but it’s also going to be wonderful. Since Levy’s here, he can sit in on the conversation and support you.”

Ant turns to Levy. “That’s fine with me if it’s fine with Javier. Just know it’ll be in Spanish.”

Erik pulls a face. “Levy knows Spanish.”

Ant’s jaw drops. “Since when?”

Levy gives an adorable shrug. “Since I started taking it in middle school and then took it all through high school? I told you when you first moved in, remember?”

“Shit, I forgot. You never…”

“First of all, until recently, I was really rusty. Second, you speak English with barely any accent. When you started talking to Nacho, I got the feeling it was important for you to choose who you wanted to speak it with.”

“You spied on all those conversations we had in front of you?”

He shakes his head vigorously. “Until Nacho started helping me, I didn’t understand it unless I was specifically paying attention, and then only half of what was being said. You two needed to chat privately, and you always kept it low, so I never listened in. Promise, dude. I mean, sometimes you’d do it in front of us, but even then, I only caught the gist of things. Like the night you cut your hair—I understood enough to know you and Nacho were working it out.”

“But you understand more now?”

“I do.”

“Would you want to be in on this call with me?”

“Buddy, the question is, do you want me on the call with you? Erik makes a good point, but we can also work it out with the horses afterward if you’d prefer.”

Taking a deep breath, Ant looks at Javier and nods. “Let’s do it. Let’s tell them you found me.”