Search me 9781926996714, 1926996712

Citation preview

1

Carnal Passions Presents

Search Me By

L. A. Witt

2

This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. Carnal Passions A Division of Champagne Books www.carnalpassions.com Copyright 2011 by L. A. Witt ISBN 9781926996714 December 2011 Cover Art by Amanda Kelsey Produced in Canada

Carnal Passions #35069-4604 37 ST SW Calgary, AB T3E 7C7 Canada

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Carnalpassions.com (or the retailer of your choice) and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. 3

Dedication To Andy.

4

One Gun in both hands, I inched down the hall of Nick's apartment. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end, my nerve endings tingling and my senses on high alert for any indication there was someone here. So far, the apartment was empty. Nothing had been disturbed. "Nick," I said over my shoulder, keeping my voice down. "Did you leave your bedroom door open or closed?" "I don't know," he said. "Probably closed." I pursed my lips. Up ahead, the door was ajar. As I took another step forward, I said, "Stay up against the wall." Fabric rustled behind me, so I didn't look back to make sure he'd done as I asked. Instead, I continued toward the door, listening for any movement beyond it. If Jesse was here, he could be in any state of mind. Lucid. Volatile. Going through withdrawal. In the middle of a high. The kid was mentally ill anyway, plus he was a crack addict. After he'd attacked Nick the other night, breaking his nose and nearly strangling him, there was no predicting what would be going on in the kid's head now. At the door, I paused for a moment, listening. Then I nudged the door open with my foot. Everything happened so fast. So goddamned fast. He must have been completely still, completely silent, and I didn't see him until he raised the gun. Until the muzzle flash startled me, sent me stumbling back in the same instant fire ripped across the side of my arm and a donkey kick's worth of force hit the center of my chest. 5

Nick tried to steady me, but we both went down. As he scrambled to his feet, I gripped my upper arm. It was a minor wound. Grazed me. My chest ached where my vest had stopped the second bullet, and breathing took some extra effort, but it was nothing serious. And Jesse was still here. "Andrew, are you okay?" Nick asked. Concern and fear were etched all over his bruised, cut-up face. "The gun." I coughed, then spoke through clenched teeth. "Get my gun." The pistol that had been in my hands had fallen just beyond the open doorway, so Nick took the revolver from my ankle holster. From the other side of the doorway came a hysterical, familiar voice: "Oh God, oh God, oh God…" "Jesse, put the gun down," I called out. I moved to my knees. "Jesse…" "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to, I'm sorry," came the shrill, shaky response. "I didn't mean to, Mark, I didn't—" "Jesse, just calm down." I kept my voice low. The kid only knew me by my undercover name, and probably had no idea I was a cop. He was already delusional and had long ago bought into a charade my partner and I had put on for months. As I tried to figure out how to defuse this situation, I noticed Jesse had dropped his weapon. The noise and the kick must have scared the shit out of him. That, or he'd realized he'd hit me—not Nick, the one he probably wanted to shoot—and freaked. Dropping my voice a little lower, I said, "Nick. His gun. It's on the floor." I nodded toward the bedroom. Nick looked. Then he turned to me and mouthed, "What do I do?" "Just stay there." I gestured at the revolver in his hand. "Aim the gun at the doorway." He cocked his head. "Aim the—" "Just do it. He goes anywhere near either gun, do not hesitate to fire." Nick nodded and drew the hammer back. He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing between the purple and red welts across the front of his throat. I thought he shuddered. He had to have 6

been scared out of his mind, but he did as I said, adopting the shooting stance I'd taught him and aiming his weapon at the bedroom doorway. "Jesse, move where I can see you," I ordered. "No, no, I can't, it's—" "Jesse, move where I can see you. Now." Tentative, unseen movement shuffled across carpet. "Jesse, I'm not fucking around." I sucked in a breath as I gingerly pushed myself to my feet, still clutching my wounded arm. "Get in front of the doorway with your hands in the air and don't touch that gun. Come on, Jesse." Another step. "Can you see him?" I asked. "Not yet," Nick said. "Come on, Jesse," I barked. "Now." "Please don't shoot me," came the shrill voice from the other side. He was crying now, almost hyperventilating. "I'm not going to shoot you unless you reach for a gun," Nick said. "Come out now, or I'm coming in." Jesse stepped into view. His eyes were wild with fury and probably no shortage of chemical influence, but also red from crying. His hands were up and his face was blotchy, vertical streaks marking where tears had cut through the dirt on his skin. He struggled just to breathe in between sobbing, and when he looked past Nick and saw me, he cried even harder. "Oh, God," he moaned. "I'm sorry, Mark, I'm sorry…" He whimpered and shook, brushing frantically at his arms like he had unseen insects crawling all over him. His legs trembled under him as he rocked back and forth. Fuck. He was probably coming off a high, maybe even a binge, and if ever a crackhead was going to be volatile and dangerous, this was it. "Jesse, put your hands back up," Nick said calmly. Jesse's hysteria shifted to anger when he glared at Nick. "Fuck you. I wanted to hit you, not…" He looked at me again and crumbled into renewed crying. "Mark, oh God, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to, I'm so..." He mumbled something after that, sobbing and struggling to speak. He started to sink to the floor, way too close to my gun for comfort. 7

"Stand up, Jesse," Nick said sharply. "Stand up and put your hands where I can see them. Now." Jesse obeyed, but stared at Nick with nothing but rage in his eyes. "You killed Chelsea." His voice cracked and he blinked rapidly. "You killed her, I saw you, I saw you, I tried to save her…" "Jesse, I didn't kill anyone." Nick's voice shook, but the gun in his hands stayed rock steady. "Listen to him, Jesse," I said. "He didn't kill anyone. Chelsea's alive. She's fine." "No, she's not," Jesse said. "I'm not stupid, Mark. I saw her. I fucking saw her." "And you damn near killed me," Nick growled. Jesse crumbled into incomprehensible crying and mumbling. Struggling to keep my voice calm, I said, "Chelsea is not dead, Jesse." "You're both lying." Jesse's voice inched toward even greater hysteria. He tore at his own hair, wavering back and forth on shaking knees. "She's dead, I saw her, and they moved everything out of her house and took it all away, and—" "Jesse, I can call her," Nick said. "We'll let you talk to her. She's alive, I promise." Jesse clutched his hair and shook his head and fidgeted. "You're lying. You're lying. I'm not stupid, Mark, I'm not stupid and she's dead, I saw her, I saw what he did to her, I saw it, you—" "She's not dead, Jesse," Nick said. "You're lying!" All at once, Jesse went for a gun on the floor, and Nick fired. The sound and recoil must have caught him off guard, especially with the vertigo from his concussion, and he grabbed the doorframe for balance. Jesse dropped to the floor, screaming. For about two seconds, I thought he was neutralized and this might be over, but then he lunged for one of the guns. "Nick! The gun!" Without thinking, I shoved Nick out of the way. A gunshot. Pain. More shots. I dropped to my knees, holding my arm. The wound was worse than it had been earlier. Far worse. No, no, it wasn't. This was a new one. A deeper, bloodier one, right through my upper arm. "Oh, fuck…" 8

A hand materialized on my shoulder. Nick's voice sounded far away as he said, "Are you—" "Get the gun," I said through my teeth. Nick left my side. I was vaguely aware of movement, of Jesse moaning beside me, but more than anything, I was aware of the hot blood slipping through my fingers and over the back of my hand. My head spun. I slumped forward, my vision turning black, and from nowhere, Nick was beside me again. "Easy," he said. "Lie back." He guided me onto my back, which slowed some of the spinning. Then he was gone again. Panic rose in my throat, alternately directed at the wound, my waning consciousness, and Nick's absence. His voice and presence returned. "Look, I'm a paramedic and one of these guys might be bleeding out." Who is he talking to? "I need both hands to do this. Just send help and send it now." A second later, something clattered beside me. A gun? A phone? Fuck if I knew, because the pain in my arm worsened. Someone was moving my arm. Squeezing it. "Keep a tight grip on this," Nick said, guiding my hand to a towel he'd wrapped around my arm, "and hold it against your side. It's going to hurt like hell, but don't let go of it." I gripped the towel, which sent daggers of pain shooting through the wound. "Fuck, that hurts." "It's going to. But don't let go." I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. I looked around at the blood and bullet holes in the room. "Looks like you're fucked for your damage deposit," I muttered. Nick chuckled. "And I thought I had a dark sense of humor." He nodded at my arm. "Keep holding that." He started to stand. Panicked, I seized his wrist. "Wait, where are you going?" Nick gestured at Jesse. "I have to help him. He's bleeding badly. I'm not going far and help is on its way." "Nick…" My heart pounded. My head spun faster. Don't leave me like this. Nick, don't leave. Don't go, please. But he got up. As I fought to stay conscious, to see through the pain and my fading vision, he got up and walked away. He walked away. 9

He walked away. Nick…don't leave me like this… ~*~ My eyes flew open and I pulled in a breath. That same fucking dream again. I wanted to tell myself it wasn't real, that it was just a damned dream, but I knew better. Sighing I rubbed my eyes. The dull ache in my other arm reminded me that no amount of "it's not real" would change the fact that the dream was real. It had happened. The better part of a year ago, yes, but whether it had happened back then or just now, it was anything but "not real". I fidgeted, then cursed under my breath. No wonder my arm ached: it was pressed between the back of the couch and me. I moved just enough to free my arm, then raised it, bending and straightening my elbow gingerly. Same thing happened last night. One of these days, maybe I'd learn how to sleep on the couch without fucking up my arm. Like facing the other direction or something. Then again, it would all be a moot point if I just got up and stayed in the bedroom, but I couldn't. Not now. I couldn't sleep in the bedroom because Nick was gone. I was used to spending nights apart, but this was different. This wasn't like when he stayed at the firehouse for his three day shifts. During his rotations, he was gone for a few nights, and when that was over, he came through the front door, sleepy-eyed and exhausted, in the morning before I went to work. Not this time. He was really gone this time. Not moved out yet, but all it would take was a borrowed pickup truck, some cardboard boxes, and a few hours to take care of that. He hadn't decided yet if this was permanent, but it didn't feel temporary to me. There was too much finality in the click of the front door two nights ago. He didn't storm out. He didn't slam the door. He just quietly said he had to go, needed to go—Nick, please, don't go—and slipped through my fingers. I exhaled and rubbed my forehead, swallowing the lump that kept trying to rise in my throat. We'd had problems for a while now, but I'd been so sure we'd be all right. Even when we'd fought and couldn't stand the sight of each other, when we went days on end 10

without speaking, I knew we'd make it through. Somehow, we'd make it through. I thought we would, anyway. There was never any doubt in my mind that what we had was solid enough to weather damn near anything. Now, all I knew was that Nick's side of the bed was empty.

11

Two "You, my friend, look like hell." Detective Macy Lombardi, my partner, dropped into her chair at the desk in front of mine. "Good morning to you, too," I muttered. Concern knitted her eyebrows together. "You and Nick still having problems?" "Oh, just a few." I reached for my coffee cup, but when I picked it up, it was empty. Just like it had been twenty minutes ago when I realized I needed to go refill it. She folded her arms on the edge of the desk and cocked her head. "Have you guys talked?" I pushed my empty coffee cup aside and closed my eyes. Rubbing my forehead with two fingers, I tried to ignore the noise of the precinct—ringing phones, chattering voices, shuffling papers, scraping and rolling chairs, doors banging closed—but even if the place was dead silent, my head still would have been throbbing. Lack of sleep, not enough caffeine, generally feeling like— "Andrew?" I looked at Macy. "We haven't talked. Not since he left." She scowled. "You aren't giving up on him, are you?" "No, I'm not." I rubbed the back of my neck and avoided her eyes. "Can't say the same about him, though." "Well, you know where I stand on the issue. You guys either need to talk this thing through, right down to all the uncomfortable shit that I know you haven't discussed, or throw in the towel before the stress kills you both." Sighing, I said nothing. She was right, after all. Wasn't she 12

always? "Shit." Macy stood suddenly, and I looked up. "It's almost nine. We should get out of here if we're going to meet with Haines on time." "Crap, already?" I looked at my watch. Sure enough, we didn't have a lot of time, so I got up, grabbed my jacket and keys, and we headed down to the parking garage. After our respective injuries during an undercover job, not to mention having our cover blown, Macy and I were mostly relegated to desk detail these days. Our faces were too well known in Masontown—the seedy neighborhood that served as the hub of the city's thriving drug trade—for us to be on the streets much, but we still discreetly met with informants in other parts of town as part of the ongoing investigation. It wasn't the same as our more intense, firsthand involvement, but we were both content to work with a bit less excitement after each getting a little too closely acquainted with the Grim Reaper. On a day like today, when my mind wanted to focus on one thing and one thing only, I welcomed the opportunity to get out of the precinct. It kept me busy, kept my mind on my work, and didn't let me wallow at my desk. Even if the informant was an asshole who was going to wind up with a bullet through his balls if he kept leering at Macy and smarting off to me. "I'm going to hand that guy his ass one of these days," I growled into my coffee at a diner down the street from the precinct. Macy laughed. "You're so adorably protective, Andrew." I rolled my eyes. "Oh, whatever. He's a jackass." "We're not pretending to be married anymore," she said with a smirk. "You can stop playing the territorial husband." At that, I laughed. "Macy, darling, if we were still pretending to be married, I'd tell him to have at it." She scoffed and glared at me. "What? You asshole." I shrugged. "You married me." "Only because the chief told me to." "What?" I put my hand to my chest and feigned offense. "So it was just an assignment to you? Just… a marriage of convenience?" "Convenience, my left tit," she muttered, lifting her coffee cup to her lips. "Isn't like you ever put out or anything." 13

"Sorry, my dear." I shrugged again. "You're not exactly my type." She snorted, very nearly choking on her coffee, and we both laughed. Then the bells on the diner door jingled behind me, and when Macy looked past me, her eyebrows rose slightly. "Pity I'm not that man's type, let me tell you" I didn't even have to turn around. "Do I have to tell Tony you're ogling other men again?" She waved a hand. "Considering every man who catches my eye these days is gay, he'll probably just laugh." I chuckled. "Good point." A second later, the object of her momentary affection slid into the booth beside me. "Sorry I'm late," Eric said. "Brian had to bail, though." "What?" Macy released a melodramatic, exasperated breath. "Here I thought I'd be spending my lunch surrounded by beautiful gay men, but now I'm just stuck with two of you?" Eric laughed. "Guess you'll just have to make do." The three of us made small talk which segued into shop talk. We were all involved in the same investigation, after all: after Eric's deep-cover investigation ended a few months ago, he resigned from the DEA and went to work with our department. Brian, his significant other, worked over in homicide, but since Eric had been in tight with countless players in the drug trade—after all, he'd spent months posing as James Merrill, the kingpin of one particular operation—he came to the narcotics unit. We'd become good friends over the last couple of months, which I supposed was inevitable between working together and the fact that he was dating my longtime friend. Now if Nick and Eric would stop striking sparks off each other… Which will probably be a moot point sooner than later anyway. The thought made my heart sink. "Hey," Macy said. "Andrew?" I blinked, then looked at my two lunch companions. They were both staring at me, and I wondered how long I'd gone quiet before she'd gotten my attention. 14

I cleared my throat. "Sorry, what?" Eric cocked his head. "You all right, man?" "Yeah. Yeah." I muffled a cough. "I'm fine." They both exchanged glances, then eyed me skeptically. "We were asking if you remembered whose turn it was to get the check," Eric said. "I, um…" I absently reached for my long empty coffee cup. "I think it's Macy's." She huffed. He laughed. "I told you." He shoved the check across the table. "Go pay, woman." "Woman?" She glared at him. "Do we need to take this outside?" He put up his hands. "Are you arguing with me? I mean, you are—" "Oh, fuck you." She picked up the check and stood. As she walked past him, she shoved his arm, and all three of us laughed, though I was pretty halfhearted about it. After she'd gone, Eric turned to me, his expression more serious. "You sure you are all right?" I sighed and pushed my coffee cup away. "Yeah. I'm just still stressed about everything with Nick." He pursed his lips. "You guys still having problems?" Not for much longer, at this rate. "You could say that," I said quietly. "How are you and Brian doing?" "Oh, you know." He shrugged. "The longer he goes without drinking, the less touch-and-go things are." "I can imagine," I said dryly. "We'll be all right, though." He furrowed his brow. "You think you guys will pull through?" "Don't know." I sighed. "He left the other night and hasn't been back. Hasn't moved out, but isn't exactly running back in either." "Oh, shit," Eric said quietly. "Have you—" "Talked to him?" I kept my tone even; my frustration wasn't directed at Eric, so I didn't want to snap at him. "Not yet. I need to." 15

He nodded. "No kidding. Sooner than later, if he's already out the door." A knot twisted and tightened below my ribs. Eric had a point. The longer Nick and I let this sit, the more likely it was to settle into something permanent. Assuming it hadn't already, and I was just too stubborn to accept that. By the time I had a few minutes to myself at my desk that afternoon, I couldn't wait any longer. Nick was leaning toward checking out and calling it quits, so if anyone was going to bridge this gap, it needed to be me, and it needed to be now. Heart in my throat, I took my phone out of my pocket and thumbed a quick text. I'd like to talk. Face to face, if we can. I stared at the message for a long moment, second-guessing myself and wondering if— Fuck it. I pressed the send button, and before I could decide if I regretted it, the message was gone. I set my phone beside the stack of paperwork that needed my attention. I glanced at it. Again. Again. Minutes passed by. More of them. A dozen. Two. Three. An hour. Exhaling, I scrubbed a hand over my face and pretended my stomach didn't sink a little lower with every passing minute. Nick was hardly one to ignore a text, even from me. Especially from me, if only because he couldn't relax or concentrate if there was something unresolved in his world. Then again, maybe for him this was resolved just shy of a moving van. I took a deep breath and released it slowly. He was probably on a call. Whenever he was on duty, long silences were usually broken with a text that began sorry, I was on a call. He had to be on a call. He wouldn't ignore me, especially if he was pissed at me. Come on, Nick. Come on. I want to work this out. Almost an hour later, about the time I was ready to shut off my phone just to maintain my sanity, a text came through. Sorry, I was on a call. We can talk if you want to. I'm on duty until tomorrow morning, though. I exhaled. Well, it was a start. I wrote back, I can bring dinner by the firehouse tonight. 16

My heart pounded as I sent the message. Deep down, I expected him to suggest we do this over the phone, from some kind of safe distance. After a full minute, a reply: I'll be around. The message was non-committal and unenthusiastic, but it wasn't a no. At this point, I'd take that. At around seven thirty that evening, I walked into the firehouse with some takeout Chinese food. Nick was in the lounge with some of the other guys, and when I walked in, he looked up from watching the game, but didn't look too thrilled to see me. His expression was flat, blank, as neutral as he was capable of, and that did nothing to settle my nerves. I had hoped for a flicker of something to give me a hint how this evening would go, whether it was an irritated scowl or a not-quite-suppressed grin, but he gave me nothing. One of the firefighters, Bentley, wasn't quite so poker-faced. As soon as he saw me, he scowled, but didn't say anything as he turned his attention back to the game on television. He'd never said a word about his distaste for Nick's relationship with me, and neither of them let their mutual dislike get in the way when they were on a call together, but his quiet annoyance still got under my skin. Nick and I left the guys to their game and headed out of the lounge. The night was warm, so we went outside as we often did. "It's been a busy night." Nick pushed the door open and gestured for me to go out ahead of him. "Can't promise I won't get a call." I shrugged. "Wouldn't be the first time it's happened during dinner." He offered a tight-lipped chuckle, but said nothing. We took a seat on our usual bench beside the concrete patio, and neither of us spoke as we pulled some cartons of Chinese food, packets of soy sauce, and cans of Coke out of the plastic bags I'd brought with me. The silence continued as we ate, and I tried not to notice how the scattered cartons filled—and almost masked—the distance between us on the bench. Though neither of us spoke, I cast a few surreptitious glances at him in the silvery light from a single mercury vapor lamp above 17

the door. He was obviously exhausted, as was I. Both of our jobs were demanding, and the hours could be brutal, especially in his line of work. His shoulders slumped under his blue uniform shirt, and every motion—manipulating his chopsticks, opening the tab on his soda— seemed to require every bit of energy he had. The thin, pale scar, slightly off-center on the bridge of his nose, was the only visible reminder of the night Jesse Kendall tried to kill him. Most of the time, I didn't even see the scar, but once in a while, the light caught it just right, reflecting off the sliver of slightly shinier skin. The light above the firehouse door glinted off it, and in my mind's eye, all the marks that had long since healed re-emerged: the bruising under his eyes, across his forehead, and down the length of his nose. The deep, angry marks across his throat from the tire iron Jesse had used to try to strangle him. The bloody scratches from Nick's own efforts to pry that tire iron off so he could breathe. He'd looked like hell the morning after the attack, but his appearance that night, when he was still lying on the floor of that hallway after a neighbor chased Jesse off, haunted me to this day. The sight of blood didn't bother me, but that much blood covering my boyfriend's face? I shuddered. "Cold?" Nick's voice startled me. "No, I'm fine." I shifted, rolling my shoulders to ward off a chill. One fleck of light off that scar, and it had all came back, and with it, the deep-seated fear that had brought me here tonight in the first place: the realization of how easily I could lose him. Nick cleared his throat and idly played with a flap on the carton in his hand. "So, you wanted to talk?" I nodded and set my Coke can beside me on the bench. "Don't you think we should?" With his chopsticks, he unenthusiastically picked at the chow mein in the carton. "We have talked. And we've argued. And we've…" Shaking his head, he put the carton aside and turned to me. God, his eyes looked so tired, and his voice was heavy with fatigue as he spoke again. "How much longer do we keep doing this before we realize we're more miserable than we are happy?" "I want to figure out why we're more miserable than happy," I said. "I don't want to lose you, Nick." I'm scared to death I already 18

have. He shifted his gaze away. Barely whispering, I asked, "Do you want to make this work?" Nick swallowed. He didn't respond right away, which wasn't unusual for him. No man could mull things over like he often did, but I had hoped that question wouldn't require as much thought. The answer was a no-brainer for me, and every second of silence hurt a little more than the last. Finally, he drew a breath and looked at me. "I want this to work. I do. It just seems like we've been a million miles apart for so long, I can barely remember what it was like before that." I flinched. "Then how do we get back to what it was like before?" "If I knew, I'd throw it out there," he snapped. I put up a hand. Forcing my tone to stay even, I said, "Okay, you're right. But maybe we need to figure that out. Together." He rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. "The thing is, I'm not sure it's even a question of wanting to make it work. It's a question of whether or not that ship sailed a long, long time ago, and we just need to accept it." My heart sank. "Do you think that ship has sailed?" He met my eyes, and his voice fell to little more than a whisper. "I don't know. I really don't." He drew a long, deep breath. "All we do is fight, Andrew. Things haven't been the same since we both got hurt, and I…" For a moment, he was quiet. Then, shaking his head, he went on, "It's been like that longer than it wasn't like that. So it's hard to imagine we can—" The bell went off. A second later, over the loudspeaker: "Code four, medical. Jackson and twelfth. Code four, medical. Jackson and twelfth." "I have to go." Nick pushed himself to his feet. "We'll finish talking about this later." I barely had time to draw a breath, never mind speak, before he was across the patio and the door had banged shut behind him. I exhaled hard and dropped my gaze into the carton of rice that wasn't going to get any more appetizing tonight. His abrupt exit didn't bother me. In our lines of work, personal problems took an instant 19

backseat to professional commitments. Even if he did make that exit even faster than he usually did when an alarm interrupted us. I blew out a breath. We really were fucked, weren't we? On my way out, I left the untouched cartons of Chinese food in the lounge for the guys, and took the rest with me. The drive home was longer than usual. The road was clear, and my speedometer needle hovered well beyond the posted speed limit, but it felt like hours before the highway finally led me to the thin strip of unmarked asphalt that would take me to the dirt road on which I lived. All the way, mile after mile, I replayed our conversation in my head. More than that, I replayed the hopelessness in his voice and the sadness in his exhausted eyes. Nick was a stubborn son of a bitch. It was one of the things I loved and hated about him. It also made him the last person in the world to raise a white flag and accept—embrace—defeat. All we do is fight. I sighed. We hadn't even done much of that over the last few weeks. We'd stopped fighting. We'd stopped fucking. If I was honest, things were a hell of a lot easier when we were arguing all the time. Lately, we weren't even talking enough to disagree on anything. It was like neither of us could muster the energy to fight. Like maybe this wasn't worth fighting for. Maybe Nick was right. We were miserable more than we were happy. Maybe I was just too stubborn to admit this was a lost cause, especially since he didn't seem to have it in him to fight for it anymore. As it was, the only time he didn't keep me at arm's length was in bed. That was the only time I could get close to him anymore, because he wouldn't let me any closer. And how long had it been since I'd been even that close to him? I sighed. Something in him had drawn me to him from day one. There must have been something that drew him to me. I refused to believe it was simply the fact that we'd both survived a terrifying close call the day we met. That moment may have been what made our paths cross, but I refused to believe that was all that kept us coming back to each other. We needed to find that something again. Whatever it was that had pulled us each to the other in the first place. But we both had 20

to be willing to look for it, to search each other for it, or what was the point? It was worth a try, though. I hoped. The endless strip of unlined asphalt finally conceded and gave way to the pothole-riddled dirt road. In turn, the dirt road eventually brought me to my driveway, and I parked in front of the garage. I walked into the house on tired, leaden legs. After I'd put the leftover Chinese food in the refrigerator, I paused, eyeing the freezer door for a moment, wondering if I should pull out a few ice cubes, drop them in a glass, and apply a generous amount of bourbon. I wasn't one to drink myself senseless, especially when I had to work the next day, but a little alcohol to dull these frayed nerves was awfully tempting. Tempting, but not tonight. I settled on a long, hot shower before trudging out to the living room to call it a night. I lay back on the couch, this time making sure my bad arm wasn't up against the cushions. After the last surgery, things were healing nicely, and if I didn't do something stupid like sleep on it, maybe my arm wouldn't hurt tomorrow. Now if I could just get some sleep, maybe I'd be in good shape, but that didn't look promising tonight. Sighing, I stared up at the living room ceiling. Sleep. Sure. That was happening. Sheer exhaustion kicked in after a while, though, and drowsiness took over. I closed my eyes and was just starting to slip off into something resembling sleep when my phone beeped. Furrowing my brow, I reached for the coffee table. The message made my heart skip, and I had to read it three times before I was sure I'd comprehended it properly: Is it okay if I come home after my rotation? I closed my eyes and released a breath. I didn't want to find hope where there wasn't any. For all I knew, he just wanted to know it was okay to come back and pick up his things. Still, it was something. Finally, I sent back, Please do. And I hoped to God he did.

21

Three "Hey, Chief, it's Carmichael." I leaned against my kitchen counter, resting one hand on the edge and holding my phone in the other. "Listen, I have something I need to take care of this morning, so I'll be in late." "All right," he said, his voice taut with waning patience. "Just get here as soon as you can." "Will do. Lombardi and I are meeting with a couple of informants this afternoon. I'll be there in time for that." He wasn't thrilled, which was to be expected. I was low on time off and even lower on favors. It would have been prudent to preserve as much of my sick and vacation time as possible for doctor's appointments, physical therapy, and the possibility of one or two more surgeries on my arm. This was important, though, and it just couldn't wait. Still leaning against the kitchen counter, I drummed my fingers beside my phone and listened for an approaching car engine. One of the perks of living out here, miles from the city out in the middle of the woods, was the silence. I could hear a car long before it passed or turned down my driveway. On the flipside, when I was listening for a particular vehicle, the silence was almost maddening. Like a resonating insistence that no, Andrew, that car was not really coming here this morning. I flipped open my phone and scrolled to Nick's text from last night. Is it okay if I come home after my rotation? He wouldn't bail at the last second. He was the one who'd 22

suggested this. Maybe he had a different idea than I did about how this morning would progress once he got here, but he hadn't called or texted to say he wasn't coming. The tiny digital clock in the corner of my phone's display said it was a little after nine, which meant his rotation had ended an hour and a half ago. Allowing for traffic and the sheer distance from the firehouse to our house, he'd be here any minute now. Any minute. Any fucking minute. The faint rumble of an approaching engine made me close my eyes and pull in a long breath. I followed the sound as it came closer, closer, slowed… Turned down the driveway. I gulped and opened my eyes again. Here we go. Gravel crunched under tires, and the car came to a gentle stop outside. Then the car door opened. Closed. Dull footsteps on the concrete walkway sent my pulse skyrocketing. The front door opened, and goose bumps prickled the length of my spine. The familiar thud of Nick's duffle bag hitting the floor in the foyer made me shiver. He was here, but would he stay? As he always did when he came home off a rotation, he went from the foyer to the kitchen, undoubtedly in search of coffee. Only Nick would need a cup of coffee while he wound down before crashing for a few hours of much-needed sleep, but that was his routine. And that was why I waited for him in the kitchen. When he appeared in the doorway, our eyes met and my heart skipped. He stopped, and we just held each other's gazes for a moment. The circles under his eyes could have been a result of a busy night, or like the shadows under my own eyes, they could have been evidence of a night of lying awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering what would happen today. What would happen here and now. He broke eye contact, and his gaze drifted down, then back up. It wasn't the suggestive down-up he'd often given me. If anything, he was curious. Puzzled, if the furrow of his brow was any indication, and I guessed it was because I would normally be on my way out the door in a few minutes, but I wore only a pair of jeans now. He met my eyes again. "Shouldn't you be getting ready for 23

work?" I shifted my weight. "Boss knows I'll be late." His eyebrows jumped. Then he released a breath and dropped his gaze. "Andrew, I need to sleep. It was… a long night. I don't have it in me to discuss this right now." I pushed myself away off the kitchen island and started toward him. "Neither do I." "Andrew…" I reached for him. "I don't want to talk right now." He stiffened when I touched his waist, but he didn't pull away. As I slid my hand from his waist to the small of his back, drawing us closer together, he sucked in a ragged breath and closed his eyes, but still made no effort to move us back to a comfortable distance apart. "Nick," I whispered. "Look at me." He opened his eyes, and I could barely breathe. My God, you have the most beautiful eyes… I drew him a little closer, and some of the tension in his posture eased. When I touched his face, he pressed against my hand, a sigh escaping his lips. Has it really been that long since I've touched you like this? I leaned in. So did he, but then he hesitated. "This isn't going to fix anything," he murmured. "Doesn't hurt anything, does it?" "No." His hand curved around the back of my neck, and he kissed me. I melted against him, sinking into his embrace like there wasn't a damned thing wrong with us. His grip tightened on the back of my neck, his fingers digging in as his other arm snaked around my waist. We kissed furiously, violently, the way we always did when one of us had had the day from hell or when we'd needed to channel a fight's worth of aggression into something less destructive. His erection pressed into my hip, and in between kisses he drew those sharp, rapid breaths he only drew when he was turned on to the point of madness. Sex wouldn't solve everything. It wouldn't solve anything. I just needed to know we still had something. Some common ground, some spark of the way things were before they started falling apart. This was all we had left right now, and I needed to know we still had 24

it. His hands drifted down my sides, then hooked in the front pockets of my jeans. He pulled me back a step toward the kitchen doorway. Toward the hall. Toward the bed. I didn't need any more encouragement than that. Tangled up in a kiss, tearing at clothes and demanding access to each other's mouths and releasing sharp, hot breaths on each other's skin, we shuffled and stumbled toward the bedroom. How long had it been since we'd needed each other like this? To the point of bumping into furniture, brushing against walls, almost tripping over each other's feet? Fuck if I could remember, but I needed him like that now, and it wasn't a moment too soon when we made it into the bedroom. He toed off his shoes and kicked them out of the way. I was thankful I hadn't bothered with more than jeans, or this would have taken seconds I didn't want to spare. We both unbuttoned Nick's shirt, and when I shoved it over his shoulders in the middle of a desperate, passionate kiss, a seam or something ripped, but neither of us missed a beat. It wasn't the first time we'd damaged one of his uniforms, and I hoped to God it wouldn't be the last. With the last thread of clothing out of the way, Nick leaned against the bed and pulled me to him, dragging his fingers through my hair and kissing me hungrily. I wrapped my arms around him and returned his kiss with equal feverish fervor, desperate for every taste of him I could get. I wanted to fuck him, but it had been so damned long since his skin had been against mine like this, I couldn't bring myself to pull away just yet. But then Nick pressed his hips against mine, shifting to one side, then the other, letting our cocks rub together in the most deliciously tantalizing way, and I couldn't take another minute without being inside him. "Let me fuck you," I growled against his lips. He groaned and kissed me once more. I thought we might get lost in a long kiss—in our past life, it wasn't unlike us to get carried away with making out instead of fucking—but he put his hands on my chest and nudged me back a step. Our eyes met, and fuck but I'd missed seeing that intense, raw hunger in his. We both reached for the nightstand. I took out a condom. He picked up the lube. While I rolled on the condom, he poured lube 25

into his palm. Then he pushed my hand out of the way and stroked lube onto my cock, squeezing just enough to make my breath catch. Nick capped the bottle and put it aside. He looked at me, eyebrows up, and I nodded toward the bed, masking a shiver as he licked his lips. He turned around and leaned over the side of the bed, resting his weight on his hands. This was a position we'd used time and again to keep the weight off my injured arm, but it was also one of his favorites. One of mine, too, because goddamn, the view… Breathing slowly to stay in control, I guided myself to him. We both gasped when I pressed against him, and as the head of my cock slid into him, my vision blurred. It had been too long, way too damned long, since I'd fucked him, and every stroke—each a little deeper than the last—took my breath away. All the way inside him, I stopped. Already breathless, Nick whispered, "Don't… stop…" Resting a hand on his hip, I reached around with my other and closed my fingers around his cock. He gasped, shuddering as he leaned back against me. "Fuck, Andrew…" I kissed the side of his neck, just below his hairline, as I stroked his cock. "Like that?" He just moaned. Stroking him slowly, I rocked my hips back and forth just enough to keep my cock subtly moving inside him. So he couldn't, no matter how hard he might have tried, forget I was fucking him, just not the way he wanted me to. I wanted to fuck him that way too, but not yet. Not quite yet. His head fell forward. I kissed the back of his neck, deliberately letting my stubbled chin brush his flesh the way I knew he liked it, and he rewarded me with a shiver. I stroked him slowly, mirroring with my hand the gentle motions of my hips. He tried to thrust into my fist, but I kept him pinned against the bed so he was completely at my mercy. A delirious, aggravated growl raised goose bumps on my back. I grinned against his neck. "You like that, don't you?" "You're a fucking tease." "Because I know you like it." I thrust once, just enough to 26

make him moan. "Don't you?" The helpless sound he made was close enough to an affirmative, and I gave him a little more, withdrawing less than an inch before forcing myself into him again, all the while stroking his cock and kissing his neck. "Oh, my God…" He sounded like he was on the verge of tears. "Andrew, please, fuck…" A shiver straightened his spine and forced a whimper from his lips. I had him right where I wanted him now: on the edge, caught between begging and breathing, walking that fine line between pleasure and frustration. . I released his cock, then shoved him down onto his forearms. He went down with no resistance, just a moan of anticipation. He knew what was coming. I grabbed his hips and thrust into him. Deep. Hard. Violent. Until I was damn sure it hurt, because I knew he didn't want it any other way, and he cried out in pain-ecstasy-pain as his fingers clawed at the comforter and his back arched and oh, God, Nick, I can't get enough of you… I slid one hand up his back to grip his shoulder for leverage, thrusting harder as he fell apart beneath me, and my God, he was beautiful like this. Powerful arms and broad shoulders quivering, beads of sweat glistening on his neck and back, dark hair disheveled…I could have stared at him like this all damned day if my impending orgasm didn't blur my vision and roll my eyes back. I gritted my teeth, forcing myself not to come yet. Not until he did. It had been so long since we'd had sex, I didn't think we could possibly last, but I had to. I needed him, and I needed this to go on as long as I could make it last. It had been weeks since we'd touched. I couldn't even begin to tell him how badly I craved every second I could have with his skin against mine. "Jesus Christ," he moaned. "Don't stop. Don't fucking stop. Oh, God…" I clenched my jaw and fucked him as hard as I could. Shuddering, he released the most spine-melting cry of surrender, and I couldn't hold back any longer. I kept thrusting until every stroke was too fucking intense, until the world turned white and my knees turned to liquid. Entirely too quickly, it was over, and I rested my forehead 27

against the back of his neck, breathing in his scent as I panted. The cool, electric aftershocks of my orgasm rippled through me as I held myself up on my precariously unsteady good arm. Nick moaned softly as I withdrew, and shivered when I kissed the back of his shoulder. "I'm going to grab a shower," I murmured against his sweatdampened skin. "Want to join me?" Panic rushed through me. Please, don't say no… He didn't speak. Just nodded. In the time it took for us to get from the bedroom to the shower, the chilly distance settled back in. We didn't speak. We only touched as much as the narrowness of the shower stall demanded when we needed to trade places, or when we grazed fingertips while handing off soap. With each passing minute of that short, silent shower, regret pressed its weight onto my shoulders. Not regret that we'd finally broken the ice and a long dry spell, but regret that it wasn't enough— or that I'd somehow thought it would be enough—to bridge the space that remained between us after the heat of the moment had cooled. There was a time when sex was enough to break the silence and get us talking. Now I supposed it was just something to do that wasn't fighting. Nick turned off the water and we both got out. We wordlessly dried off, not sparing so much as a glance at the other's reflection, never mind right at each other. Christ. It hadn't even been this awkward the morning after we'd fucked for the very first time. But then, I supposed that time, I'd expected us to be strangers. In the bedroom, Nick put on a pair of jeans and nothing more while I got dressed. The roles from earlier were reversed, in a way. He'd been on his way in from work. Now I was on my way out to work. And we were no closer to resolving a goddamned thing. He leaned against the doorframe between the bedroom and bathroom, quietly watching me button my shirt. After a while, he spoke. "Maybe we can…" He paused, dropping his gaze. "I guess, tonight we could talk some more. When you get home." "Will you still be here?" He was silent for a long moment. "Yeah. I'll be here." 28

The resignation in his tone tightened the knots in my gut. I took a deep breath. "Look, I know things aren't good right now, but I want to work this out." Nick looked away. "I want to work it out, too." There was a faint catch in his voice, like the prelude to an unspoken "But…" After a moment, he met my eyes. "You should get ready for work. I don't want to make you too late." I swallowed. "I guess I should let you get some sleep." He nodded slowly. "It would probably help if one of us wasn't always getting pulled away to go to work." I tried not to lean too heavily on the glimmer of hope his words sparked in the back of my mind. "Maybe we need more than one evening to sort this out, too," I said. "It took us a while to get to this point in the first place, after all." "True." He exhaled hard. "And one of us is always either on our way out the door to work or ready to collapse after a long day." He laughed softly, but it was more of an exhausted sound than a bitter one. "I guess our line of work isn't conducive to resolving shit like this." I chewed the inside of my cheek. He swallowed. "Maybe we need to save this for an evening where we're not exhausted from our jobs." "When would that be?" He looked at the floor between us for a moment. Then he shrugged and exhaled. "I don't know." "Maybe we need to get out of here for a while, then," I said. "A vacation or something. Even if it's just a weekend away. You know, so the stress is out of the picture. See if we can…" Salvage this. Figure out what the fuck we're doing. Stop torturing ourselves if that's what we need to do. "…work this out." "I suppose we could both use some time away," he said with a vague nod. "But do you even have any vacation time left?" "Enough." Barely. Scheduling more physical therapy and such would be tricky from here on out, but so be it. "I'll figure that out. But maybe once we've both had a chance to rest a bit, clear our heads, get away from work…" He chewed his lip. Then he shrugged with one shoulder. "I don't see how it could hurt anything." 29

"Can you get any time off?" "I have a week or so left on the books." He raised his eyebrows. "I'm more concerned with you being able to take—" I put up a hand. "Don't worry about me. I'll work it out with the chief." He hesitated. "All right. I'll talk to Switzer today. Might be a week or two before I can leave." "Whatever you can do," I said quietly. "In the meantime…" He looked at me through his lashes. "Should I… um…" "Stay here?" He nodded. I was afraid of the answer, but I asked anyway: "Do you want to stay?" He shifted his gaze away from mine. He looked at the bed, and I wondered if he wondered, like I did, how it was possible that less than an hour ago, we were up against that bed, as close as two men could get. Finally he laughed softly and shrugged as he turned back to me. "Well, I'm already here. I… might as well." "Yeah." My stomach twisted into tighter knots. "Might as well."

30

Four Since this was spur of the moment, a cabin in the foothills of the forested mountains a few hours out of the city was the best we could do. Not that I was complaining; I preferred places like that to some of the more popular vacation hotspots. My only hesitation stemmed from not knowing anyone who'd visited this place. All the way there, I had visions of rotted floorboards, massive hordes of vermin, and Bronze Age plumbing. That was to say nothing of the locals. Maybe I'd seen too many variations of Wrong Turn and Deliverance, but even after living out in the sticks for the last ten years, I was a little unsure of staying out in an uncharted middle of nowhere. I'd just have to hope for the best, I supposed. Nick and I drove up separately. I needed to get there early enough in the afternoon to check in without forfeiting our reservation, and Nick didn't get off work until that evening. Part of the deal with getting the three-day weekend, apparently, though I quietly wondered if it actually made him more comfortable, being able to leave if he needed to. After all, there was a chance that this could be it for us. I supposed driving back together after deciding to call it quits would be awkward. No, I wasn't going to think about that now. We could work this out. If anyone on this earth could work things out, it was us. We'd made it this far. We could do this. We had to. I checked in at the cabin marked "Office" at the base of a hill. The owner, a weathered old man dressed like a lumberjack, gave me the key and directions, and sent me on my way. About half an 31

hour later, after driving through thick forest on a wet dirt road, I found the sign indicating the correct place. I parked in a gravel driveway tucked into the trees. As I got out of the car, I looked up at the rustic log cabin that would be our home away from home for the weekend. It was two stories, but not huge. Big enough for a family of four, according to the website, so more than enough room for us. From this side, the exterior was mostly uniform horizontal logs, a few small metal-framed windows, and at the top of three red cedar steps, a door painted green to match the cabin's trim. I chuckled at the sight of the satellite dish perched on the peaked roof. Who the hell came out to a place like this to stare at a television, anyway? I went around to the passenger side and picked up my overnight bag and a plastic grocery sack. Though we were millions of miles from nowhere, I locked the doors out of habit, then went inside. The cabin's interior was gorgeous and pristine. Certainly no chance of a comedy of errors of trying to keep the place from crumbling beneath our feet while we ignored the problems we'd come up here to sort out. Guess we were stuck doing what we came to do. Hardwood creaked under my feet as I crossed the tiny, cedar-scented living room. Late afternoon sunlight poured in through a giant picture window, and the long shadows of evergreen trees spiked across the floor and furniture. I could get used to a place like this. I'd always said I wanted to retire to a cabin in the mountains someday, and the idea was even more appetizing now that I was standing in one. Though I supposed the miles and miles of dirt road leading up to this place would be a problem. Might have to find a new home for my Corvette if I wound up moving to a place like this. The mere thought of driving her through a ding-and-dent gauntlet like that was almost enough to make me break out in hives. But at least for the weekend, while the Vette was safe in my garage, this was home. I dropped my overnight bag on the faded but inviting armchair. Then I took the grocery sack and went into the kitchen. The kitchen was decorated with a country style. It was all 32

right, I supposed. I never did understand the attraction to paintings of chickens in huge floppy hats and ducks with bows around their necks. Whatever floated the owner's boat. Then again, even if I leaned toward more spartan and utilitarian methods of decorating, the stacked-log walls wouldn't have looked right if they'd remained bare, and I supposed a motif of zombies and wanted posters wouldn't quite fit. Chickens in hats it was. I chuckled to myself and shook my head, wondering how long I'd been idly staring at the ridiculous picture hanging between the window and the door that led out to the deck. Ignoring the décor, I set the grocery sack on the counter. Nick and I weren't heavy drinkers, but I didn't see us getting through this weekend without something to settle the nerves. I'd picked up a bottle of bourbon—Maker's Mark, of course—on the way up here, and it was only fair to get something for him too, so I'd grabbed a bottle of Crown Royal. I'd also brought a plastic ice cube tray, which I filled and put in the freezer. I preferred my drinks cold, but could drink them at room temperature in a pinch. Not Nick, though. Any beverage that was less than ice cold or boiling hot disgusted him. While the ice froze and Crown cooled, I went upstairs. The bedroom was as quaintly appointed as the rest of the house. Still not quite to my simple and perhaps unrefined taste, but it was homey. The bed was a little smaller than the one at home, and I tried not to get my hopes up about using it for more than sleeping. Though I'd have been happy just to sleep in it. Both of us. In the same bed. We'd spent the last several nights together, so I was hopeful about that continuing. I glanced at my watch. Nick would have been off work about three hours ago, which meant he'd be here in the next hour or so. Plenty of time for me to get a shower and unwind a bit. Unwind. Sure. If I wanted to do that, maybe getting an early start on diving into that bottle of bourbon was a better idea, because as soon as I was under what should have been a soothing stream of hot water, my mind started working double time. With Nick on his way here, I wanted to come up with a solution before he even came through the door. Of course, if that was possible, I'd have come up with one a long time ago, but it didn't stop my mind from trying. 33

I'd never fought with someone as much as I fought with Nick. It wasn't like we'd just had some ridiculous misunderstanding or gotten too comfortable in our relationship and forgot to communicate. At best these days, we were each other's worst enemy. At worst, we were strangers. I couldn't put my finger on what the problem was. I mean, there were plenty of them. We both felt guilty about the other's injuries. An error in my judgment resulted in Nick being assaulted and half-strangled. Someone stalking him resulted in me taking a bullet through—and nearly losing the use of—my arm. A triaging mistake on his part almost resulted in me bleeding out. We wouldn't have even met if I hadn't made a bad call that damn near got Macy and Nick, who was a stranger to me at the time, killed. At times, we resented each other for those same injuries. When my arm or his recurring headaches interfered with sleep. Or household chores. Or work. Or our sex life. Neither of us ever came out and said it, but I knew what I felt, and Nick wore his aggravation on his sleeve. About the only time the bitterness didn't creep in was in relation to our dreams. We both still had nightmares about everything that had gone down, and even nearly a year after the fact, a week didn't go by without one of us waking the other in the throes of a dream. PTSD, the department therapists had told us both. I supposed it would help if either of us actually sucked it up and went to the therapists more often than when our respective chiefs told us to, but Nick didn't like shrinks and I didn't want to talk about it. So the dreams still plagued us both, and that was the one thing we never got pissed at each other about. It didn't make sense, it wasn't rational, but it was something we didn't fight or snipe about, so that was one gift horse I wasn't looking in the mouth. And it didn't help when Brian needed me to put Eric up during a murder investigation. I'd trusted Brian's judgment that Eric wasn't a cop killer, but Nick wanted no part of it. I didn't blame him. I was, after all, harboring a murder suspect, whether Eric was guilty or not. Plus, with someone else in our house, we didn't want to fight or even snipe at each other, which turned the whole goddamned place into one tense pressure cooker. After the investigation was over and Eric left, Nick and I fought for a solid week about everything. 34

And it definitely didn't help that every everything went down between Eric and Brian. When Eric's real identity came, their relationship had recovered quickly. They were better than ever. Flourishing, even. They'd been on the verge of splitting up already, but survived that insanity. Now they were what we were supposed to be, and they made it look so fucking easy. Oh, they had their issues, especially after Brian learned that James, the man he'd thought was a serial cheater, was actually Eric, the deep cover agent, and they had to get to know each other all over again. Then there was Brian's ongoing struggle to quit drinking, but even that hadn't damaged their relationship like these stupid, pointless arguments were destroying ours. With the two of them providing such a bleak contrast to us, our mutual resentment deepened and the distance widened. Those two would make it. Us? I had no idea anymore. It would have been so much easier if we fought over something tangible. If there was some sticking point that we could focus on. But there wasn't one particular thing that kept setting us off. One night, he didn't bat an eye at me having a drink. The next, he'd make a snide comment about it becoming a habit, and we'd be off and yelling. Or I wouldn't mind his habit of not bothering to wash the bathroom towels until we were down to the last one, but then I'd suddenly flip out at him for leaving it on me to do it, since I never waited that long. One day, we were like a couple of brand new lovers with stars in our eyes. The next, we may as well have been the Hatfields and the McCoys. It was just as well the nearest neighbors were the better part of a mile away; between the sex and the fighting, they'd have gotten as little sleep as we did. How did we get so volatile, Nick? You're not like this. I'm not like this. How are we like this? So much for relaxing, indeed. I got out of the shower, and as I dried off in the bathroom, I made the mistake of glancing in the mirror. Not a wise move with my current state of mind, because as it always did, the scar on my arm caught my eye. I turned my head to look at the real thing instead of its reflection, and absently ran my fingertips over the asymmetrical spiral of thick, knotted scar tissue. Subsequent surgeries had left a spiderweb of small, straight scars, and the whole thing might have been impressive had there not been quite so many 35

memories tangled up in it. It struck me as funny—and more than a little ironic—how Nick and I had once compared battle scars, joking about whose was more impressive or had the best story behind it. He didn't laugh whenever this one caught his eye. Neither did I. Sighing, I went back to drying off, and made a point of not looking at the mirror or my arm. The scar wasn't like the one on the bridge of Nick's nose. Even though that one was in plain sight, the right lighting could mask it. I usually only noticed it when it caught the light just right. Mine, however, wasn't something that escaped notice. I didn't wear short-sleeved shirts unless I had to now, or unless my arm was bandaged from some follow-up procedure or another. And therein lay one of the problems between Nick and me: that fucking scar. We were both the type who used sex to unwind and blow off steam. Work-related stress, family drama, a fight between us, anything. Fuck first, ask questions later. That was fine and good until there was a goddamned visual reminder of one of the biggest sources of tension in our relationship. I used to love sex when we only removed enough clothing to get the job done— nothing was hotter than a half-dressed fuck—but now I spent the whole time wondering if it was just an excuse to keep that stupid scar out of sight and out of mind. If my arm wasn't hurting too much to kill the mood, then Nick would accidentally touch the scar and quickly move his hand. Or he'd glance at it and shift his gaze away. So much for forgetting our problems long enough to fuck them out of our systems. I need a drink. Like, right now. Once my scar was safely hidden in the sleeve of my sweatshirt, I went back downstairs to get that drink. The cupboards had plenty of glasses and dishes, and I found one that would suffice as a highball glass. The ice wasn't quite frozen yet, so I just poured some bourbon by itself. Room temp would do. Glass in hand, I wandered from room to room, exploring the cabin. Out onto the balcony, back inside, out onto the balcony, back inside. I told myself I was just checking out my surroundings, but knew better. I quickly went through most of the glass of bourbon, and I kept fidgeting out on the balcony, restless in spite of both the 36

alcohol and the serene environment. Totally just checking out my surroundings. Of course. Wandering into the living room for the fortieth time, I resisted the urge—almost resisted the urge—to look at the clock on the DVD player. Nine fifteen. He could be here any time now. On my way to the kitchen, I took a sip of bourbon and rolled it around on my tongue. I wasn't sure if I was more nervous about him showing up or not showing up. Not that it mattered, because about twenty minutes later, tires crunched on gravel outside, and I suddenly didn't have nearly enough alcohol in my system. Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. One drink was enough. Maybe a second while Nick had one, which I fully expected him to do. Getting drunk or even buzzed wouldn't make this go any smoother. Whatever. I threw back what was left in my glass, then went into the living room to meet Nick. He came through the door, and my pulse went through the roof. His presence was unnerving, but also a relief. And what could I say? Even in our worst moments, the man could still raise my heart rate for very pleasant reasons. In spite of the tension that furrowed his brow and tried to hide in his eyes, he looked more relaxed. The pressed blue shirts of his uniforms always made his shoulders tense. Literally made them tense. Nick loved his job, but like mine, it was a stressful one. The mere act of buttoning up one of those shirts turned his neck and shoulders to steel, just like putting on my shoulder holster had every muscle in my body bunching with pre-emptive stress. Walking into the cabin, Nick didn't look completely at ease, but with his shoulders calmly set back beneath his Colts sweatshirt, the spring wasn't coiled quite so tight. He set his overnight bag on the chair where mine had been earlier. "Sorry I'm late. Got a call fifteen minutes before I was off, and it took a while." I waved a hand. "Don't worry about it. Nature of the beast with your job." He snorted. "Tell me about it." "Want a drink?" I gestured toward the kitchen. "I picked up some Crown on the way up here." 37

A tired smile spread across his lips. "Oh, my God, you're a saint." I bit back a comment about knowing what he liked, though I wasn't sure why. Letting the thought go, I led him out of the living room. As I poured a couple of drinks, he looked around the kitchen. His gaze stopped on the picture of the chicken in a ridiculous hat, and his lips pulled into a vague smirk. I half-expected a smartass comment about how something like that would look in our—my?— kitchen, but he just chuckled to himself before turning to pick up his drink off the counter. "Nice place," he said. "Yeah, it's not bad." I looked around myself in spite of the fact that I'd already checked out the kitchen a few hundred times. Then I nodded in the direction of the deck. "You should see the view." He glanced at the window. "I suppose that'll have to wait until the sun comes up." "Oh, I don't know." I started toward the door. "Not every view requires sunlight to be appreciated." "Good point." We stepped out onto the deck, and I turned off the porch light so we had an unobstructed view of the night. The lake and the forest were shrouded in darkness now, but the silhouette of the mountains created a jagged edge beneath a jet black sky. Though I was used to the beautiful night sky out where I lived, that didn't hold a candle to the pure, deep darkness of a place like this. And of course, there was that cavernous, echoing silence. A light wind ruffled tree branches, but otherwise, the stillness out here was unbroken. It might have been peaceful enough to calm my frayed nerves if it didn't do such a damned good job of emphasizing the silence between Nick and me. The silence I had no fucking idea how to break. We both knew what we came here to do. The question was, how to start? And when? Wait until he'd had a chance to wind down from work? Jump right in and be done with it? Crap, no wonder we were falling apart. We didn't know how to start this conversation, let alone finish it. As the silence went on, I 38

was half-tempted to pick a fight just to get us talking, but I kept that to myself. I cleared my throat. "So, busy day?" "Oh, yeah." He made a quiet sound that may have been a subtle laugh. "If I had a dime for every call I responded to in Masontown…" "Doesn't surprise me at all." Masontown was a destitute, drug-infested neighborhood, easily the worst in the city, and we both knew all too well how dangerous it was. Nick and his crew were forever responding to calls for both the abysmally poor and perpetually drug-addicted. Obviously today was no exception. Just to keep the conversation rolling, I said, "Anything unusual? Or just routine calls?" "You know how it is. No routine is the routine." Nick sipped his drink, then set the glass on the railing a few inches from mine. "Same old shit with people getting hurt and sick in every strange and bizarre way imaginable." "Word around the precinct was there was another shooting," I said. "You guys respond to that one?" "I didn't, no. I was already on a call when that one went down." He paused, looking out at the darkened landscape. "Didn't sound like anyone was seriously injured this time, though." "That's what I heard." And what a relief that was. Responding to shootings were part of his job, but it always made me nervous these days. Silence crept back in. I chewed the inside of my cheek, throwing surreptitious glances at him in the darkness and wondering if he did the same. This time, he spoke first. "Anything new in your investigation?" I shrugged. "A few leads that didn't lead us anywhere. Witnesses who haven't seen shit. Informants who can't find their own asses with both hands and an anatomy chart." Nick laughed softly. "Same unpredictable shit, different day?" I chuckled. "Pretty much." A long, unnerving silence shouldered its way between us again. I hoped he'd say something. Tried to find something to say 39

myself. Wished I could telepathically beg him to say any damned thing. Finally, I gave in and spoke. "At least there aren't too many dull moments in either of our jobs." "Right." He laughed again, and sounded almost relieved, like he'd been hoping I'd speak first. "Says the man who doesn't have to inventory hypodermic needles." "True, very true." I chuckled. "But hey, I still have to do mounds of paperwork." "As do I. So much for never a dull moment, right?" "Point taken." We looked at each other, though he probably couldn't see me any more than I could see him. At least then he probably couldn't see anything to give away the nerves that had me chewing my lip and barely fucking breathing. After a moment, we both turned our attention to picking up our neglected drinks and taking a sip while we waited for the next attempted conversation. On one hand, we were avoiding everything we didn't know how to discuss. On the other, I couldn't deny it was nice to just interact, if one could call it that, without sniping at each other. Hell, if the conversation had come a little easier and the pauses hadn't been so palpably loaded with tension, I might have been able to convince myself all was well. Maybe. If I'd had a couple more drinks in me. Nick gestured over his shoulder, ice clinking off the inside of his glass. "Looks like they have a pretty impressive collection of movies." He gave a quiet laugh that sounded forced. "You'd think they'd be worried about someone stealing them." "I would imagine they just add it to the bill." I paused. "I didn't look, but did you see any interesting titles?" "A few." Turning to me in the darkness, he said, "Want to watch something?" We need to talk, Nick. That's why we're here. But being together and not fighting just sounds so, so good right now. I shrugged. "Why not?" We picked up our drinks and went back inside. 40

Who the hell came out to a place like this to stare at a television? Apparently we did.

41

Five "Andrew, are you okay?" "The gun. Get my gun." "Oh God, oh God, oh God…" "Nick! The gun!" Gunfire. Confusion. Pain. "Oh, fuck…" Don't leave me like this. "Look, I'm a paramedic and one of these guys might be bleeding out." Nick, don't leave. "Wait, where are you going?" Don't go, please. "I have to help him. He's bleeding badly. I'm not going far and help is on its way." Nick… don't leave me like this… ~*~ "Andrew?" Nick's voice startled me out of one dark, confusing reality and into another one. Breathing hard, I looked around, trying to match the unfamiliar shadows with… with something. Anything. This wasn't the living room. Not my bedroom. Not Nick's old apartment. The cabin. With the connection came relief, and I exhaled, reaching up to rub my eyes. Nick's hand moved, drawing my attention to its gentle presence on my arm. "You all right?" 42

"Yeah." I faced him in the darkness. "You know how it is." He made a quiet sound of agreement. "Go back to sleep," I said. "Sorry I woke you up." "Don't worry about it." Already his voice was slurred with sleepiness, and in moments, he was out cold. This wasn't unusual. One of us dreamed, the other shook him out of it, I'm sorry, don't worry about it, go back to sleep. Same shit, different night. I rubbed my eyes again and released an aggravated breath. On the plus side, at least we were in the same bed now. These stupid dreams were infinitely easier to deal with when I woke up beside him. Problems aside, nothing anchored me in reality and reminded me that the incident with Jesse was long over like Nick touching me gently without telling me to put pressure on a damned gunshot wound. As it always did, the panic from the dream gave way to irritation that it had disturbed my already restless sleep. Before long, that irritation surrendered to fatigue, and I drifted off beside Nick. Thankfully, I didn't dream for the rest of the night. When I woke up, the sun was up and the old clock beside the bed read quarter to eight. And Nick was gone. A moment of half-asleep panic made my heart skip—did he give up and take off already?—but the scent of coffee soothed my nerves. Sure enough, when I made it out of bed and down the stairs, he was out on the deck, resting his forearms on the railing and cradling a white ceramic mug in his hands. I poured some coffee for myself, then joined him outside. He looked over his shoulder and offered a vague smile. "Morning." "Morning." I sipped my coffee. "Sleep all right?" He shrugged and shifted his gaze back out to the lake and forest. "Oh, I can't complain. You?" "All things considered," I said. "Same." As we looked out at the scenery, last night's silence tried to set in again, so I quickly added, "Want to check out some of the trails today? I hear the hiking is second to none." He watched his thumb trace the curve of his coffee cup's 43

handle. "Hell, why not?" "Unless there was something else you wanted to do?" Nick shook his head, and his eyes flicked up to check out the scenery while his thumb continued making those slow, idle arcs on his mug. "Sounds like it's either hiking or boating around here this time of year, so…" "I'll pass on boating," I said with some forced humor. My arm ached just thinking about trying to do anything resembling rowing. He pushed himself up and, with a watery smile, finally looked at me. "Hiking it is, then." After a mostly silent breakfast, we laced up our boots and wandered down to the narrow access road that encircled the lake. The access road itself was recommended for an easy, leisurely hike, but occasional trailheads branched off into the thick forest, leading to hikes of varying difficulty. We hadn't yet decided where we wanted to go yet, so for now, we just wandered the access road. Fall had come early this year, so red and brown leaves formed a wet blanket over one side of the muddy dirt road while their absence overhead let the morning sun pour in like the rain must have done during the night. The farther we walked, the muddier the road became. Leaves floated in wide puddles, and our boots sank into the thick, wet clay. At one point, Nick chuckled and glanced at me. "Guess this wouldn't be a good place to take the Vette for a spin." I scoffed as I stepped over a puddle. "What was your first clue?" "Oh, come on," he said with a grin in his voice. "A little mud on her tires might give her some character." I made a horrified, choked sound, and Nick laughed aloud. I had to admit it was good to hear him laugh, even if it was at the expense of my beloved Corvette. "So, no off-roading, then?" he asked. "No. No off-roading." "Damn." We both laughed and continued walking. Though the road was wide enough for one vehicle, the puddles forced us to walk close together. Sometimes one after the 44

other, sometimes side by side. On one particular stretch, we didn't have to walk in single file, but we had to stay close together. Closer together than we'd walked in a long, long time. I wondered a few times if they would, and finally they did: the backs of my fingers brushed his. We both jumped, glancing first at our hands, then at each other. To my surprise, though, he didn't recoil from the brief, accidental contact, and even when the passable terrain allowed us to walk farther apart, he didn't try to put more space between us. Even after he sidestepped a puddle, he came back to that disconcerting closeness. Holding my breath, I reached for his hand. I let my fingertips graze the side of his index finger just to test the water. He didn't draw away, so I curved my hand around his. When he let me slip my fingers between his, I slowly released my breath. We didn't look at each other. Neither of us said a word. We just… let this be. After a while, though, the relief of not fighting faded and I couldn't get comfortable in this silence. That wasn't why we were here. I took a deep breath. "I suppose we should get to why we came up here in the first place." Nick's posture stiffened. His hand tensed in mine, and the relaxed, gentle contact became stiff and tentative. I was more aware of the rigidness of bones and tendons than the soft warmth of skin. We were still touching, but the gap between us had noticeably widened. "Nick…" He exhaled. "You want to talk about this? Now? Out here?" He gestured at our surroundings with his free hand, and I tried not to notice the way his other hand inched toward breaking away. "That's what we came up here to do, isn't it?" He said nothing, but his fingers slipped free from mine and neither of us tried to reestablish that contact. "Look, as long as we're here," I said. "We might as well. Let's just, you know, figure out what the fucking problem is. Now is as good a time as any." "Maybe so, but perfectly honestly?" He glanced at me. "I 45

really don't want to talk about this." "I don't either," I said. "But it's the only way we're going to resolve things." "Or it'll make things worse." "Got any better ideas?" Immediately, I wished I hadn't asked. He did have another idea, and it was one I couldn't stand considering until we'd at least given this a last ditch, pull-out-all-the-stops, hail Mary attempt to repair our relationship. I started to divert the conversation, but he beat me to it. "Maybe we're just not compatible," he said. "We've both had relationships fail in the past. Maybe this one is going to be another one like that." He sounded so resigned. Almost… at peace with the idea. "We are compatible, Nick. We just—" "How do you know we are?" he asked. "We only had a short time to get to know each other and get our feet under us before all this shit went down, and ever since all of that happened—" he waved a hand and shook his head "—it's been downhill for us." "The fact that we made it through all of that says something, doesn't it?" His head snapped toward me, and his eyes were narrow with sudden fury. "So am I obligated to stay with you because you took a bullet for me?" The question hit me like a fist to the chest. I stopped dead and stared at him, lips parted and no air moving between them. The anger in his expression dissipated, and his eyebrows slid upward like he was surprised to realize the words had actually come out. He swallowed, and when he spoke again, his voice was calmer, but the undercurrent of frustration remained. "I'll be grateful until the day I die that you saved my life, and I'll never forgive myself for what that cost you. I mean that. But at what point is it acceptable for me to say we're better off with other people?" I pulled in a breath. "Is… is that what you want?" Nick dropped his gaze. "I don't know. I don't fucking know what I want, Andrew." Anger crept back into his voice. "I'm tired of the guilt. I'm tired of feeling like I have to stay so I'm not the asshole who left the man who took a bullet for him." "Nick, you don't have to stay with me because of—" 46

"Tell that to my fucking conscience," he snapped. Then he blew out a breath and looked away. "I'm just sick of feeling guilty and feeling trapped. And that's all I know right now." My throat ached, but I forced myself to speak. "You're not the only one who feels guilty." He gave a tired shrug. "So we both feel guilty. What do we do now?" "That's what we're here to figure out. You know, maybe there's a way we can find our way back to the way we were before we got hurt. We had something really good then." "Had, Andrew," he said. "We had something good. We had something great. But we can't magically make the past disappear. I don't know about you, but I can't just forget it and pretend it never happened." "Neither can I, but do you have any better ideas?" His eyes met mine. They were narrow with exhaustion and frustration, and cool water trickled through my veins as I remembered once again that he most certainly did have another idea. Before he could bring that idea to life, I said, "Do you still love me?" His eyes widened, then narrowed again, this time with pure fury, and he set his jaw. "Don't you dare question that." I put up both my hands. "Then give me something, Nick. You've been shutting me out. We've fought for months on end about fuck knows what. You're all but moved out, and now you're hinting that all that's keeping you here are guilt and obligation. If you don't want me to question it, then for fuck's sake, give me a reason to keep believing it." He winced. "I'm here, aren't I?" "Yes," I said with a slight nod. "But I'm starting to wonder why." He stared at me, his lips pressed tightly together and his eyes unreadable. After a moment, he forced out a breath, shook his head, and threw up his hand. "Is this what you wanted? More of the same shit, just in a different setting?" "Not at all," I said through gritted teeth. "I don't care if we do this here, at home, in the middle of the fucking freeway, but we need to do it." 47

Swearing under his breath, he shoved a hand through his hair. "You know what? I can't… I…" He blew out a breath and took a step back. "I need to fucking clear my head. I can't do this right now." With that, he turned on his heel and continued down the trail. Not speaking, not moving, I watched him go. Once he'd disappeared around a bend and his soft leaf-crushing footsteps had faded, I shook my head and turned around to go back to the cabin. There was no point in following him. Once Nick decided he needed to clear his head, there was no reasoning with him. No arguing with him. He'd shut down and shut me out until he sorted things out in his own mind, and this was one storm I just had to let pass. So I went back to the cabin and let him walk.

48

Six Nick made it back to the cabin about two hours after I did. He left his boots by the door and didn't say a word before he went upstairs to get a shower. Judging by the mud caked on the his boots up to and above the ankle, he must have gone down one of the side trails. A long hike down a muddy, undoubtedly hilly trail was probably the closest he could get to his usual outlet, which was a hard run. Well, that was his other usual outlet, anyway. I didn't imagine his favorite outlet was high on his list right now. While he showered, I went out onto the deck. Fifteen or twenty minutes later, I wasn't too surprised to hear the door open behind me, but the sound still sent my heart racing. The door clicked shut, and his footsteps stopped. I took a deep breath, then faced him. His hair was wet and half-heartedly arranged into its customary messy spikes. Under his sweatshirt, his shoulders slumped, and he had his hands in the pockets of his jeans. Looking at me through his lashes, he just said, "Hey." "Hey." Silence descended. He looked away. Then I did. The forested mountain's peaceful atmosphere unnerved me. It emphasized the tension up here on the deck, every rustle of wind or chirp of a nearby bird underscoring all the things we weren't saying. Finally, Nick spoke. "Listen, I'm sorry. About earlier." He swallowed. "I'm just… frustrated." "So am I," I said softly. "But ignoring this isn't fixing it." He nodded. "I know." 49

"And if it's something we can't fix, then…" I shrugged. After a moment, I shook my head. "Then it's something we can't fix. But we won't know until we at least try." Nick nodded slowly. "I guess I can't argue with that." He took his hands out of his pockets and folded his arms across his chest, shifting his shoulders a bit like he was trying to get comfortable. His posture didn't come across as defensive. A failed attempt at looking less tense, but not defensive. I pushed myself off the railing. "The bugs will be coming out soon. We should probably take this indoors." "Good idea." At least that gave us an excuse to move. Anything that wasn't standing here and not speaking was good enough for me right now. "Living room?" I asked as I closed the kitchen door behind me. "Sure. But first, I need something to drink." Nick reached into the freezer and took out the ice cube tray. "You?" It probably wouldn't help matters, but what the hell? "Sure." I pulled a pair of glasses out of the cupboard, and unscrewed the cap on the bourbon while he picked up the bottle of Crown. Drinks in hand, we went into the living room. I sat on one end of the couch. He sat on the other. And there we were. We'd had a false start earlier. Now it was time to try again. Maybe a different approach as in order, but I'd been lucky to come up with the failed approach this morning. God knew what the hell we needed to try this time, though I was pretty sure hiding in our drinks on opposite ends of a couch wasn't the best choice. Nick pulled his knee up on to the cushion and balanced his glass on it. "Hey, do you remember when we went to my family reunion a few months ago?" Okay, maybe this wasn't the right approach either, but the memory made me laugh, so I ran with it. "Well, most of it, yes." I chuckled. "Has your aunt ever forgiven me for that?" He snickered and shook his head. "Probably not. She's still convinced you're a drug addict." 50

I clicked my tongue. "I don't suppose the sling on my arm tipped her off about why I was hopped up on painkillers?" He laughed aloud. "Well, I'm sure it did, but then she saw you holding my beer, and—" "I only held it for like two minutes!" "Yeah, well." He shrugged apologetically, but the effect was lost entirely when he smirked. "That's what she saw." The smirk faded to a smile that looked as nostalgic as it was amused. "The whole thing cracked me up, though. Especially with the number of people who said you had a genius approach to Swain family reunions." I laughed. "I won't argue with that. I love your family, Nick, but…" I whistled and shook my head. 'Tell me about it." He grimaced as he brought his glass up to his lips. "In all fairness, my family isn't much better," I said. "Remember my cousin's wedding?" Nick groaned and rolled his eyes. "God, don't remind me." "Oh, come on, it wasn't that bad." I absently ran my finger around the rim of my glass. "I mean, once you've had a few drinks, they're actually a pretty fun crowd." "After a few, yes," he said with a nod. Then he shot me a pointed look. "Except I think your cousin's in-laws could have done without what happened when we'd had a few drinks." I put up my hand and shrugged as I brought my glass up to take a sip. "What? It was one dance." "Uh-huh." He snickered. "And it was just one comment about how I was a trained paramedic who could give the bride's father mouth-to-mouth if the two gay men gave him a heart attack, right?" I choked on my drink, and Nick laughed too. Neither of us was normally so in-your-face about our sexuality or our relationship, but my cousin and his new wife were furious on our behalf for the way her parents behaved. When I made the snide comment, the bride had laughed so hard, Nick damn near had to do mouth-to-mouth on her instead of her horrified, homophobic father. After a moment, I regained the ability to breathe, and coughed once more for good measure. "Hey, everyone else thought it 51

was funny." "True, they did." He raised his glass in a mock toast. With a wink, he added, "Though I think you disappointed three of the bridesmaids when you danced with me." I laughed again, my cheeks burning. "I don't know about that." "Believe what you want." He raised his eyebrows. "I know what I saw." I cocked my head. "Nick, are you gloating?" "Me?" He batted his eyes. "Gloating because three women wanted you? No, no, why would I do that?" He flashed a toothy grin before taking another drink. Shaking my head, I chuckled. Taking a sip of my own drink, I let myself get lost in the memory for a moment. Homophobes aside, my cousin's wedding was a fun night. It was the first time I'd ever danced with a boyfriend outside of a gay bar, and even the nagging ache in my arm hadn't been enough to put a damper on things. We hadn't done it for show, we hadn't done it to fuck with the bride's parents. It just happened. A few drinks, some lowered inhibitions, and a look from Nick, and there we were. It wasn't until later that I knew it had bothered anyone. The thought hadn't even crossed my mind, if I was honest with myself. I'd just gotten caught up in the moment, in being on a dance floor, looking at him like no one else—not the three allegedly jealous bridesmaids, not the bride's homophobic parents, not the family members who I found out later were almost moved to tears watching us—existed in the world. Swallowing my drink without even tasting it, I looked across the expansive space between us. Nick's humor had faded. He held his glass an inch or so from his lips, slowly moving his jaw like he was rolling some whisky around on his tongue, and his eyes had lost focus. I wondered if his mind was still at that wedding, or if he'd let the memories carry him to hours later in our hotel room. Things hadn't been great between us for a while, but just for that night, everything was perfect. Absolutely perfect. All at once, Nick shook himself back to life and cleared his throat. He tilted his glass, and frowned at the ice cubes. "Damn it. I need a refill. You want any more?" I looked into my own glass and realized I was down to ice 52

myself. "Why not?" I started to get up, but he gestured for me to stay. "I'll get it." He took my glass, and I relaxed against the back of the couch while he went into the kitchen. While he was gone, I chewed my thumbnail and listened to the sounds of ice cubes crackling and glass clinking in the other room. I couldn't decide if the way things were going was a step in the right direction, or if it may as well have been a wake for our relationship. One night of drinking to us, an evening of talking about the good times, then we could go back to the land of the living and move on separately. Lay it to rest or bring it back to life. He came back a minute later with two glasses. "Thanks," I said, and we exchanged smiles as he handed me my drink. He eased himself onto the couch beside me, and I tried not to notice he didn't sit quite so far away now. Certainly not intimately close together like all those nights we spent curled in front of movies, but one less mile of upholstery divided us now. I'd take it. I sipped my drink, then leaned forward and set the glass on the coffee table. No sense drinking too much too fast. It was still early, after all. That, and sooner or later we'd get past the reminiscing and make it to the difficult subject we'd been avoiding. I needed a clear head to deal with that. I rested my arm on the back of the couch and pulled my leg up onto the cushion. Nick glanced at my knee, at my eyes, at my glass. He took a long swallow of Crown, then set it on the table beside mine. When he sat back this time, he mirrored me, pulling his knee up and resting his elbow on the back of the couch. Had he extended his arm, our hands would have overlapped, but he casually scratched his neck and, even after that, kept his elbow bent. His eyes were fixed on the drinks sitting side by side on the edge of the coffee table. Then he gave a soft, nearly inaudible laugh and looked away. "What?" "Nothing." "You sure?" He took a breath. "This just…" As he gazed at our drinks again, his smile fell, and sadness replaced that fleeting glint of humor 53

in his eyes. "Just brought back some memories, I guess." "Of?" He was quiet for a moment. Then he shook his head and reached for his drink. "Nothing." Ice clinked on the inside of his glass as he brought it to his lips. When he set the drink beside mine again, leaving just a fraction of an inch between them, a memory of my own sparked to life. One from the very earliest weeks, maybe even the earliest days, of our relationship. Heart pounding, I reached for my own drink. I paused, my hand hovering over the rim of the glass, and glanced at Nick. He swallowed hard. Our eyes met. Then he cleared his throat and dropped his gaze. "Something wrong?" I asked. "What?" His eyes darted toward my hand. "No. Nothing." I watched his face as I rested my hand on the glass. When I dipped my middle finger into the cool bourbon, Nick's Adam's apple bobbed, and I knew without a doubt we were on the same wavelength. You do remember that night, don't you? "Ugh, I've never been able to drink room temperature drinks, alcoholic or otherwise," he'd said. "Ice cold or steaming hot. No in between." "I don't know," I'd replied, pausing to roll a sip of bourbon around on my tongue, "I think if the right drink was served the right way, you might take it at whatever temperature it came to you." And I'd known at that moment that he was putty in my hands. Especially when he cleared his throat and said, "Is that so?" Three words that may as well have been, "Put your money where your mouth is. I dare you." I withdrew my finger from the glass, and Nick moistened his lips. Leaning closer to him, I brought my hand up, and his eyes flicked from mine to my finger as I brought it toward him. With every inch I gained, he squirmed a little more, and his breathing deepened. Slowed. Intensified. Oh yeah, he remembered. Just shy of touching my fingertip to his lip, I brought my hand back and slipped my fingers into my own mouth, holding his 54

gaze as I sucked the bourbon off my skin. Nick gulped, and a shiver straightened his spine. I grinned. "Something wrong?" He pushed himself off the cushion and lunged for me. "You're a fucking tease," he growled, and claimed my mouth in a deep, demanding kiss. His tongue forced my lips apart, and I grabbed fistfuls of his shirt and dragged him closer to me, almost on top of me, and returned his kiss with equal fervor. Damn it, we need to talk. Andrew, hello? There's a reason you're here, and this isn't it. Fuck it. If only for tonight, just a little while in the living room of this remote cabin, we were back at the beginning before things got complicated, and I intended to savor that for as long as he'd let me. Still kissing him, I put a hand to his chest and gently pushed him back until he was against the back of the couch. Once I had him where I wanted him, I unbuttoned the top of his jeans, and his fingers curled in my hair as I drew his zipper down. A low growl escaped the back of his throat when I wrapped my fingers around his erect cock. I stroked him slowly, gently. He gripped my shoulders and tried, as much as he could in this position, to move his hips in time with my hand. His kiss faltered now and then, to the point our lips occasionally just touched without even moving, but then he'd whimper and kiss me with renewed desperation. I touched my forehead to his. Panting against his mouth, I whispered, "Stay there." Nick licked his lips, but didn't move. When I leaned toward the coffee table, he gulped, and I thought he might have whimpered softly as I hooked my fingers under an ice cube and pulled it from the glass. I grinned. "Something wrong?" Eyes still fixed on my hand, he shook his head. "No. Not at all." "I didn't think so." I slipped the ice cube into my mouth. "Oh, God," he breathed. I moved to my knees in front of him, and he closed his eyes and let his head fall back before I'd even touched his cock. 55

"Shit, Andrew…" He shivered, moaning softly as I took him slowly into my mouth. His fingers alternately grasped and combed through my hair as I teased him with my tongue, the ice cube, my tongue again. The vague aftertaste of bourbon in my mouth paled in comparison to the familiar salt of his skin, and the ice cube did nothing to temper his body heat. My own erection was almost painful now, straining against the front of my jeans as every taste and every sound turned me on. I steadied him with one hand and stroked him with the other, ignoring the dull ache in my upper arm because it was no match for the one below my belt. I wanted Nick so goddamned bad it hurt to even breathe. The ice melted slowly as Nick's moans deteriorated into helpless whimpers. The hand in my hair twitched and tensed, and he reached back to grab the back of the couch with his other. His back arched and his breathing quickened. "Don't stop, Andrew," he whispered. The couch creaked as his back arched off it. "Oh… shit…" A low, helpless groan came from the back of his throat, and goose bumps rose under my shirt. I didn't stop. His arousal turned me on more than anything in the world, and I did everything I could to turn him on. Teasing him with the shrinking ice cube, stroking him, fluttering and flicking and swirling my tongue, driven by the soft, delirious sounds he made as he slowly fell apart. "Oh, God," he groaned, shaking and writhing on the couch. "Oh God, just like that. Fuck, Andrew, fuck…" His entire body tensed, trembled, and he released a soft moan an instant before he came on my tongue. I continued stroking him, though slower now, and kept my lips around his cock until he relaxed against the back of the couch. I sat back, wiping my lip with the back of my hand, and he stared up at the ceiling. Closing his eyes and licking his lips, he ran an unsteady hand through his hair, then swore under his breath. I grinned. "You all right?" He opened his eyes and reached for me. Grabbing the front of my shirt, he said, "Oh, you know I'm just fine." I didn't even get a chance to make a playful retort before his lips were against mine. His 56

kiss was aggressive and deep, and the ache below my belt was almost unbearable now because Nick's mouth left no doubt in my mind that he was taking over now. I'd gotten him off, and now I was his for the teasing, and I knew he'd capitalize on that. "Let's go upstairs," he murmured. "More comfortable up there." He let his lips brush mine. "More room to move." I shivered. Upstairs, we wasted no time stripping out of our clothes. We didn't bother undressing each other or taking everything off piece by piece. I didn't know about him, but I needed him too badly for any of that nonsense. And just as I knew he would, Nick took over as soon as we were in bed. He pushed me onto my back and, supporting himself on his forearm, reached between us. I gasped and closed my eyes as he wrapped his fingers around my cock. "You know, when you tease me like you did downstairs," he growled, pausing to kiss my neck, "I have no choice but to seek revenge the only way I know how." "Oh?" I bit my lip. "And how is that?" "By teasing you." He kissed my neck again. Lower this time. Lower. A little lower. Kiss by soft kiss, he worked his way down. I closed my eyes and squirmed beneath him. No one in the world knew as many ways as Nick did to drive me wild with his mouth. Dragging his lip along the side of my throat. Nipping my collarbone. The lightest contact of his tongue to my nipple. A gentle bite just above my hipbone that fucking unraveled me every damned time. And with every inch he gained, moving slowly downward, I lost a little more of my mind to delicious, agonizing anticipation. My back lifted off the bed every time his lips lifted off my skin. Holding onto the headboard, I dug my teeth into my lip and screwed my eyes shut, biting back pleas for him to please, please suck my cock. He knew I wanted it; if I begged him, he'd only tease me more, and tonight I needed him to just fucking do it. He ran the tip of his tongue along the underside of my cock, and I gasped as electricity surged up the length of my spine. A warm breath of laughter teased my skin, and his tongue retraced that path. Again. Once more just in case I had a few scraps of sanity left. 57

Then he pushed himself up on his arms and rested his weight on one. When he steadied my cock with his thumb and forefinger around the base, I almost came un-fucking-glued, because I knew what he was about to do. He looked up at me and grinned. "What's wrong, Andrew?" "Nothing at all," I said. "That's what I thought." And oh, Christ, he went down on me. Nick could deep-throat like nobody's business. I couldn't breathe as he slowly took me, a fraction of an inch at a time, into his mouth. Then he rose just as slowly, paused to tease the head of my cock with the tip of his tongue before descending on me once again. The second time he came up, his hand followed his mouth, squeezing just right to set nerve endings ablaze and drive a helpless groan from my lips. He went down again, and again, moving just a little faster now and not taking me quite so deep, letting his hand do most of the work on the shaft while his mouth—holy fuck, that man's mouth— teased me right to the brink of an orgasm. His eyes flicked up and met mine, and all the air left my lungs at once, and when he doubled his efforts—squeezing, stroking, swirling with his tongue—I didn't stand a chance. Gripping the headboard for dear life, I closed my eyes and surrendered, and just as I came, Nick groaned, and both the thrum of his voice and the sheer ecstasy behind it sent me spiraling even deeper into pure, sweet oblivion. I might have said something, or I might have just moaned. I wasn't sure. All I knew was, right about the time my vision cleared and my body sank back down to the bed, Nick was over me, hot skin touching hot skin, his mouth salty and demanding against mine. I gripped his hair and the back of his neck, kissing him hard even as I fought to catch my breath. Nick broke the kiss and pushed himself up enough to look at me. I touched his face, letting my fingertips drift over the coarse stubble on his jaw. His lips curved into a tired smile. No, that wasn't right. He didn't look tired. With a sinking feeling in my chest, I realized he looked sad. Stroking his cheek with the backs of my fingers, I said, "You 58

all right?" "Yeah," he said, and the sad smile turned into an equally unenthusiastic laugh. "Guess we're still good at this part." "True, we are." The laugh evaporated, but the sadness lingered in his eyes. He shifted onto his side, propping himself up on one arm. He slipped his other hand into mine and watched his thumb draw gentle arcs along my skin. "What's wrong?" I asked. "You just went from turned on and enthusiastic to… well, this." "Sorry." He sighed, then moistened his lips. "I guess I was just thinking. It… sometimes it seems like sex is the only good thing we have, you know?" "In the beginning, it was the only thing we had," I said. "And we still turned this into something more. It's just… life happened." "That's one way to put it, I guess." Nick laughed softly, though it was a halfhearted sound. "Well, we may suck at a relationship, but like I said, at least we're good at this part." "Yeah, we're good at this part, I'll give you that." I hesitated. "Question is, do you think the rest of it is worth it?" Nick sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "I want to say it is, but I just don't know." I put a hand on his arm. "What's holding you back?" He fell silent, his eyes losing focus. Undoubtedly mulling over his answer, if I knew him. "Nick, talk to me," I pleaded softly. Another quiet moment passed before he finally spoke. "I do love you, Andrew, I just don't know if that's why I'm still here." He spoke slowly as if every word took intense effort and concentration. "One minute, I think we're here because we want to be. The next, I think it's because you feel guilty about what happened to me, or I feel guilty because of what happened to you." He exhaled. "Ever since it happened, that day has defined us. And our relationship was so new at that point… of course I loved you then and I love you now." He met my eyes, and the pain in his was palpable. "But I can't figure out where those feelings end and that day begins." "Are you sure those feelings do end somewhere?" 59

Nick dropped his gaze. Shaking his head slowly, he whispered, "I'm not sure about anything." He reached up and rubbed his neck with both hands, tilting his head to one side, then the other, as if the muscles were painfully stiff. Finally, he lowered his hands and raised his gaze. "Even when we fight all the time," he said, "you still want to keep doing this?" "I'd rather fight with you than lose you." He fell silent again. "Give me something, Nick," I whispered. "I need to know where you stand." Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath. "I still love you. I mean that." He looked at me. "I just, I don't know how to get things back the way they were. I don't know if we can. Or how we can even get to a better place than we are now. And I'm… I'm tired. When I'm at work, I'm—" His voice cracked, and he paused to clear his throat. "At work, I'm stressed because of my job. When I come home, I'm on edge because either we're fighting or we're going to be." I couldn't argue with that. The air in our house was always taut with a recently concluded fight, a fight that was brewing, or the certainty there was a fight on the horizon. I couldn't remember the last time it didn't feel like that. Nick went on. "The thing is, even when things are good, I just feel like… like it's just a commercial break, and I'm waiting for the regularly scheduled program to come back on." He rested his hand on my side, but didn't look at me. "I mean, everything was fine in the beginning, but now we argue all the time. About everything. We had a few good weeks, and then we both got hurt, and it all went to shit. We've been like this longer than we were like that. And I'm…" He chewed his lip. Releasing a ragged breath, he looked me in the eye, and the glint of tears in his eyes took my breath away. His voice was painfully unsteady as he whispered, "I'm fucking miserable, Andrew." Like nothing else he'd said up until now, those four words hit me where it hurt. I squeezed his hand and kissed the backs of his fingers. "I'm sorry." What else was there to say? Stroking my hair, he didn't speak. 60

"So what do we do?" I asked. Nick shook his head. "I've been trying to figure that out for months." Silence. Long, uncomfortable, unproductive, skin-prickling silence. He trailed his hand down my arm and onto the scar, but he didn't recoil when his fingertips drifted over the disfigured flesh. Instead, he watched himself trace the edge, his brow furrowed with some expression I couldn't read. The anger and frustration from this morning were gone, and he just seemed… contemplative. Worried. Scared, even. "What's on your mind?" I asked. Nick drew a deep breath. Held it. Parted is lips like he was about to speak. Then he lifted his hand off my arm and released his breath. "Nothing." Bullshit. I raised an eyebrow. "You sure?" He swallowed hard and nodded. "Yeah. Don't worry about it." Before I could decide whether or not to press the issue, he said, "I guess this is a start. It's… all out on the table." Is it? "Yeah, I suppose it is. Question is, what do we do with it?" He shook his head. "No idea. Maybe we just sleep on it and take it from there." I glanced at the clock beside the bed. "A little early to try to sleep on anything, isn't it?" "Maybe." He slid his hand over my waist and moved closer to me. "But we can define 'sleep' loosely in this case." "Can we?" I shivered as his fingers drifted up my spine. His lips brushed mine. "Got any better ideas?" I didn't have any better ideas. We could have spent the whole evening and into the night dealing with everything that was finally out in the open, but it was easier to kiss him. And run my fingers through his hair. And whisper "fuck me" in his ear. And get close enough to him to forget we were falling apart.

61

Seven I dreamed that night, but Jesse didn't shoot me this time. He didn't try to shoot Nick either. There was a hallway, yes, and danger. Blood. But it wasn't Nick's apartment. Just a long, dark, unfamiliar hallway that was alive with activity. I was running. I'd followed someone. Flashing red lights from outside had intermittently flooded the stairs on the way up here, but now it was dark. Mostly dark. I couldn't remember where I was or why I was here, but there was no time for questions. Scared. Disoriented. Running on pure adrenaline and a fierce protective instinct that trumped all my training and the years as a cop that had given me a cool head in the face of extreme danger. Calm, almost furious instead of afraid, ready to draw blood to protect… to protect… Nick. I remembered. I'd been at the firehouse waiting for him to return from backto-back calls when the alarm went off again. As soon as the words "…two wounded EMTs…" slipped off someone's lips, I was going with the crew and that was all there was to it. They didn't argue. Not even Bentley. Shoulder to shoulder in the fire truck, we hadn't exchanged a dirty look or a cross word. Two members of his crew were down. One of them may have been my lover. Now wasn't the time for anything except getting to and helping Nick and Leon. And now we were in this dark place. This unfamiliar place that was familiar all the same. One of those rundown apartment buildings in Masontown that made my skin crawl. Aside from a 62

weak, pale beam in one of the upstairs windows and a few flickers of the emergency lights below, there wasn't a light on in the entire place, giving the building an even more ominous appearance. The firefighters and EMTs wasted no time. They grabbed jump kits and a stretcher, and ran inside. I followed, taking the stairs two and three at a time, hoping to God I didn't misjudge a step in the darkness. On the top floor, we followed shouts and a bobbing flashlight beam down a short hallway. Leon, Nick's partner, sat against the wall. I didn't know how bad his injuries were, though I assumed he was hurt too, but he was obviously conscious and coherent. When I saw Nick, my heart fell into my feet. I'd seen all kinds of grisly and horrific things in my career, but Nick, oh God, Nick… He was on his side, and completely motionless. His shirt and the bulletproof vest I'd given him were on the floor, and they were both bloody. As I came closer, horror constricted my throat. A flashlight cast sharp shadows across his face, slicing through the mess of blood that covered his mouth and nose. The bridge of his nose was split open, and his forehead was bloody and abraded. While one of the other medics helped Leon, I dropped to my knees beside Nick and took his hand. His hand was warm, thank God, and he was breathing, but the wheezing was enough to turn my stomach. Bentley knelt and touched Nick's arm. "Nick, can you hear me?" Nick's eyes fluttered. "Talk to me, Nick," Bentley said. "Can you hear me?" Nick blinked a few times, like he was struggling to focus. His brow furrowed slightly, and I wondered if he even knew where he was. "Nick," I said. "Squeeze my hand twice if you can hear me." To my great relief, he gave a weak squeeze. Then another. Bentley leaned down, looking closer at him. Then he swore and turned to Leon. "His throat's swelling. I need an oh-two mask." "His nose is broken," Leon said. "How are we going to put a mask on him?" 63

"We don't have much choice," Bentley said. "He probably needs to be intubated." "We can't," another firefighter said. "Not here, while he's awake." "Not much time," Bentley said. "Get him on that stretcher. We have to get him out of here." Nick's fingers loosened their grasp. I gripped his hand. "Nick, are you still with me? Nick?" Then we were in the ambulance. Nick was on his side on the stretcher, blood pooling inside the oxygen mask and on the stark white sheet. I sat in front of him, gripping his hand in both of mine as he drifted in and out of consciousness. A thin cloud of condensation grew on the inside of the mask, then faded, then bloomed again, marking his weak, uneven breathing. "We're almost there, Nick," Bentley said. "Just hang in there." I squeezed Nick's hand. "You'll be fine. Just stay with me." I stroked his hair, praying my hand wouldn't shake enough to let on how terrified I was. "Keep talking to him," Keller said. I nodded, then leaned closer to Nick. "Hang in there," I said softly, cursing the unsteadiness in my voice. "You'll be all right, just focus on the sound of my voice, all right?" "He's still getting enough oxygen," Keller said. "But not for much longer at this rate." "They're going to tube him anyway as soon as he gets to the ER," Bentley said. "Not while he's awake, they'll—" "Guys, his vitals are getting worse," Leon said. "We may not have much choice." Nick's eyelids slid closed, and his hand loosened in mine again. "Nick, look at me," I said. "We're only a couple of minutes from the hospital, you'll be all right." I kept combing my fingers through his hair, and there was no stopping my hand from shaking. Not when every breath he drew took far, far too much effort and made a sickening wheezing sound. He tried to cough, and the wheezing worsened. 64

"I'm tubing him," Bentley said, and no one tried to stop him as he lunged for one of the plastic compartments on the side of the ambulance. I shuddered, and pushed myself up. I leaned over the stretcher. "Nick, stay with me." Wait, this isn't how it happened. "Hang in there, Nick." My voice shook now, but I didn't care. "Nick, stay with me." His pulse was rapid but weak. What's going on? I could feel his heartbeat thumping against my hands, against my skin, but I didn't understand how. This isn't how it happened. His eyes closed. Fluttered. Stopped. What's going on? The hint of steam on the inside of the oxygen mask cleared, and it didn't fog up again. No, no, this isn't right. "Shit, tube him now!" "I don't have a pulse." Nick, stay with me. The words wouldn't come. I couldn't tell him to breathe because I couldn't breathe myself. Nick, come on. The medics and firefighters shouted. There was movement. Frantic, rapid movement. Don't leave me like this. "He's not breathing!" Nick, don't leave. "Clear his airway!" Don't go, please. Of course he couldn't breathe. Nick…don't leave me like this… My hands were around his throat. ~*~ "Andrew." I sucked in a lungful of air. When I opened my eyes, it was dark, but not the same dark as the inside of that hallway. After a few rapid, panicked heartbeats and a few breaths—have I been holding my breath?—I settled back into reality. Another dream. Big shock. 65

Nick—alive and well and fully conscious—squeezed my arm. "You all right?" "Yeah." I put a hand over his, closing my eyes and exhaling as the warmth of his skin reassured me he was all right. "Sorry I woke you up." "Don't worry about it." His voice wasn't slurred and sleepy like it usually was when one of us woke the other with a dream. I turned toward him, looking for some hint of his features in the darkness. "Were you already awake?" "No," he said. "You startled me." His fingertips trailed down the side of my face. "You don't usually dream quite so… violently." Heat rushed into my cheeks. Caressing his forearm, I said, "Sorry. I guess—" He cut me off with a gentle kiss. "I mean it when I say don't worry about it." He kissed me again. "How many times have I done the same to you?" "Still…" God, Nick, if you only know what I just saw… "It's okay. Why don't we try to get some sleep?" "Good idea." I lifted my head to kiss him one last time. "I'll try not to wake you up again." He laughed softly, but didn't say anything. After he turned onto his side with his back to me, I slid up next to him, draping my arm over his waist and molding my body around his. He didn't push me away. In fact, he slid his hand over mine. It should have been a relief to hold him like this. In a way, it was, but that had more to do with my dream than just being close to him like this for the first time in ages. Any other night, I could have lost myself in his body heat, just savoring the lack of distance, but all I could do now was—whether or not it was rational—breathe a small sigh of relief every time his chest rose and fell beside me. Nightmares were pretty much routine now, and they still left me with ice water running through my veins every damned time. Even dreams where things didn't quite line up with reality, sometimes deviating in horrifying, skin-crawling ways, weren't entirely unusual. Sometimes Jesse shot Nick before I could shove Nick out of the way. Sometimes I couldn't move. The subconscious is a twisted thing, and I dreamed of all kinds of "what if" scenarios that gave me chills. 66

Two nights in a row, when things were really bad a few months ago, I'd dreamed I didn't even try to push Nick out of the line of fire. I knew what would happen if I didn't, but I consciously and deliberately planted my feet. I let Jesse fucking kill him. Both times, I woke in a cold sweat and couldn't get back to sleep. The thought of passively standing by and letting Nick die, even in a dream, was enough to make me sick to my stomach even now. But the dream I'd just had…this one shook me to the core like no other. Holding him now as he slept beside me, I couldn't get the dream out of my head. Even as I breathed in his familiar scent, I swore my nose still stung with pungent antiseptics and the metallic smell of blood. Everything about that fucking dream was still raw, still fresh, and more disturbing than anything that had ever wandered through my subconscious. My hands. Nick's throat. Squeezing the life out of him even as I silently begged him to stay with me, stay with me, please, stay with me. Then, another memory came back, this one much more recent and all too real: "I'm fucking miserable, Andrew." As Nick's shaking whispered words echoed in my ears, the image of the bloody oxygen mask flickered through my mind. The cloud of condensation shrank, shrank, shrank, and didn't grow again. The plastic cleared, and no more breath came to fog it up again. "I'm fucking miserable, Andrew." My heart sank deeper and my stomach twisted into knots as I held him tighter. His chest rose slowly within my embrace, then fell just as slowly, his breathing easy and relaxed as he slept. "He's not breathing!" Nick, don't leave. "Clear his airway!" "I'm fucking miserable, Andrew." I closed my eyes and pressed my lips to the back of his shoulder. It hadn't occurred to me that being together might tear him up the way being separated tore me up. Was I really strangling him? Sleep didn't come for the rest of the night. Between being afraid I'd have that dream again, and the thoughts running through 67

my head, there was no way in hell I was doing anything that wasn't lying awake, listening to my own heartbeat and Nick's slow, relaxed breathing. Around the time the sun came up, I got out of bed and left him to sleep as long as he wanted to. I was exhausted from not sleeping, but still restless. Wound up. Coffee was probably the last thing I needed, but it was something to do with idle hands, so as soon as there was enough in the pot to fill a cup, I poured it into one of the white ceramic mugs. Then I went out onto the balcony. I stared out at the scenery, but didn't see it. Held my coffee in both hands, but didn't drink it. The same thoughts that had needled at me all night kept at it now, and I couldn't decide if they were easier to deal with now that I wasn't holding on to Nick. Some undefined amount of time passed. It could have been ten minutes, it could have been two hours. I had no idea. I'd all but forgotten where I was until then, when the door opened behind me, and the skin prickled on my neck. A moment later, Nick set his coffee cup on the railing as his other hand materialized on my lower back. I turned my head, and he offered a tired, uncertain, but genuine smile. "Morning," he said. "Morning." We held each other's gazes for a few tentative seconds. Then he leaned in and kissed me. It was just a light kiss, but we drew it out past the point of anything obligatory or habitual. I resisted the urge to wrap my arms around him and get lost in this. No point in kidding myself any more than I'd be kidding him. Nick pulled back first, and we exchanged cautious smiles again. He lifted his hand off my back and picked up his coffee cup. "How long have you been up?" "A while." I absently ran my finger up and down the side of my cup, which was cold now. "Couldn't sleep." Usually, he'd ask if my arm was bothering me again, but he said nothing. He probably knew full well it wasn't my arm that kept me up this time. That customary, uncomfortable silence settled in between us. The tension wasn't as pronounced, at least not from his end, but I didn't even try to delude myself that everything was okay. Even if 68

we'd come to some sort of ceasefire, if we'd stripped away the anger to get to the raw emotions, it didn't bring us closer together. Sex had broken the tension last night, but it didn't fix what I now realized couldn't be fixed. I took a breath. "When you dream about…" I paused. "About everything that happened, does it always happen the same way?" "You mean, is it always exactly what really happened?" Without turning to him, I nodded. "Most of the time, yeah." His coffee cup clicked quietly on the railing. "Sometimes it's different. Different… endings, I guess. Why?" I took in a slow, deep breath. "The one I had last night was different." "How so?" I swallowed hard, but still couldn't quite bring myself to look at him. All morning, I'd tried to figure out how to explain everything to Nick. What I'd dreamed, the conclusions I'd come to from that dream, all of that. I was no closer now to finding the words than I had been when I got out of bed, and just thinking about that dream in Nick's presence made my stomach turn. He stepped a little closer and put a hand on my arm. "Andrew?" Finally, I shook my head. "It was just… different." "Care to elaborate?" I shuddered. "Not really. I just brought it up because…" I love you Nick. I don't want to hurt you. I've never wanted to hurt you. I don't want to do this to you. I cleared my throat, then took a deep breath. "Listen, I'm… gonna pack up and go." Nick's posture straightened, and his hand tensed on my arm. "What?" I made myself look at him. "You're miserable, Nick. You've said it, I can see it. I hoped we could find a reason to keep—" My voice caught. I cleared my throat again. Then I gently moved my arm out from under his hand and reached for my still full coffee cup. "Let's just quit torturing ourselves. I don't want you to have to stay if you're unhappy." I took a step toward the door. "Just, you know, give me a call when you want to come get your things." Nick moistened his lips and shifted his gaze out to the forest 69

beyond the deck. "When you leave," I said. "Just drop the key at the office at the bottom of the hill." I pushed the door open and started into the kitchen. "Andrew." Hand on the doorknob, I met his eyes over both our shoulders. "Hmm?" "Are you sure about this?" No. I don't want this. I don't know if I can take this. I don't know how else to make you happy. No, I'm not sure about this. Without a word, I continued into the house. The door clicked shut behind me, and the hardwood floors creaked beneath my feet as I crossed the kitchen and went upstairs to pack. Fifteen minutes later, I got into my car and left. And Nick didn't try to stop me.

70

Eight I assumed Nick crashed at a friend's house or the fire station that night, because I didn't hear from him and he didn't come home. The next day, though, he didn't waste any time getting in touch about coming to pick up his things. I was only three sips into my first cup of coffee when his text came through, and there went my ability to focus for the day. Macy didn't ask. She knew, that much was obvious. Every time she looked at me, her eyebrows climbed and her eyes said nothing if not, Oh, Carmichael, I see right through you. But she didn't press me about it. Brian and I ran into each other in the parking garage, and as soon as he saw me, his eyes widened with alarm. Eric had the same reaction when I went by his desk to ask about the latest developments of a wiretap situation. Like Macy, though, they didn't ask. The fact that all three of them left well enough alone made me wonder just how much I was wearing on my sleeve, because under normal circumstances, they were all the type to back me into a corner and pry information out of me. When the day wound to a close, I considered staying to put in some overtime, but there wasn't much point. My concentration was shot. I had to go home eventually. Might as well just get it over with. On my way out, Macy caught up with me in the elevator. "Hey." She forced a smile, but the furrow of her brow all but announced she was weighing whether or not to pry. I exhaled and looked at the numbers above the door instead 71

of at her. "No, it didn't go well." She was quiet for two floors. As the elevator inched toward our stop, she said, "So, what happened?" Exhaustion pressed down on my shoulders. Going through the motions had been difficult enough. Rehashing it meant tapping into energy I simply didn't have. "It's a long story," I said. "But he's… he's moving out." The elevator stopped, and we both stepped out. As we walked toward our cars, she said, "He's really going for good this time, then?" I nodded. "Yeah." "Are you guys still…" She paused, looking at me like she was trying to read my expression. "Still friends?" "I…" Were we? I hadn't even thought about that. Nick and I had been lovers since the day we met. This was hardly a nasty split, but I wasn't sure we knew how to function as just friends. I moistened my lips. "I don't know. I really don't." We stopped behind her car, facing each other but not speaking for a long moment. "Are you okay, Andrew?" she asked softly. "I will be." I think. I gestured toward my own car with my keys. "I should, um, get going." "Okay. You know you can call me any time you need to." I forced a smile. "I know. Thanks." She stepped toward me, arms out, and as much as I just wanted to get the fuck out of there, I let her hug me. Resting my chin on her shoulder, I closed my eyes and put my arms around her. Up until now, I hadn't realized how much effort it took just to keep standing on my own two feet, and now it took all I had not to lean on her. "I'm sorry it didn't work out," she whispered. "Me too." My voice tried to crack, so I didn't say anything more. She pulled back and looked at me. "Take it easy tonight. If you need to come in late tomorrow or anything, let me know. I'll cover for you." "Thanks." I managed a slightly more genuine smile. "I'll be okay." 72

"All right," she said, but the lines in her forehead may as well have said "Keep telling yourself that, because I sure as fuck don't believe you." She let it go, though, and I continued to my car. All the way home, I dreaded turning down my driveway. Either his car would be in front of the garage or it wouldn't be, and my stomach coiled itself in knots as I wondered which option was more likely. I hoped he'd already been there and gone. The emptiness of our—my—house would be tough to deal with, but I wasn't sure I could watch him leave again. Just my luck, when my headlights lined up with the driveway and illuminated the front of the house, Nick's car was in its usual spot. He didn't have a rented or borrowed truck, which meant he either intended to make more than one trip in his car, or he'd be back another day with a larger vehicle. God, please, let him come back while I'm at work. For the moment, though, he was here. I parked, walked past his car, and went inside. He looked up from the couch, where he wrapped a picture frame in newspaper. A few boxes—some sealed, some collapsed, some partly filled— occupied part of the hallway and living room, just like they had when he'd moved in. Already the shelves and tables looked bare without the photos, books, and odd decoration he'd brought with him. I cleared my throat. "So, you have a place lined up already?" "Not yet." He dropped his gaze to the picture frame in his hands. "Zoe and Leon said I could crash at their place, but I'll probably just stay at the firehouse for now. This stuff—" he gestured at the small pile of boxes —"I'm just putting it in storage for now." His eyes flicked up and met mine, but quickly darted back to the safety of cardboard and newspaper. "Figured I'd, you know, get all of this out of your hair sooner than later." "Oh. Do you, um…" I couldn't even remember what language I spoke. "You need any help?" His eyebrows jumped slightly, as if he hadn't expected my question. He looked at the half-wrapped picture frame in his hands, turning it like he'd forgotten he was holding it, let alone packing it. Then he half-heartedly pulled the last piece of newspaper around it. "Uh, no. No, I'm good. Thanks." 73

"Okay, well…" I was about to say something, wasn't I? Words. A thought. Something. "If you change your mind, I'll be around." "Sure. Thanks." He looked at me and offered a watery smile. I returned it, then left him to packing. I didn't bother going in the bedroom to change clothes because I didn't want to see how much he'd already cleared out of there. Instead, I went into the kitchen and draped my jacket over one of the chairs beside the island. A drink was tempting. Several were tempting. I resisted, though. After Nick and his things were gone, then I could drink. Newspaper crinkled in the other room. I winced. Oh, yeah. Once he and his stuff had left, I had an urgent meeting with that bottle of Maker's Mark. Desperate to get away from the sounds of wrapping and packing, I went into the garage and flicked on the light. For a long moment, I just stared at my car. The eighty-one black Corvette was my pride and joy. My hobby when I had time, my escape when I needed one. I'd already detailed her the night Nick decided to leave, and again the next evening when I couldn't get used to the empty house. I supposed I could do it again, but right now, I couldn't muster up the energy. This was almost over. Even if I couldn't see myself making peace with the ending, it would be easier to deal with than this. As soon as he was gone, I could settle into his absence. Somehow. Eventually. Maybe. The door opened behind me. I turned around, and even though there wasn't another soul within half a mile of this house, Nick's presence startled me. He let the door close behind him, then he leaned against it. "I, um…" He bit his lip and dropped his gaze. Furrowing my brow, I watched him, completely at a loss to figure out what was on his mind. "What's up?" He took a deep breath, but didn't look at me. "I just… after you came in…" He gestured over his shoulder toward the rest of the house. "While I was packing…" I inclined my head, watching him silently. He coughed into his fist, then scratched the back of his neck 74

in what I could only guess was a failed attempt to look less tense than he was. "I just realized you're not trying to stop me. From leaving, I mean." "No, I'm not." He met my eyes, but didn't speak. Anger, frustration, and hurt twisted in my chest. "What do you want me to say?" He still said nothing. His lips thinned into a bleached line, and he dropped his gaze, but he stayed silent. Knowing him, he was trying to make sense of what was in his head before he put it into words. Usually I could be patient with that—it was just part of who he was—but the silence was killing me, especially since the longer we stood here like this, the longer this whole process would go on. I couldn't take another second of it. I opened my mouth to speak, but Nick beat me to the punch: "Do you want me to go?" I sighed. "I won't try to make you stay if you want to go. And I want this to be over with because it fucking hurts." Looking him in the eye, I struggled to keep my voice even as I said, "But don't make me say I want you to leave." Nick took a deep breath. "Is it… too late to say I want to stay?" I swallowed. "I'm not sure. Is it?" "I don't… I don't know." He chewed his lip. When our eyes met, I wasn't sure I'd ever seen him looking so lost, and his voice was quiet and uneven as he said, "I don't want to stay out of obligation, but now that I'm leaving, it's…" I shifted my weight. "Maybe it'll be easier once it's over with." "Maybe." But he didn't move. I reached up to massage some tension out of the back of my neck. "Nick…" I couldn't even find the words. I didn't know what I wanted to say. Or how to end this conversation so we could get on with ending this. He finally moved, but it wasn't toward the door. Instead, he sat on the stool in front of my workbench and took a long breath. "After everything that happened, when we both got hurt, I guess I 75

started resenting you because I felt guilty. It just, it pissed me off, you know? That we had something that good, and then we both got fucked up, and suddenly our entire life seemed to revolve around that. The PTSD, you having all the problems with your arm, neither of us being able to sleep, me getting headaches all the time…" He made a sharp gesture. "And even when we both recovered, I don't know. I guess I kept thinking about all of that. I felt guilty. I resented you. And I forgot about the big picture." "And the big picture is…?" He was silent for a long moment, chewing his lower lip. "When you were in surgery after the shooting, and I was in the ER waiting room, I was…" He paused again. Then he exhaled. "I'm not good at this, Andrew." "That makes two of us." "Yeah, well, that's just it, I guess." He sighed. "We both suck at getting the words out. And Jesus, all the time we were fighting and resenting each other, I guess I didn't want to think about it, but…" His brow furrowed, and his lips tightened. This wasn't like him at all. Neither of us was great at discussing emotions, but it was like whatever was on his mind kept eluding him. Then he looked at me again, and my breath caught at the sight of the extra shine in his eyes. "I almost lost you that day, Andrew," he said softly. "I thought I did lose you. And I've been afraid ever since of something else happening to you." "You don't think I've been afraid of losing you too?" I asked. "Christ, Nick, you had a gun to your head two minutes after I met you. The possibility of something happening to you has always been a painful reality to me, and when I saw you in that hallway after Jesse attacked you…" I shuddered. "And I had to fucking walk away while you were bleeding out," he whispered unsteadily. "I had to make a call, and I almost. Fucking. Killed you." "You didn't know," I said. "You couldn't have." "But you still almost died because of it." He sniffed sharply and blinked a few times. Then he cleared his throat and went on. "And you wouldn't have been shot in the first place if you hadn't been trying to protect me." He made another sharp, frustrated 76

gesture. "The point is, I've been so damned scared of losing you again, I pushed you away myself." "I'm still here, Nick." I swallowed the lump in my throat. "The question is, do you want to be?" "Yes," he whispered. I took a step toward him and held out my hand. "Then stay." He rose, took my hand, and the space between us collapsed in on itself. In a heartbeat, his arms were around me, and my God, I couldn't remember the last time we'd kissed like that. In fact, I couldn't say we'd ever kissed like that. I backed him up against the workbench just to keep us both on our feet, and we held on to each other with unsteady but unrelenting hands, fingers combing through hair and grasping clothing and not letting go for anything. That in itself wasn't unusual, but the desperate, hungry undercurrent was different this time. We weren't desperate for sex or hungry for an orgasm, just this. We held on to each other and kissed like this was what we needed and wanted and craved, not like it was an outlet or an escape from something unpleasant. We pulled back enough to look at each other. God damn, it was good to see him like this, without all the hostility and bitterness hanging between us. As I reached up to touch his face, though, I realized there was still something hiding in his expression. His smile was genuine, and it echoed in his eyes, but the creases in his forehead suggested our conversation wasn't completely over. Then he broke eye contact, and his Adam's apple bobbed once. He stood a little straighter, which meant drawing away from me, and I couldn't help thinking the gap between us was widening again. I rested my hands on his waist, not forbidding him from moving, but trying to maintain some contact. "Something wrong?" Nick slowly drew in a breath. "Just… something I've been trying to figure out how to ask you for a long time. And I think I need to before we go any further." My heart beat a little faster. "And that is?" He took one of my hands off his waist and clasped our fingers together between us. "I'm not even sure how to word it. Without it, I mean, coming out wrong." "Just try." I squeezed his hand. "If it comes out wrong, then, 77

try again." He laughed softly, but without a trace of humor. "I'll try. And you don't have to answer, but…" He bit his lip and kept his gaze fixed on our hands. "But if you do, be honest. Completely honest." "Okay…" Nick pulled in a breath. "The night Jesse shot you," he whispered, "when you took the bullet for me." He met my eyes. "Would you have done that for anyone else?" The question pushed the air out of my lungs. I would have loved to tell him I would have done it for him and him alone. Deep down, I wished I could convince myself of that. And the truth was, if time had stopped and I'd had time to think things through and weigh all the potential consequences, I still would have done it in a damned heartbeat. But there hadn't been time. No thinking, just doing. In the heat of the moment, it really hadn't mattered that he was my lover. Instinct and training had taken over, no matter how much I wanted to tell myself it was some romantically noble act of self-sacrifice to protect the man I loved more than life itself. There was a weapon brandished, a person in danger, and an instinctive act. Nothing more. I moistened my lips. "The day we met, you put your life on the line to treat my partner, right? Even though she was a total stranger?" Nick shuddered. "Yeah. It's my job." "And protecting you was mine," I said, cringing inwardly at the admission. He looked at me, searching my eyes for…something. "So, you would have done it for anyone, then." It wasn't a question. Shifting my gaze away from him, I nodded once. Silent seconds ticked by. Then Nick exhaled, and… he laughed. Just a quiet, tired laugh, but a laugh nonetheless. Furrowing my brow, I looked at him. "What?" He ran a hand through his hair and met my eyes. "You don't even know how much of a relief that is." "It… it is?" "Fuck yes. Do you have any idea how much weight that has been on my shoulders all this time?" He swept the tip of his tongue across his lower lip and released a long breath. "I guess, I don't 78

know… the burden of being someone you'd take a bullet for while also being the same someone who'd walk away from you and let you bleed…" He trailed off, then shook his head. "It doesn't make any sense, does it?" "You mean it doesn't bother you?" "No. Quite the opposite." He was quiet for a moment, his eyes unfocused and his brow furrowed. "It's… hard to explain. I guess it's just, that's been eating at my conscience ever since, but I was afraid to ask. I wasn't sure I wanted to hear the answer. You know, there's that romantic notion about someone who'd step in front of a train or take a bullet for you, but…" He shook his head. "I don't want that. I can't carry that kind of weight, you know? Not that I don't feel guilty knowing you got hurt, regardless of whether it was for me specifically or because you were doing your job, but it's… a little easier to carry, if that makes sense." "It does. More than you probably realize." I touched his face. "I acted on instinct and training that day, Nick. So did you. And when all was said and done, you were still here. That was all I cared about." My voice wavered slightly as I added, "And I don't want to lose you now, but if you're unhappy…" Nick didn't say a word. He just wrapped his arms around me and kissed me.

79

Nine We stumbled past boxes and half-packed belongings, past all the evidence that this was as good as dead, and into the bedroom. Shoes came off, and we managed to get my tie and shoulder holster off before Nick dragged me down on top of him on the bed beside a folded stack of his clothes. I bent and kissed his neck. One breath of his skin, and I damn near fell apart. I'd been so sure the last time was the last time, and touching him, tasting him, inhaling his familiar scent like I needed it more than air, I couldn't believe this was real. Nick moaned, and when I raised my head, he grabbed both sides of my neck and kissed me hard. I sank against him, and we kissed like we did the very first time, when we'd needed each other and didn't care if we shouldn't, and we kept kissing like that, kept kissing until we were both breathing too hard, and even that didn't stop us from trying. Desperate and shaking, we tore off clothes and didn't give a damn where anything landed while we made out like this was the first time we'd ever touched. Neither of us flinched when a button snapped off my shirt, and he probably didn't even notice when that stack of clothes toppled beside us. From time to time, between desperate kisses and the breathless curses that came with trying to get clothing out of the way, we paused, meeting each other's eyes. He stared at me like he'd never seen me like this before, and I stared at him like I'd never thought I'd see him like this again, and in seconds, we'd be at it again. And finally—fucking finally—the only fabric touching flesh 80

was the comforter beneath us. I pinned Nick on his back and pressed my erection against his. He whimpered and squirmed beneath me, pushing back with his hips. Hands rushed over hot skin, mouths skimmed over mouths, necks, collarbones, shoulders; any place we could kiss or touch, we did. You weren't supposed to be mine anymore. I nipped the side of his neck, shivering when he gasped. I thought you were gone. I followed his throat up to his jaw. Let me taste you again. Brushed my lips over stubble. Let me memorize you again. Found his mouth with mine. I can't even tell you how much I love you, Nick. Gripping the sides of my neck in both hands, Nick broke the kiss and touched his forehead to mine. "Fuck," he whispered. "I want you so bad right now," and he pressed his erection even more emphatically against mine as if he didn't think I'd believe him without feeling for myself how turned on he was. I rested my weight on my good arm, and cupped his face in my other hand. "Maybe we should get a condom, then." He closed his eyes and moaned softly. "God, yes." Almost coming unglued from anticipation alone, I reached for the bedside table with a shaking hand. I pulled out a condom and the bottle of lube, but Nick plucked the condom from my fingers. "Get on your back." He locked his eyes on mine as he tore the condom wrapper with his teeth, and I almost fucking came just from the intense need in his expression. As he rolled on the condom, I grabbed a pillow to put under my hips and moved onto my back. Nick put on some lube and sat up over me. He grinned down at me as he parted my legs and ran his hand up my inner thigh until I sucked in a breath through chattering teeth. "Don't fucking tease," I slurred. "Please… fuck me…" "I should tease you," he said, the grin broadening. But then he pushed my legs a little further apart and looked down, watching himself guide his cock to me. "But then I'd just be torturing myself, wouldn't I?" As he pressed against me, his lips parted, and his eyes flicked up to meet mine again before darting back down in the same moment the head of his cock slid into me. He pushed in a little, withdrew, pushed in a little further. The third time, he worked his way deeper still, and with every stroke, he picked up speed. "Oh my God," he whispered, closing his eyes and letting his 81

head fall back as his smooth, slick strokes quickened. "That feels amazing," I murmured. "Jesus, Nick…" "You're telling me." He eased himself down onto his forearms. His lips brushed mine, and a shudder drove him deeper inside me. "You feel so damned good, this is…" He moaned, and neither of us even tried to speak again. We just moved. Slow enough to savor, fast enough to make my eyes water from the mind-blowing ecstasy of taking his cock again and again. I blinked until my vision cleared and looked up at him. Fuck, he was beautiful like this. His eyelids were heavy, his pupils blown, and every breath hissed unevenly between parted lips. Exertion flushed his skin and brought out the cords in his neck, but his face was the picture of the same pure, delirious bliss that consumed me with every motion of our bodies. Closing his eyes, he let his head fall beside mine. Cool, sharp breaths rushed past my neck as he fucked me with long, slow strokes, his arms shaking and shoulders quivering each time he rose above me. I tried to dig my fingers into his arms, but they slid across his hot, sweat-dampened skin, following the grooves and contours of his muscles. "Oh, fuck," I breathed. "Fuck, just like that…" "Jesus Christ, you feel amazing," he growled. He kept one hand under my shoulder for leverage, but with the other, he reached back and hooked it under my knee. He drew my leg up just a little, and the very next stroke was so intense my eyes welled up. "Oh, God," I moaned. "Oh, holy fuck…" The hand under my shoulder tightened, and he thrust harder. Groaning softly, he kissed the side of my neck, letting his stubbled chin brush my skin just right to raise goose bumps wherever they weren't already standing at attention. Nick pressed his lips to the base of my neck, just above my collarbone, and when he groaned, the sound vibrated against my skin and drove me out of my fucking mind. The ache of my impending orgasm inched toward unbearable, but paled in comparison to the intense sensation of every damned thing he did. Every thrust hit just the right spot, and everywhere our flesh made contact may as well have been electrified, nerve endings dangerously close to nerve 82

endings that sizzled like live wires, and his breath heated the side of my neck like an incendiary wind fanning a wildfire. I rocked my hips back in time with his. Took him deeper, took him at just the right angle to turn my vision white and make him groan against my neck. There was no holding back, so I surrendered, my back arching beneath us and my eyes rolling back, and the instant before I let go, Nick dug his teeth into my skin, and I lost it. I didn't remember taking the breath that came out as a helpless whimper, but then I realized even through the toe-curling oblivion that the whimper wasn't mine at all. His body shook against mine, shuddered, forced his cock deeper as I came and he unraveled and we came apart together. I released my breath. Nick relaxed over me. Both panting, both shaking, we just let the moment linger as we both came down. As the heat of the moment cooled, a chill prickled along the length of my spine, all the way up to my hairline. Even after our conversation in the garage and the way we'd just made love, part of me still worried that reality was only a moment away from settling in. Nick pushed himself up and looked down at me. Heart pounding, I held his gaze and held my breath. I didn't want him to pull out, because then he'd pull away, and this moment would pass. We'd be back to distance and fighting and the kind of ice that didn't turn us both on. He withdrew slowly, gasping as we both shivered. Irrational panic rippled through me, certain we'd reached the end of this, but then he leaned down to kiss me again. Just before our lips brushed, he whispered, "I love you." Relief pushed the air out of my lungs. I wrapped my arms around him and returned his kiss. When he broke the kiss, I murmured, "I love you too." We separated, and he got up to get rid of the condom. We both cleaned up, then got into bed and pulled the sheet over us. For the longest time, we didn't speak. We just held each other close and kissed lazily and, for the first time in too long, tenderly. Nick draped his arm over my waist, and I couldn't stop caressing his face or running my fingers through his hair. I had no idea how much time passed, but eventually, we 83

pulled apart and just looked at each other. He trailed his fingertips along my jaw. "I just want you to know," he said so softly I wouldn't have heard him if we hadn't been so close together, "even when things were at their worst and I was on my way out the door—" he paused, swallowing hard "I—never once stopped loving you." I forced my voice to stay steady. "I never stopped loving you either, Nick." "I know," he whispered, and kissed me gently. "That was… that was what kept me from leaving for so long." His eyes met mine. "Do you think we can do this, though?" "Do you want to?" He moistened his lips and nodded. "Yeah, I do." I smoothed his hair. "Then we'll figure out how to do it. It might not be easy, at least for a while, but I think it'll be worth it." Nick smiled, and it was a real smile, one that made it all the way to his eyes and wasn't hindered by some unspoken thought. "Me too." "And as much as we both hate the idea, it might behoove us…" I hesitated. Nick raised an eyebrow. "Counseling?" I nodded. "For each of us, or together?" I swallowed. "Both might not be a bad idea." Exhaling, he absently ran his hand up and down my arm. "You're probably right." Then he inclined his head. "So you'll take a bullet for anyone, but you'll go to counseling just for me?" I eyed him. "Is this a trick question?" We held each other's gazes, each with a straight face, but when the corner of his mouth twitched, I couldn't help laughing. Neither could he. Pulling me closer, he touched his forehead to mine, and we both laughed, probably as much from his deadpanned comment as sheer relief that we could laugh together again. The moment passed, but we didn't let each other go. He lifted his head and looked in my eyes, reaching up to caress the side of my face. "I love you," he whispered. I ran a hand through his hair. "I love you, too." He moistened his lips. "I do want to make this work. I'm 84

sorry it took me so long to figure out everything that was in my head." I shrugged. "Wasn't like I was getting us any closer to resolving it either. Honestly, I'm just glad we made it to this point." "Me too." He leaned down and kissed me gently. "We'll take it a day at a time," I whispered, running my fingers through his hair again. "Talk to some counselors, figure it out as we go, all of that. We'll make it work." Nick smiled. "I know we will." He kissed me again, and as his tongue teased my lips apart, a shiver worked its way up my spine. We sank into an embrace that promised to last the better part of the night, and for the first time in I didn't know how long, there wasn't that nagging certainty that a Sword of Damocles dangled over us. If our relationship and my line of work had taught me anything, it was how quickly life could change. Things could go from good to bad and bad to worse in seconds, and I wasn't one to take a single moment for granted. But tonight, for the first time since a bullet ripped through my arm instead of my boyfriend, life didn't feel so precarious, like a disaster was right around the bend. For all I knew or cared, the world could end tomorrow, but with Nick in my arms like this, I could breathe again. I could finally breathe again. The road ahead would be bumpy and unpredictable. More than likely, there would be some sniping and arguing and fighting along the way while we sorted out all the finer points of rebuilding our relationship. I had no illusions that this would be simple or easy. But Nick was here. I was here. And no matter what hell came our way in the future, we'd make it through together.

85

About L. A. L.A. Witt is a M/M erotica writer who, after three years in Okinawa, Japan, has recently relocated to Omaha, Nebraska, with her husband, two cats, and a three-headed clairvoyant parakeet named Fred. There is some speculation that this move was not actually because of her husband's military orders, but to help L. A. close in on her arch nemesis, erotica author Lauren Gallagher, who has also recently transferred to Omaha. So, don't anyone tell Lauren. She's not getting away this time….

Visit our website for our growing catalogue of quality books. www.carnalpassions.com

86