But there’s an undercurrent beneath the camaraderie. The competitive tension between them is thick. It’s little things—the rigidness in their postures, the cutting looks between them, the glances back at me. Since I’m not planning for a zombie apocalypse, I don’t care who’s the better shot. But it matters to them.
This is a war, Danni.
I didn’t have a good understanding of Cole’s comment those first few days at the lake house. But after living with them for two months, I get it.
We’re still sharing a bed at night, and they haven’t crossed the sexual boundaries they set in the beginning. It’s as if they’re using the temptation of sex to undermine each other’s steadfastness and determination to be the better man.
Blow jobs? They won’t allow it. They seem to accept the fact that I’m engaging in cunnilingus with them both. But evidently, neither of them can stomach the idea of me putting my mouth on a cock that’s not his own.
Or maybe something else is going on. Maybe they’re playing a game to see which one can hold out the longest, as if it’s some kind of determining factor in who I choose.
Is it? Would I have more respect for the one who didn’t base a relationship on sex?
I think I would.
This isn’t a war of fists or blood. It’s a war of character and willpower, of psychology and heart. They’re fighting each other on an emotional level, without words or physical force. While I sense the nuances of an ongoing battle, I wonder how much rivalry goes on that I’m not savvy enough to pick up on.
It’s up to me to end this.
Trace told me at the start if I knew my decision, we would all know. And that will be that.
If I really want to over-analyze his words—which I have a propensity to do—does know my decision mean know in my mind or know in my heart? Because I think my mind knows, but I haven’t discussed it with them. They’re still carrying on like we’ll be here, floating in limbo, for another four months.
Meanwhile, I’m trying to prepare myself for a quicker resolution, starting with subtle attempts to shut out Trace. Sometimes, I force myself to not respond to his affection Sometimes, he notices and steals my breath with a brutal look. But he never says a word.
Can he read my thoughts? Or is he looking for deeper clues? Clues that tell him my heart belongs to another? If it’s the latter, he’ll be looking for a while. Maybe forever.
I think I’ve been spending too much time in my head. So much so I’m starting to annoy myself.
Rubbing my temples, I redirect my attention to the view before me.
They stand together, heads bowed, examining the chamber of a pistol Cole’s holding.
Taller and leaner than Cole, Trace is polished masculinity in designer denim and a white collared shirt. He’s probably the only man in history who wears starched clothes to a shooting range. Blond hair flawlessly styled, aristocratic features carved with a divine hand, his sophistication only makes him look deadlier with a gun.
Cole is raw, rugged power in ripped jeans and a black leather jacket. He’s anarchy personified with his messy brown hair, sexy scruff, square jawline, and dark eyes that make me feel winded every time they shift in my direction.
“It’s not the gun.” Trace glares at him. “Your accuracy is shit. Retirement doesn’t agree with you.”
“Cool story, bro.” Cole releases the slide with a metallic clank. “How about we get to the good part when you shut the fuck up?”
“The village called.” Trace returns to his lane. “They want their idiot back.”
My pulse accelerates as I flash back to the last time they involved a gun in a disagreement.
“Okay.” I jump up and clap my hands. “Who wants to go for ice cream?”
“Is that what you want?” Cole softens his eyes, letting me know he’ll give me anything I ask.
Almost anything.
I want the three of us to love and laugh and live happily ever after. Together. But it’s a fool’s dream.
“Want…need…” I grin. “The fine line between is ice cream.”
Three weeks later, Cole leads me through a buzzing dark nightclub called The Angry Fly. A thick haze from smoke machines clots the air, punctured by shards of neon light. All around me, college kids hop to the thumping music, bodies pressed together, grinding with sexual frisson and revving my heartbeat.
Trace broke away at the door to order us drinks. This isn’t his scene. It’s not mine, either. Not anymore. But as Lose My Breath by Destiny’s Child vibrates the speakers, excitement builds inside me, twitching to let loose.
We drove forty minutes to get here. It’s the closest venue with a dance floor and decent music. Springfield, Missouri is a college town, and evidently, this is the happening place. From multi-colored hair and piercings to barely-there miniskirts, young girls drip from the walls and bar stools.