by Pam Godwin
We should move into the living room or somewhere with more space. But there isn’t a room in my house large enough to contain this.
I kick off my fuzzy slippers and climb onto the bed. With my back against the headboard, I chew my thumbnail, fidget with the pull strings on my hoodie, sip the coffee, and wait for someone to speak.
The silence endures.
Awkward, pregnant, miserable goddamn silence.
I draw a steeling breath and search Cole’s eyes. “What are you going to do, Cole?”
“I’m going to fight for you.” His jaw flexes, and he sets down the mug.
“Fight for me? All I see is you glaring at your colleague, best friend, or whatever Trace is to you. Meanwhile, I’m sitting here in the fucking dark without a clue as to where you’ve been or what you do for a living.”
He stares at me for a long moment, his Adam’s apple bouncing. “I can’t tell you, Danni.” A tortured whisper.
My blood heats. “I don’t know you.”
“Yes, you do.” He sucks in a harsh breath and slams a fist against his palm. “You know me better than anyone.”
“I don’t even recognize you.”
Where are his tattoos? And he always kept his brown hair clipped high and tight. Now it’s long enough to run my fingers through, at least an inch around his ears and thicker on top. His jawline’s still square, but narrower. His entire face seems drawn, emaciated, sharpening the angles of his cheekbones. He’s a beautiful man, even now, but he looks so different. Unhealthy.
“You look like shit,” Trace mutters. “Does anyone know you’re stateside?”
“Just my handler.” Cole meets his eyes. “I assume the house is clean?”
“Spotless,” Trace says.
What the hell?
“You’re obviously not talking about housekeeping.” I gesture at the dirty laundry all over the floor. “What does spotless mean?”
They continue to glare at each other. But this is more than a silent sparring match. They’re sharing some kind of a wordless conversation I’m not privy to.
I was being watched. Everything I did was monitored, tracked, and recorded.
Is the house clean?
“Does your job put me in danger?” A chill drips down my spine as I think about how careless I’ve been with my safety. “Is that why you’re both always on me about locking my doors? And what do you mean by is the house clean? Is there a chance it was bugged?”
“Locking your doors is common sense.” Trace glances at me over his shoulder, his expression stone-cold. “And no. No one knows about your connection to Cole.”
“Except my handler.” Cole relentlessly rakes a hand through his hair. “He’s the man who came here three years ago.”
“Robert Wright.” My neck goes taut against the memory. “He’s the one who told me you were dead.”
“Not his real name, but yes.” Cole looks at Trace. “He’s the only person who has access to my whereabouts.”
“Can you trust him?” I wrap an arm around my waist, hating the paranoid thoughts they’re putting in my head.
“Yes.”
“Did he tell you about his visit with me?” My voice croaks as I relive the gutting horror of that day.
I don’t hear the door shut, don’t feel the couch beneath me, don’t taste the tears flooding my face. The agony is all-consuming, crippling my body, twisting me into something unrecognizable, and spiraling me into a shapeless, hopeless place.
“No. He wouldn’t tell me anything about you.” Cole inhales deeply. “He thought it was best that I focus on staying alive.”
Cole was in danger. Life-threatening danger that forced him into hiding, and I had no idea.
“Before you left, I specifically asked if your safety was a concern, and you laughed at me when you told me no.”
He stares at his feet, unable to meet my eyes.
“Were you even in Iraq?” I ask.
The liar pins his lying lips and doesn’t look at me. Maybe Trace can shed some light.
“You said you used to work together?” I wave a hand between them. “Is that how you became best friends?”
“Yes.” Trace slides a knee onto the mattress as he shifts to face me. “I used to be his handler.”
“You keep using that term.” I finish off the coffee and set the mug on the nightstand. “I don’t know what handler means, because I don’t know what Cole does for a living.”
“I’m bound by the same secrecy agreement as Cole, but I’ll try to explain…” Trace strokes his chin, as if carefully choosing his words. “Here’s an analogy. The handler of a weapon controls how the weapon approaches a target and decides when and where to aim.”
A weapon. He said it was an analogy, but he chose that example for a reason. He wants me to understand the severity of Cole’s job.
“Okay, so you were Cole’s handler, and you called the shots.” I study Trace’s unreadable expression. “And Cole is what? Some kind of assassin?”
“No.” Cole drags a hand down his face. “Don’t dig, Danni.”
“Do you kill people?”
He closes his eyes and breathes deeply, refusing to answer.
I bristle with frustration and turn to Trace. “Are you retired from this handler job?”
“Yes.”
“You’re not employed by the government or whomever Cole works for?”
“Correct. I’m completely severed from that business. I own the casino and work for myself.”
“But it’s okay for you to know about Cole’s job and not me?” I feel like I’m pulling teeth to collect tiny pieces of a convoluted puzzle.
“Since I was intimately involved in his prior jobs, I knew…things.” Trace’s mouth bounces between a flat line and a frown. “But I know nothing about his last mission.”
“Except you knew there was a chance he survived it.”
“I knew Cole wouldn’t have been stationed at an oil terminal, therefore, I knew he didn’t die in an explosion.” Trace rubs his brow. “What I didn’t know was if the story about the explosion was a cover for his actual death.”
“Bullshit.” Cole clenches his jaw. “You know how hard it is to kill me. I’m fucking trained—”
“No one’s impossible to kill.” Trace lifts his head, glaring at Cole. “You went on that mission knowing your heart wasn’t in it. You were preoccupied, unfocused. Frankly, I’m surprised you survived.”
“What’s he talking about?” I ask Cole, my stomach twisting into knots.
Cole scrapes a hand over the back of his head, frowning at Trace. “My job doesn’t allow for personal distractions. We don’t have relationships or attachments or—”
“Girlfriends? I was a distraction?” My voice is thin, pitted with alarm.
“No,” he says heatedly. “You’re the reason I fought so damn hard to stay alive. When I met you, I knew I’d have to complete this last job and that I’d survive it—for you—then I could quit.” His timbre drops to a tormented whisper. “The job should’ve only taken a year. A year, and I would’ve been back with you, married, and maybe even planning a family.”
His gaze falls to the ring on my finger, and he clenches his hands. The agony lining his expression is gut-wrenching, and my stomach cramps in sympathy.
Had he returned within a year as planned, we’d be together. I would’ve been oblivious about the true nature of his job, and Trace would’ve never made contact with me. Maybe that’s the way it was supposed to be, but the pang in my chest disagrees.
My relationship with Trace undoubtedly made Cole’s homecoming a clusterfuck. I would’ve still been furious and resentful with Cole, but I would’ve eventually forgiven him for being gone and let it go. Because I love him.
But Trace is here, and no part of me regrets meeting him or falling in love with him. How could I? He was here for me when Cole wasn’t. He showed me how to smile, hope, and love again.
Maybe this is the hand of fate at play, but it’s too early
to know if it’s a curse or a blessing. The only thing that’s certain is the inescapable decision looming in the future.
Dread builds in the back of my throat. It feels as though I have two hearts, and I’m waiting for someone to tell me I have to rip one out and hand it over.
And it’s going to hurt like hell.
Every time I hear Cole’s gravelly timbre or find his warm brown eyes watching me, I’m overcome with the instinctual need to wrap my arms around his neck. I ache for the familiar scent of him clinging to my body, for the fever of his passion to delete the distance between us and make me forget the past four years.
Then I look at Trace, the gorgeous man I woke next to this morning, and shame burns through me. I’m not a cheater. Even if Trace weren’t here, staring at me with the kind of devotion that makes my heart twist, I wouldn’t break my promise to be faithful to him.
But didn’t I make the same vow to Cole?
If I’m with one of them, am I cheating on the other one?
Sinking beneath the horror of that thought, I slouch against the headboard and tuck my knees to my chest.
Trace told me Cole would have a good reason for disappearing for so long, and while I know I’ve only heard a snippet of the full story, I can’t begrudge Cole for the godawful choices he had to make. If he returned when he promised or contacted me in any way, it would’ve endangered me. I don’t understand the threat, but I trust that he did what he had to do. He kept me safe and suffered greatly for it.
Trace, on the other hand, stole his best friend’s girl. On the surface, it doesn’t get more douchey than that. But I know him. My gut tells me his motivations are more selfless than they seem.
I regard him for a moment, itching to brush the disheveled blond strands away from his forehead. “Why did you retire from this James Bond job and not Cole?”
“Danni,” Cole groans. “Don’t call it that.”
“What the hell am I supposed to call it? You’re not telling me anything.”
“When my parents died,” Trace says, ignoring Cole. “They left me a sizable inheritance.”
I nod, already aware of this.
“I didn’t have a relationship with them.” Sitting at the foot of the bed, Trace stares at his empty hands. “Part of our falling out had to do with my career choice. They wanted me to run a corporate empire. I wanted to…do something else. When I lost them both abruptly—”
“How?”
“Car accident.” He draws his arms closer to his body, his expression moody. “When they died, I didn’t need to work. But it wasn’t just about the inheritance. My perspective on life changed, including the risks I was taking with my job.”
There’s more to that story, but I don’t interrupt as he continues.
“I wasn’t married to the job, so it was easy for me to not renew the contract. Cole’s position, however, is different.” His gaze flicks to Cole and returns to me. “Men in his line of work don’t retire. They’re born to do it and undergo years of rigorous specialized training in preparation for it. They breathe, live, and die for the job.”
“Unless something extraordinary comes along,” Cole murmurs from across the room. “Someone worth giving it all up for.” He lifts his head and looks me directly in the eyes. “I meant what I said to you before I left. I already started the termination paperwork. I’m not renewing my contract.”
I press a fist against my mouth as a mixture of joy and dread hijacks my breaths. “If you’re retiring, why can’t you tell me what happened to you?”
“You already know I work for a Federal agency.” Cole approaches the bed and kneels beside it, resting his forearms next to my hip. “I can’t tell you more than that. A spill relating to trade secrets, processes, operations, or style of work could cause irreparable damage to the national security of the country. It could result in loss of life.”
The air whooshes from my lungs. Jesus. What’s he involved in? Is he Delta Force? Some kind of SEAL team badass? A CIA operative? My knowledge of secret government shit is limited to movies and TV shows.
“He’s leaving out another reason.” Trace glances from me to Cole before giving me firm eye contact. “Neither of us want to go to prison.”
“What?” My scalp tingles. “You would go to prison for telling me what you do?”
“Yes.” Cole props his elbows on the mattress and steeples his fingers against his lips. “We worked for an entity that doesn’t exist, doing things that never happen and fighting wars no one will ever hear about. If we talked, it would be a criminal—”
“I would never say anything.” I snap my spine straight.
“You would if you were interrogated. There are many ways to glean information. Ways far more sophisticated than lie detector tests.” Cole frowns. “Our nation’s enemies are even more creative, especially in their methods of torture.”
“Torture?” A bud of fear bursts inside me. “You said I’m not connected to you, that I’m not in danger—”
“Something went very wrong with this last job.” His eyes cut to Trace and back to me. “I was forced into hiding for three years, had to change my appearance, assume another alias, and stay far, far away from you. You’re safe because I followed protocol and will continue to do so.”
I expect Trace to rebuke Cole’s unbelievable story, but as his head lowers, his mouth sets in sullen affirmation.
“Someone wanted you dead.” Saying it out loud doesn’t help it sink in.
“Lots of someones. It’s the nature of the job.” Cole’s brown eyes lose focus as he stares at the mattress between us. “I couldn’t risk looking you up, not even to see an updated picture of you online. I couldn’t contact Trace, because my connection to him could’ve led someone back to you. When I…” His nostrils flare. “When I ran into trouble, I severed communication with you and Trace and disappeared. I had all my tattoos removed, wore colored contacts and glasses, shaved my head, and grew a beard. That man, the identity I assumed for three years…” He blinks and meets my eyes. “You wouldn’t have recognized him.”
I wilt against the mattress, reeling at the desolation in his words. “Are you still hiding?”
“I don’t exist. The world I was embedded in is only aware of my fake identities, and I didn’t come home until every threat against my life was eliminated.”
Hiding…fake identities…threats…eliminated…
My eyes feel hot and gummy, and I suspect the tears have only just begun. “Is your real name Cole Hartman?”
“Yes, baby.” He grips my hand and squeezes. “I’ve only ever lied to you about the job, and I’m so fucking sorry. I didn’t have a choice.”
There are so many questions pounding in my head I can’t spit them out fast enough. “If you operated under different identities, what was the purpose of the fake explosion? Why couldn’t you have just disappeared and left it at that?”
“I needed you to believe I was dead…for your own protection.”
“But you said I was safe.”
“You were. You are.” His fingers weave around mine. “It was just another layer of security. I wasn’t taking any chances with you.”
My throat works through a tight swallow. “Another layer of security?”
“I was the first layer.” Trace glances at my hand where it tangles with Cole’s. “If something happened to me or if someone targeted you without me knowing, they would’ve seen you grieving, completely in the dark and unaware of Cole’s true whereabouts.”
“I thought you were watching me to keep me from dating?” I pull my hand from Cole’s grip and narrow my eyes at Trace.
“That, too.” Trace bends forward, resting his forearms on his thighs.
Trace succeeded in keeping men out of my bed. He kept everyone away except himself. We’re all thinking it, and it feels gossamer-fragile writhing and tangling around us.
I’m in love with the man Cole entrusted to protect me.
Trace proposed to his best friend’s fiancé.
>
I’m engaged to two men.
The unspoken thoughts gather between us like black clouds, charging the air and pricking my skin with icy darts of electricity. I hold my breath, hoping the storm will pass. But it’s swelling, tensing Trace’s posture, and shortening Cole’s breaths. This time, the storm wins.
“I trusted you.” Cole explodes to his feet, knocking the nightstand against the wall in his sudden fury. “If I’d known you’d move in on her, that you’d put your fucking dick in her—”
“Cole!” I surge to my knees on the bed and ball my hands. “That’s not how it was!”
“I’ve never hated anyone as much as I hate you.” He bares his teeth at Trace. “Why her? She’s my goddamn life. My entire fucking world.” Cole stabs a shaky finger in my direction without moving his focus from Trace. “You know what she means to me. You could’ve had anyone. Why did you have to go after her?”
“You know why.” Trace looks at Cole with compassion in his eyes and temerity in his scowl. “You know exactly how accidental love is, especially when it comes to her. There was no premeditation. No deceptive planning. Loving her is a privilege, one I don’t deserve, but it was never a choice.”
Love isn’t a choice.
Those were my words to Trace only a couple months ago, and a sad smile pulls at my mouth.
Cole slowly blows out a breath, and his entire body seems to sag with the release of air.
“Cole.” I scoot over on the bed, making room for him. “Please, sit down.”
He toes off his shoes and lowers beside me with his back to the headboard, watching me warily.
I swivel to face him, sitting cross-legged and keeping Trace’s position at the foot of the bed in my line of sight. I need to see both of them as I talk through this.
“I need to tell you things.” I hold my hands out to Cole, palms up, and look into his eyes. “Some of it, you’re not going to like. But I need to say it, get it all out in the open.”
He doesn’t hesitate to lean toward me and slide his fingers over mine. “I’m listening.”
Trace rests a fist beneath his chin, intently focused on me. If he has a problem with Cole holding my hands, he’s keeping his jealousy reined in.
