Complicate (Deliver 9)

Dancing with her had gone too far. He’d needlessly and recklessly indulged. Holy fuck, he’d indulged in every inch of her luscious body.

He couldn’t do that again. He couldn’t be seen with her. Couldn’t get involved.

He told her he wouldn’t help her, and he meant it.

When he finished his transaction at the tattoo parlor, he returned to Central London and walked the streets, soaking in the historical ambiance while evading the Christmas shoppers. He was looking for something, searching for a distraction from his thoughts.

Lydia was somewhere in the city. According to Romero, she’d arrived yesterday by train.

He told himself he wouldn’t walk by her hotel this time, that he wouldn’t watch her from the shadows. But he knew it was a lie. She was the only reason he’d flown in this morning.

Wandering aimlessly with his hands tucked in his pockets, he kept to the side streets, kept his feet moving, tried to keep his thoughts away from the object of his obsession.

Late into the early morning, the foot traffic died down, the tourists all tucked into their temporary beds.

Was Lydia out dancing in some dodgy nightclub? Or was she in bed, too? With Mike?

His stomach buckled, roiling with acid. The undetermined state of her relationship with Mike twisted him up. He tried not to think about it, but his imagination was a bitch.

So was his jealousy.

It awakened toxic memories. Memories of the months he’d shared Danni with Trace. He wouldn’t do that again. Not with any woman. No matter how fucking lonely he was.

His breaths quickened, forming angry white clouds in the chilly air as he strolled across Westminster Bridge. He stopped at the center with no one around and stared down at the inky water of the River Thames.

He needed to give up this pointless quest and return to the states. Better yet, he should go to Colombia and spend the holidays with his friends. His family.

For a moment, he tried to imagine it—sitting around some elaborate Christmas tree at the Restrepo headquarters, drinking, opening presents, and celebrating togetherness. He wanted that, longed for it, right up until everyone paired off and went to bed.

Where would that leave him?

Alone and pining for the love he’d lost.

Fucking pathetic.

He laughed aloud, and the ache in his voice caught on the cold breeze, tumbling toward the river. He sounded insane—in his mind and out loud. Even the voice in his head thought he was nuts.

Maybe he was having a breakdown? Or going through some sort of mid-life crisis?

Or maybe this was what it felt like to finally let go? He’d carried the guilt around for twelve fucking years, and tonight, he’d let some of it go.

He erased her from his skin.

His feelings about it were complicated. He felt a torrent of anger and relief, guilt and redemption, grief and hope, and never-ending loneliness. It was difficult to parse through when all of it twisted up around Lydia.

“This isn’t about her,” he murmured. “Stop being a goddamn pussy and move on. This is long overdue.”

He reached beneath the neckline of his jacket and yanked his necklace free, breaking the chain. Danni’s engagement ring sat in his palm, glinting in the moonlight. Such a tiny thing, yet so heavy with broken promises and lies and loss.

He’d carried the weight of this thing for too long. Danni was happy, and he could get there, too, if he stopped punishing himself.

It was time to let go.

His vision blurred, and his eyes burned with sudden, uncontrollable anguish.

Fuck it.

He blinked away the moisture and flung the ring into the river.

Then he closed his eyes and let the tears fall. Silently, lightly, they gathered at the creases of his mouth, and he wiped them away.

He felt numb. Hollow. But so much lighter.

Removing the phone from his pocket, he dialed the number he’d called countless times over the past fourteen months.

“Hello?” Rylee’s groggy voice whispered over the line.

“Did I wake you?” He did the time conversion in his head. “It’s only eleven at night there.”

“No. Yes. It’s fine. Hang on.”

Sounds of rustling indicated she was crawling out of bed, probably trying not to wake Tomas.

“Okay,” she breathed. “You there?”

“I did it.”

“What? What did you do, Cole?”

“I inked over the tattoo and threw the ring into the River Thames.”

“Oh.”

“Oh?” He exhaled and rubbed his pounding head. “I thought you would…I don’t know…have something therapeutic to say.”

“I’m processing. Give me a minute.”

He hadn’t seen her or any of the Freedom Fighters since the night he left with Lydia in the desert. That was fifteen months ago. But he talked to all of them regularly, keeping them updated on where he was and what he knew about Lydia and Mike.

“So,” Rylee said, “after twelve years of holding onto the symbols of a life you wanted, you let them go. Good for you. What prompted it?”