Was our time together just a fool’s paradise? Can we get back to that place again?
With my hand on his jaw, I angle his head side to side, checking for injuries. Blood smears across the smooth angles of his face, but there are no lacerations. No swelling.
I turn my attention to Cole, his grumpy features lined with abrasions and gashes around his eyes, down the bridge of his nose, and cut through the corner of his mouth.
“If you’re the one with specialized training…” I squint at Cole. “Why are you more banged up than Trace?” I look back at Trace and wipe the wet towel across his cheeks, revealing pristine skin beneath the grime. “Did you even get hit?”
“He got my mouth once, and my ribs are bruised.” Trace gingerly touches his side.
“He’s full of shit.” Cole drapes an arm over his bent knee and flexes his fingers, his gaze never leaving mine. “He just wants your hands on him.”
Trace regards me in that way he does, with his head down and eyes up. It’s distractingly sexy.
I clear my throat. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“Trace was trained in hand-to-hand combat,” Cole growls. “Ranked top of our class.”
“What class? Was it military training?”
Cole’s expression empties, giving me nothing.
Christ almighty. “What about your skill set?” I ask him.
“I’m more proficient in…other areas.”
The boding descent in Cole’s tone warns me not to inquire further. Doesn’t stop my mind from jumping to images of him snapping a sniper rifle together and crawling through a jungle wearing a ghillie suit. But what the fuck do I know?
Absolutely nothing.
“Why do you fight him,” I ask Cole, hooking a thumbing at Trace, “if you know you’re going to lose?”
Trace huffs an annoyed breath. “He’s bullheaded enough to get his ass handed to him, which is pretty fucking pathetic.”
“I have the courage to get my ass handed to me.” Cole licks the cut on his lip. “Which is pretty fucking poetic.”
Cole’s temper is definitely poetic, like a murky river—calm, easygoing, and seemingly innocuous, until something disturbs what lies beneath, and all hell breaks loose in a terrorizing rage of teeth and blood.
I return my attention to Trace, giving him another clinical perusal. Scratches and red spots mar his torso from rolling on the ground. The skin is torn on a few of his knuckles. But nothing requires bandages.
“I can’t do anything about your ribs.” I climb to my feet and rinse off the towel in the sink. “Do you need a doctor?”
Cole snorts, and Trace shakes his head.
“While I clean up Cole’s face,” I say to Trace, wringing out the towel, “why don’t you go take a shower?”
Trace’s scowl tightens, his reluctance so potent it pulses through the air.
“Cole will shower after you.” I brace my hands on my hips. “Then we’re all going to sit down and have a chat.”
Bending forward, Trace prepares to stand. And pauses. Clearly, he doesn’t want to leave me alone with Cole, and if I were in his position, I wouldn’t, either.
He’s clinging to a delicate web. One more mistake—a hurtful word, a cruel action—could shove me into Cole’s arms. Right or wrong, I’m looking for anything to sway me into a decision. Which isn’t fair to either of them. Especially since I know exactly what it feels like to see someone I love with another woman.
Trace knows how I feel about Cole, and in order to be with me, he has to suffer through seeing me with Cole. Yet he stays and endures and doesn’t give up.
When I caught him with Marlo, I didn’t fight for him. I walked away. No, scratch that. I ran. Straight to another man, a stranger, just out of spite.
So watching Trace struggle with leaving me alone with Cole stirs me with deep sympathy, tempting me to back down. But I tend to sympathize too much. It makes me weak. Vulnerable. Easily trampled.
I silence the temptation and push back my shoulders.
Trace reads my eyes and shoves off the floor. I don’t breathe until he vanishes around the corner and shuts the bathroom door. A moment later, the pipes groan through the old house.
“I got a job.” Cole touches my hand.
“You did?” I kneel beside him and dab the wet towel on the cut across his cheekbone. “That was fast. What’s the job?”
“Security at the stadium.” He studies my expression, as if seeking my approval. “It doesn’t pay much but—”
“A rent-a-cop?” A sinking feeling invades my stomach. “I know nothing about your prior job, but aren’t you overqualified to stand around at concerts and baseball games? Are the security guards even armed?”