Chapter Two
The morning light streamedthrough the blinds of Oren Callaghan’s small room, cutting across the pale gray walls in harsh stripes.He sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, palms pressed together, as if he were trying to pray the thoughts out of his head.
But it was no use.
His mind was still caught on the image of Ty Monroe and Dale Ricoh circling each other on the mat.Sweat-slicked skin, flexing muscles, gritted teeth.The way their bodies had moved together—fluid and brutal and beautiful.It had wrecked something in him.Or maybe awakened something.Either way, he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it.
He’d gone back to his room and stepped into the shower, hoping the cold water would cool his blood.It didn’t.The heat that rolled through him as he remembered Ty’s strength, Dale’s speed, the way they looked at each other—it twisted low in his gut.He’d braced his hand against the tile and taken himself in hand, eyes clenched shut, not even trying to pretend it wasn’t them he was thinking about.
What the hell was happening to him?
He was the proverbial son of a goddamn preacher.Raised with fists and fire-and-brimstone sermons.He’d been told what was right and wrong—who he was allowed to be.And now?
Now he wasn’t so sure.
He stood abruptly, angry with himself, and pulled on his jeans and a black branded work shirt.He needed to get out, move, sweat it out at the site.He couldn’t stay still, or he’d drown in his own thoughts.
He stepped outside into the morning air, the scent of cedar and dry earth grounding him, until a voice pulled him back.
“You heading toward the building site?”
Oren turned.
A man he didn’t recognize slowed his stride beside him.“Hey, I’m Carson,” he said, extending his hand.“One of the new builders brought in to help with the therapy wing.”
Late twenties, broad-shouldered, dark brown hair and eyes, good-looking in that clean-shaven ex-frat-boy kind of way, Carson had the easy confidence of someone who thought they belonged everywhere.
Oren gave the offered hand a quick shake.“Oren,” he replied curtly.“When did you start with Redline?”
“Couple days ago,” Carson said with a grin.“Still getting the lay of the land.”
Oren gave a nod, already angling his body toward the path to the site.“Yeah, I was heading to the building site.”
Carson’s gaze swept over him in a way that made Oren’s skin crawl.Not because it was a man looking—he’d grown used to that.But because there was something too deliberate about it.
“Shame,” Carson said with a grin.“I’m finished for the day, new guys always get the back shifts.You ever get waterboarded, Callaghan?”
The question hit Oren like a gut punch.
For a moment, the world dropped out beneath him.
A memory slammed into place—too fast, too vivid.Darkness.Screaming.A soaked cloth pressed to his face.The taste of mildew.The agony of drowning without water.The panic.The violation.
His breath caught, his fists clenched.He wasn’t on the Ridge anymore.He was back in that cell in Afghanistan.Strapped down.Helpless.
He took a step back, shoulders tense, jaw tight.“Don’t joke about shit you don’t understand,” he said coldly, voice rough with the effort to stay in the present.
Carson nodded, then raised his hands.“Hey, just making conversation.Didn’t mean anything by it.”
Oren stared at him for another long second before turning sharply and heading toward the build site.His hands were shaking.
The past wasn’t staying buried.
And he didn’t know how much longer he could pretend it wasn’t clawing its way back to the surface.
