“Loc, something’s happened,” he told me.
“What do you mean?”
“Twitter and IG are blowing up. It looks like the woman he was with, or is with—somebody tried to hit her, and Nick stepped in.”
My heart seized for some unfathomable reason. “Is he hurt?”
“He got banged up a little, but he looks all right.”
“What? You stopped talking.”
“Your boy looks uncomfortable.”
“In the pics, you mean?”
“Yeah,” he confirmed, talking as he was going through multiple sites. I’d seen him do it, look at five screens at once. His focus was impressive, to say the least. “I mean, he looks good, but if you look at the candid shots and not at the posed ones, he doesn’t look like he’s enjoying the spotlight, like his skin is on too tight.”
“That’s weird. I assumed he was really looking forward to it.”
“Are you sure?”
“Oh yeah,” I affirmed. “I think he was hoping to get laid too, since I totally got in his way the last time he brought it up.”
“Well, with how he’s looking, I’m gonna say you’re wrong.”
“You’re sure?”
“Pretty sure.”
“Okay, well, so where is he?”
“Right now…it looks like he’s leaving Frost Warren’s house and driving—no, too slow,” he imparted, going silent for a moment. “He’s gotta be walking…yes. And now he’s going into a house, it looks like two doors down, and that is where—wait, lemme check the latest tweets and Insta posts…yes. That house is where he’s meeting his buddy Conner Fox.”
“And you’re sure he’s there?”
“Yes,” he said, drawing out the word. “And there’s some serious security on the property. I’m not sure how you’re going to manage access.”
“Trust me, I’ll manage,” I promised him.
“Let me check if there’s a list for entry.”
He went quiet, and I floored it. What seemed like an eternity later, I took the exit from the PCH to Rambla Vista and followed Owen’s directions until I found the address that Owen gave me. Fortunately, it was not in one of the gated communities, so I was able to enter the neighborhood without issue.
Owen directed me to park almost a half mile away from the house I was looking for. He promised it would be as strategic for exit as it was for entry. I had to admit that I managed to dream up various scenarios in my head as I walked—a crack party, an orgy…ritual bloodletting. Yeah, my imagination ran to the ridiculous, but it came from real-life things I’d seen back when I was in uniform. Truth was always stranger than fiction. But all I found when I got there was people mingling between three houses, definitely more casual than carnal. Once I made my way to the bungalow where I’d been told to go, blending in with the crowd, acting like I belonged there, and made my way inside—so much for the security Owen warned me about—I started my search at the bathrooms, figuring any room with a closed door was suspect. I found Nick in the third one. I banged on the door and was told, loudly, to fuck off.
“I can’t go away. I’m here for you,” I growled back at him.
He hurled the door open, and all I saw, in that moment, was his ripped and bloody jacket.
“Jesus Christ,” I groaned.
He took one look at me, shuddered, and stepped into my space, pressing his face to my chest, arms wrapping around my waist, clutching tight as I heard his breath catching over and over.
“You’re fine,” I stated, hoping it was true, easing him back into the bathroom and closing and locking the door behind me. The open window wasn’t doing much to overcome the stench of vomit permeating the room, but this close I could tell it wasn’t coming from him.
“It’s not my blood on my jacket.”
“Okay,” I said, calming, realizing I’d been holding my breath, my cursory glance only cataloging bruises.
“I’m sorry,” he husked, voice cracking as he shivered.
Enfolding him in my arms, I hugged him tight, amazed at the difference. I hadn’t held him since the first day we officially met, that Saturday when he’d been hungover. I realized now that the changes in his physique that I’d seen, looked at, noticed, were a whole other story when pressed up against me.
His shoulders were filled out, broad, and his chest was wide and thick with new muscle. His entire body was hard and toned, and I could feel the heat of him through the ruined jacket. Because he was now solid and strong, I exerted more pressure into the hug, and he lifted his head and notched his face into the hollow between my shoulder and neck. The moan was unexpected, as were his arms sliding up over my shirt, his fingers digging into the muscles in my back, kneading, holding me still.
“Are you mad at me?”
“Why would I be––”
“Things didn’t go smoothly.”
“I don’t care about that. You can’t plan for everything, this is life. Shit happens.”