Page 25 of If You Go
She laughs—a small bell sound that hits low in my spine—and works the cleanser across her skin. I loosen the bun, let her rinse everything at once, then step into a second head and rinsedown myself—just conditioner through the hair, quick scrub of body. No need for a totally full shower since I just took one.
When the water stops, the room breathes steam. I reach for two towels through the glass and hand her one, wrapping the other at my waist. I step out and go to the cabinet, grabbing a third towel for her hair. Then a spare toothbrush for her. The small stuff matters.
I duck into the closet, grab her a soft, worn band tee—one that is short on me—and come back. She pulls it over her head and shakes her hair out of the towel. She’s all clean skin and wet gold, her hair still dripping from the shower, leaving dark patches on the light colored band tee I gave her to wear. It clings to her curves and hits just below the crease where thigh meets hip, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of what lies beneath with every slight movement. My dick has opinions, jumping slightly every time I see a sliver of her smooth, firm, cheeks. I set my jaw and hang the towels instead of bending her over the counter like every cell is ordering me to.
Boxer briefs for me. Lights low. She eyes me again, but not in a way that screams she wants to jump on me again. She studies my tattoos, reaching out a finger and raking it down one of the blacked out portions on my forearm. Then she moves on to the ones covering my chest, running her hand lightly over my chest hair. It feels, intimate. I let her finish exploring me before I take her hand, lead her back to bed, and pull her into my chest. She nestles in like we’ve done it a hundred nights. Good. I hold her there and breathe her in until her weight goes slack.
She’s asleep before my eyes close, but I’m not far behind.
My alarm bleats from the bathroom at five in the morning because Past Me is an idiot. I peel one arm out from under her inch by inch. She’s starfished across my mattress, blanket strangled around one ankle, an arm flung over my ribs like she’s keeping me in place. I slide free without waking her, kill the alarm, take a leak, and grab sweats and a cutoff.
When I step into the hall, the house is already breathing. Of course it is. I follow the smell of coffee.
Joshua and Corver are at the kitchen island—hoodies, bare feet, open laptops. Sam’s there too in borrowed clothes, hair a mess that screams “slept on a sofa I didn’t mean to.” Although, I’m not sure where he slept exactly. Joshua lifts the pot toward me.
“Coffee?” he asks.
I nod. He pours. I wrap both hands around my favorite mug and inhale the burn.
“Sleep good?” I ask, meaningno intruders, no ghosts of the past, no blood on the floor.
Grunts all around. Good enough.
“Not great,” says Corver. We all look at him. We know why.
“Didyouget any sleep?” Joshua smirks. He’s begging for it.
“Yes, you dick.” I jerk my head toward Sam. “Herbrotheris sitting right here.”
Sam stares up at the ceiling, visibly praying for the drywall to swallow him whole.
“Oh. Sorry, man,” Josh mutters, bumping him with an elbow. Sam returns the favor with interest. Worth it.
I set the mug down. “Where are we with Natasha?”
Corver already has the laptop spinning. “Your best friend’s encrypted servers got the video to Sam’s father. I can’t track Gavin. I can’t track her. Nothing. I want her out.” His voice is tight, clipped, controlled rage. “We need to get her out, Brenden. Now.”
“I’m in complete agreement,” I say. “But we need eyes. Call Arnie. See what he can drag out of the shadows.”
Arnie’s the brain—MIT freak who likes puzzles more than people. He and Corver run point on the data side when we hunt. Joshua has Gunnar for the other things. Gunnar’s a good man with bad methods. We met him back when we first started the backdoor gig. He was on a similar job and we crossed paths. He is ex-Army. SpecOps. The guy is nuts, but genuine as fuck. The kind of guy that’s hard to come by in this world. I wouldn’t cross him for a kingdom, though.
“On it,” Corver says, already walking to his office. “Text him a heads-up. I’m going to chew the line.”
I pull my phone and type out a message to Arnie.
I set the phone down and hit the fridge, grabbing out all the supplies for a proper feast. If we’re going to be under the same roof for a while, we’re eating like soldiers before a fight.
Skillets go down. Flame up. Coffee brews a second pot while I run point on breakfast. By 7:15 the counter is a lineup—scrambles, crispy bacon, sausage links, toast, hot sauce, buttered jam, refilled cups.
Richie shuffles in with Selene—both wearing Corver’s clothes like pilfering raccoons. They look wrecked.
“Morning,” I say. “Coffee? Breakfast? Both?”
Selene grumbles. Richie answers for them. “Coffee first, brekky second. Us girls gotta wake up before we can eat.” He winks at me, and I just smirk back. This guy is actually really funny.
I pour. Let them make bad decisions with caffeine before food. Not my stomach.
Once they down their liquid life, they eat. The living room swallows them. Joshua and Sam take the sofa; Selene drapesacross the chair by the window like a cat in a sunbeam. The windows throw that big Seattle gray light across everything, and for a minute, it almost looks like a normal morning.
