“We’ll figure it out,” he murmured, letting himself drift further into sleep.
“We’ll do it better this time,” Wade agreed.
And that was enough.
Jericho had come back to Mosely for his father. Out of duty, guilt, and maybe a vague idea of making things better, of repairing at least the surface of the relationship while there was still time. Instead, he’d found Wade. He’d found Kayla. Mr. Appleby. Deputy Garron. Hell, he’d found Nikki, and the half siblings he hadn’t known existed. His life had been empty, and now it was full—too full, in terms of Nikki and the kids. Little brats.
He thought about smiling, but he was too sleepy. Too content. Possibly too drugged, but mostly just happy. He and Wade had found each other. And this time they were grown men, not confused boys. This time they knew what it was to lose love, and they both knew enough to make sure it never, ever happened again.
“More fucking sand,” Wade griped, looking out at the expanse of white and blue in front of them. “And we both know there are sharks in that ocean. They’re coming for us. You first, probably, because you’re bigger.” He leaned over on the sheet they were using as a shared beach towel and let his hand wander up Jericho’s thigh, edging his fingers in toward one area that would definitely be getting bigger if things continued.
Jericho calmly sipped his Piña Whatever and nodded. “Beaches are highly overrated.”
They weren’t, of course. The beach was beautiful, the drink was delicious, and it felt good to have the sun baking the muscles he was still exercising for therapy instead of fitness. They’d found a cabin that was remote enough, in an area that was liberal enough, for them to spend most of their day naked, in the water or on the shore. There was absolutely nothing wrong with the beach. And that was the damn problem.
After Jericho had been released from the hospital, he and Wade had spent a few days at Jericho’s apartment with Jericho reclining on the couch while Wade packed the place up, making fun of whatever caught his eye. Luckily Jericho had most of his mementos, the few things he truly cared about, in storage back in LA. Although he had a feeling Wade would have been good at figuring out what was important and what was open for ridicule. Wade was good at figuring most things out.
They’d camped in the mountains for a few weeks while Jericho still had frequent medical appointments, then packed up the Mustang and headed for Mexico, Jericho telling himself that Wade’s interest in the border crossing was innocent curiosity. They’d found somewhere cheap to stay, because Jericho didn’t have all that much in his savings and Wade was being cagey about his own financial situation, and they’d had a good couple of weeks. Now, though?
“The sun’s bad for your skin, you know.” Wade frowned and ran his fingers over one of Jericho’s still-pink scars. “And you’re not as dark as I am. You need to be more careful.”
“Also, Spanish is kind of hard to understand,” Jericho contributed. He edged closer and took a deep breath of appreciation as Wade’s fingers closed around his cock. “Life is easier when everyone speaks English.”
Wade’s hand was relaxed. Just a casual handjob on the beach—might turn into something more, might not. “Authentic Mexican food isn’t as good as I thought it would be. There’s not enough cheese.”
They could have kept going, but there was no need. “We’re bored,” Jericho said.
“Perfection sucks.” Wade rolled quickly, then shifted until he was hovering over Jericho, their legs entwined, their cocks lined up in happy comradeship. “The only reason I can stand you is because you’re so deeply, deeply flawed.”
“Is this going to be about my scars, again?” Jericho wrapped his hand around their cocks while Wade began to work his hips, slow and easy. “Because chicks dig scars. I’ve heard that on good authority.”
“Too bad you don’t dig chicks.” They kissed, then, their mouths communicating as well, if not better, without words. No, it’s not too bad we don’t dig chicks.
It was all magically familiar, even with the sand and the tropical sun. It was sinuous Wade and solid Jericho, just as it had been when they were teenagers, and just as it should always be.
“I love you,” Wade whispered, just as he always did when his climax was building. Just as he always should. Jericho kissed Wade, and they moved together in perfect rhythm, perfect balance, and came together with a shuddering release as timeless as the waves lapping against the shore.
Jericho stayed silent until Wade had shifted back over to his own side of the sheet, then said, “So, we’re bored. And you have a plan. Are you going to tell me what it is?”
“Why do you think I have a plan?”
“Because you’re you. Are you going to tell me what it is?”
Wade made him wait a little, but finally shrugged and said, “Jericho Crewe: Private Investigator.”
“Private Investigator.” It wasn’t exactly a wild idea; a lot of PIs were ex-cops. “How do you fit in? There are background checks before you can get licensed, Wade. Hockley might not be actively trying to bust you anymore, but he's not going to cover for you. There’s no way you’ll get a license.”
“Also, there’s a written exam, and I don’t like studying. I said ‘Jericho Crewe,’ not ‘Granger and Crewe.’”
“So what the hell will you be doing?”
“I’ll be doing the real work. The real investigation. We’ll be like that TV show, where you can be the public face of the company, being what people expect a PI to be, but I’ll be the one getting shit done.”
“Remington Steele? You want us to model our business after a cheesy eighties TV show?”
“Yes. Yes I do.”
“You know, I’m actually a competent investigator. I don’t just have good hair, or whatever the guy from the TV show had.”
