by Pam Godwin
“Of course, dear.” She squints cloudy eyes at the brawl. “Cole told me what happened. Someone should be fired over that horrible confusion at the explosion.”
This should be interesting, since he hasn’t told me shit about his cover story. Though I’m not surprised he talked to her. He’s been out here every day, working on his bike. It’s conceivable that he’s spent more time with my nosy neighbor than he has with me.
Across the yard, Trace wraps his legs around Cole’s neck, both of them grunting as they try to grind an elbow, knee, or whatever body part they can into muscle and bone.
“Did he give you any details about the explosion?” I chew on the inside of my cheek, silently begging them to stop.
“Not much. Just that his company thought they had his body. It’s terrible that he was detained in an Iraqi prison and forgotten about for three years. What has the world come to?”
Hatred and rage and blood. That’s what my world has come to.
Cole surges to his feet and rears back an arm. I tense as Trace’s leg flies out and knocks Cole’s feet out from beneath him. Cole lands on his back, and his agonized groan shoots a sharp pain through my chest.
I jerk to rush toward them, but a gnarled hand catches my wrist.
“Let them work it out.” Virginia squeezes my arm with a shocking amount of strength.
“I can think of better ways to work things out.”
“That’s how boys express their differences. They need to get all the bad out of their blood. They’ll feel better after.”
I doubt they’ll feel anything but bruises and broken bones, but I remain where I am, cringing at the godawful din of smacking flesh.
“Did Cole tell you why he was detained in prison?” I soften my voice to sound like I know the answer.
“Something about a foul-up at the oil terminal, and Iraq thought the U.S. contractors caused it. I don’t really understand how all that political stuff works.”
“Yeah, it confuses me, too.”
For a cover story, I guess it’s vague enough to be believable. Virginia doesn’t seem to bat an eyelash at it.
“Whatever happened to him was bad,” she says. “He doesn’t like to talk about it.” Her hand relaxes, shifting to curl around mine. “You take special care with that boy, you hear? There’s something different about him. A sadness that wasn’t there before. He needs your love now more than ever.”
My heart pinches. “But what about Trace? I’m engaged to him, Virginia.”
“Yes, well, that’s why they’re fighting.” She lifts my hand, drawing my attention to the ring on my finger.
Rings.
Why are there two rings?
“Oh my God.” I separate the silver bands, intimately familiar with both of them. “I didn’t—”
“Cole slipped it on your finger last night while you slept.” Her cataract eyes glitter in the sun. “Trace found out about it, and there you have it.” She gestures at the grappling, grunting tangle of limbs in the grass.
My eyes widen. “How do you know this?”
“They were arguing about it this morning. Spitting and swearing and disturbing the peace.” She lowers her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “They’ve been watching you while you sleep. They argued about that, too.”
Damn her sharp hearing. She’ll be wagging her tongue about my drama up and down the street by lunchtime.
“They’ve been sneaky about it.” She clutches the loose skin on her throat. “Tiptoeing into your room without the other one knowing. I guess they ran into each other early this morning.”
And I slept through it. What else am I sleeping through? I pinch the bridge of my nose and peek at the scuffle.
Cole attacks Trace with flying knuckles, eyes wild and muscles flexed, like he’s pumped up on faith and glory. And Trace, all graceful arms and legs, dodges the strikes and snaps his fist so fast it’s inhuman.
“I should stop them.” I twist the rings on my finger.
“You will do no such thing. The good Lord sent them to you for a reason. Don’t get in the way.”
I gape at her. “They’re fighting over me. I’m already in the way.”
“Did you choose one over the other?”
My neck shrinks, pulling my ears toward my shoulders as that wretched goddamn word ricochets through my skull. Choose. Choose. Choose.
“I can’t.” I choke on a rush of tears and curl my fingers around the rings. “I’m engaged to them both, and I can’t be. Two is a lie.” I squeeze the silver bands so hard they dig into my skin. “Loving two men is wrong.”
“A mother loves more than one child. Is that wrong?”
“It’s not the same thing.”
“Love is love, Danni.”
“Not when it’s poisoned by jealousy.”
We fall quiet as the fight across the yard breaks apart. Cole and Trace lie on their backs with several feet of distance between them. Chests heaving and splattered in blood, they stare at the big blue sky, lost in their misery.
“Love them. That’s all you can do.” Virginia grabs her cane and shuffles back to her house, mumbling, “The rest will work itself out.”
Love them. That’s all you can do.
Virginia’s words nestle into the squishy parts of my heart as I gather towels and first-aid supplies from the bathroom. When I reach the kitchen, Cole and Trace are sitting where I instructed—on the floor, side by side, backs to the cabinets, and hands to themselves.
“Look at that. You’re sharing air without snarling and foaming like rabid dogs.” I step over Cole’s bent leg and stand between their slumped postures. “I’m tempted to pat your heads.”
That earns me double frowns, and a grunt for good measure from Cole.
“I learned something interesting while you were molesting each other outside.” I lower to my knees, facing them, and set the supplies between their hips. “You’re sneaking into my room at night when I’m sleeping? Both of you?”
Trace meets my gaze without flinching. Cole wipes the blood from his nose and glares at the floor.
“Watching me sleep… Wow.” I rub my forehead. “That isn’t creepy or anything.”
“I’ve been watching you sleep for two months.” Trace leans in and drops his voice. “I miss you, Danni. So fucking much.”
Cole flares his nostrils. “You son of a—”
“That’s enough,” I snap at him. “This is already hard, for everyone involved. But watching you do this to yourselves, seeing you carry around all this animosity and resentment, I can’t do it.”
“What are you saying?” Cole searches my face with panic in his eyes.
“Chill the fuck out. That’s what I’m saying.”
He releases a heavy breath and rests his head back against the cabinet.
“I know this situation is a shit load of fucked, but this…” I gesture at the blood smudged across their chests. “This is an unwanted, avoidable travesty. Like a wet fart in a tight leotard.” I purse my lips. “You should be ashamed of yourselves.”
“A wet fart…” Cole’s mouth bounces before settling into a small lopsided grin.
The appearance of his dimples unfurls a ribbon of warmth inside me. Trace regards me with amusement gleaming in his eyes, and I thaw further, melting at the beautiful sight.
A smile possesses my lips. My cheeks lift, and for the first time in five days, I feel relieved. It’s a slapdash feeling, there and gone as quick as Cole’s dimples. But I cherish the tender moment, appreciate the clarity it offers. We can still make each other happy.
I lift a towel and reach my other hand toward Trace’s face. As my fingers slide against his sculpted jaw, my pulse spikes and my breaths quicken. For once, my reaction isn’t nerves or anger. It’s excitement. Affection. Cautious desire.
He always affects me, though. Even now, with his chest and arms all scratched up and caked with dirt. I could stare at him for hours—his unsmiling lips, rumpled blond hair, and eyes so blue they conjure gr
eatness, like the vast sky on a summer day with the top down on my car. Like the first day we spent together, running errands, trading flirty arguments, and kissing outside of the pharmacy.
Was our time together just a fool’s paradise? Can we get back to that place again?
With my hand on his jaw, I angle his head side to side, checking for injuries. Blood smears across the smooth angles of his face, but there are no lacerations. No swelling.
I turn my attention to Cole, his grumpy features lined with abrasions and gashes around his eyes, down the bridge of his nose, and cut through the corner of his mouth.
“If you’re the one with specialized training…” I squint at Cole. “Why are you more banged up than Trace?” I look back at Trace and wipe the wet towel across his cheeks, revealing pristine skin beneath the grime. “Did you even get hit?”
“He got my mouth once, and my ribs are bruised.” Trace gingerly touches his side.
“He’s full of shit.” Cole drapes an arm over his bent knee and flexes his fingers, his gaze never leaving mine. “He just wants your hands on him.”
Trace regards me in that way he does, with his head down and eyes up. It’s distractingly sexy.
I clear my throat. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“Trace was trained in hand-to-hand combat,” Cole growls. “Ranked top of our class.”
“What class? Was it military training?”
Cole’s expression empties, giving me nothing.
Christ almighty. “What about your skill set?” I ask him.
“I’m more proficient in…other areas.”
The boding descent in Cole’s tone warns me not to inquire further. Doesn’t stop my mind from jumping to images of him snapping a sniper rifle together and crawling through a jungle wearing a ghillie suit. But what the fuck do I know?
Absolutely nothing.
“Why do you fight him,” I ask Cole, hooking a thumbing at Trace, “if you know you’re going to lose?”
Trace huffs an annoyed breath. “He’s bullheaded enough to get his ass handed to him, which is pretty fucking pathetic.”
“I have the courage to get my ass handed to me.” Cole licks the cut on his lip. “Which is pretty fucking poetic.”
Cole’s temper is definitely poetic, like a murky river—calm, easygoing, and seemingly innocuous, until something disturbs what lies beneath, and all hell breaks loose in a terrorizing rage of teeth and blood.
I return my attention to Trace, giving him another clinical perusal. Scratches and red spots mar his torso from rolling on the ground. The skin is torn on a few of his knuckles. But nothing requires bandages.
“I can’t do anything about your ribs.” I climb to my feet and rinse off the towel in the sink. “Do you need a doctor?”
Cole snorts, and Trace shakes his head.
“While I clean up Cole’s face,” I say to Trace, wringing out the towel, “why don’t you go take a shower?”
Trace’s scowl tightens, his reluctance so potent it pulses through the air.
“Cole will shower after you.” I brace my hands on my hips. “Then we’re all going to sit down and have a chat.”
Bending forward, Trace prepares to stand. And pauses. Clearly, he doesn’t want to leave me alone with Cole, and if I were in his position, I wouldn’t, either.
He’s clinging to a delicate web. One more mistake—a hurtful word, a cruel action—could shove me into Cole’s arms. Right or wrong, I’m looking for anything to sway me into a decision. Which isn’t fair to either of them. Especially since I know exactly what it feels like to see someone I love with another woman.
Trace knows how I feel about Cole, and in order to be with me, he has to suffer through seeing me with Cole. Yet he stays and endures and doesn’t give up.
When I caught him with Marlo, I didn’t fight for him. I walked away. No, scratch that. I ran. Straight to another man, a stranger, just out of spite.
So watching Trace struggle with leaving me alone with Cole stirs me with deep sympathy, tempting me to back down. But I tend to sympathize too much. It makes me weak. Vulnerable. Easily trampled.
I silence the temptation and push back my shoulders.
Trace reads my eyes and shoves off the floor. I don’t breathe until he vanishes around the corner and shuts the bathroom door. A moment later, the pipes groan through the old house.
“I got a job.” Cole touches my hand.
“You did?” I kneel beside him and dab the wet towel on the cut across his cheekbone. “That was fast. What’s the job?”
“Security at the stadium.” He studies my expression, as if seeking my approval. “It doesn’t pay much but—”
“A rent-a-cop?” A sinking feeling invades my stomach. “I know nothing about your prior job, but aren’t you overqualified to stand around at concerts and baseball games? Are the security guards even armed?”
“Yes, they’re armed.” He scratches his jaw and drops his hand. “I have a skill set that over-qualifies me for any job in the private sector. The scope of my training applies to this much of the world.” He holds his finger and thumb a hairbreadth apart. “There aren’t a lot of options for guys like me.”
“But you could—”
“I had a career. That’s not what I want now.” He shoots me a meaningful look. “I just need steady pay, something that doesn’t require travel, with hours that match yours.”
“Please don’t do that for me. I’m not putting any demands on what you choose to do with your life.”
He stiffens. “Four years ago, you didn’t hesitate to tell me, no less than a hundred times, to quit my job.”
“Yeah, well, you didn’t listen.”
“I was a dumbfuck, and my stupidity cost me everything.” His expression shatters, his voice a grief-stricken whisper. “I’m listening now. What do you want?”
“I want you to be happy,” I say on a tattered breath. “Both of you.”
His eyes close, and the sunlight from the window glances off the sharp lines of his cheekbones, highlighting the sunken hollows beneath. He lost too much weight, but he’s still criminally handsome. The stubborn lock of his jaw, the sexy shadow of whiskers, the swell of pouty lips—it’s a visage of danger and fortitude.
I always knew there was something roguish about him. Not just his temper, but something more, like a mysterious edge I couldn’t put my finger on. But as he lifts his dark lashes, I see it now—the troubling secrets in his eyes. He’s experienced things he won’t ever be able to share with me, and I hate that. It’s a wall between us, a part of his life I don’t have access to.
I reach for his chin, cupping the chiseled shape as I clean away the rest of the blood. “If you can’t tell anyone your work history, what did you put on the job application?”
“I didn’t fill one out.” A bitter smirk pulls at his lips. “Trace has connections at the stadium. He got me the job, no questions asked.”
“He did?” I widen my eyes.
“He didn’t do it out of the kindness of his heart. He’s motivated, Danni. He wants me working and moved out and far away from you.”
My chest constricts. “Don’t tell me you don’t want the same things from him.”
“You know what I want?” Eyes bright and searching, he slowly lifts a hand toward my face. “I want to be your lover, your husband, your home. I want to be your everything.”
I hold still, lost in the familiarity of his molten dark gaze. He gently touches my lips, and a teetering sensation trembles behind my breastbone, like my heart is slipping, readjusting, and settling with a contented sigh.
“I miss your smile. And the scent of your skin.” His fingers shake, gliding downward to caress my neck. “When I was away, I burned Nag Champa incense, trying to recreate your fragrance, but it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t you.”
“They say smell is strongly linked to emotion and memory.” I busy my hands with the first-aid supplies. “I used to sleep with your clothes, desperate to hang onto
every memory I could.” Sadness creaks into my voice. “It was hard, Cole. Every fucking day was an endless crawl through hell.”
“I know, baby.” His face collapses, and he pulls me toward him. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
“I was angry.” I push against his shoulder and lock my arm, keeping space between us. “I cursed you. Blamed you. And some days, I hated you.” My words tremble from the ache in my chest. “I hated you for leaving me.”
“I deserve that.”
“No, you don’t. You had an obligation to your job, and our relationship was brand new. You did what you had to do, and I just…I didn’t know how to cope. When you died…” I lower my head to my hands. “It took me so long to let go of the past, and now here it is. You’re back, bringing all those painful feelings to the surface, and I don’t know what to do.”
“Do me a favor.” He bends his neck, tugging my arms down to see my eyes. “Imagine yourself in a place you want to be. Don’t think about it. Just let your heart take you there. Where are you?”
“Dancing on a stage with Beyoncé.”
“Right.” He shakes his head with a soft chuckle. “I knew that.” Swiping a hand over his mouth, he sobers. “Who’s in the audience? Who’s watching you dance?”
Since this is a fantasy, there’s no deliberation. I open my mouth to tell him he’s there, sitting in the front row and wearing his dimpled smile. Except he’s not alone. Trace reclines beside him, and they lean their heads together, sharing a private conversation before erupting in laughter. I close my eyes and try to erase one of them from the vision. But the attempt makes my chest collapse, and a sharp burn fires through my sinuses.
When I open my eyes, Cole studies me expectantly. I press my lips together and look away, blinking back tears.
“Is it him?” he asks. “Is he where you want to be?”
“You’re both there.”
He sucks in a breath. “That can’t—”
“I know it can’t happen. That’s not what I want!” My outburst reverberates through the kitchen, and I lower my voice. “I don’t know how to do this.”
He reaches a hand toward mine, his fingers twitching, stretching, before making contact. “The half-naked girl I met on the street that morning, the one who straddled me on my bike and stole my heart… She didn’t know what she was doing, either. But she was beautifully bold and shameless. She did whatever the fuck she wanted, with mischief in her eyes and laughter on her lips.”
