He had his faults, no question, but he was not petty or mean-spirited, and the idea that anybody who worked for him thought hewas, stung.
Riley added, “The only weekends I haven’t been on call were the two weeks I was on sick leave.”
The reminder of last March’s accident caught Lucas off-balance, as if he’d hit a sudden patch of ice—which was what had happened to Riley. He’d been accompanying a county sheriff’s deputy attempting to serve a search warrant on a suspect living off-grid in the forested area surrounding Silver Pine. Their vehicle hit a stretch of black ice and the deputy’s SUV had skidded and gone over an embankment. Between the wooded terrain and snow cover, the SUV hadn’t been found for ten very long hours. Deputy Fudali had been killed almost instantly. Riley, securely buckled in the passenger seat, had sustained mostly superficial injuries, but he’d been pinned for hours in freezing temperatures with the dead deputy. By the time he’d been airlifted to safety he was suffering from shock, hypothermia, and a mild concussion.
The psychological toll…
Hard to say, because other than that first night in the hospital, he’d said very little about it. To Lucas, anyway. He’d gone through a CISM debriefing, of course, and he’d been offered and accepted peer support. He’d been cleared for duty without any problem. Unsurprisingly, he’d dealt with what had surely been a traumatic ordeal with maturity and, sure, his usual stoicism.
More patiently, Lucas said, “Is that what this is about? The accident?”
“Yeah. Probably. I can’t deny that nearly dying makes you think.”
“Sure. What are you thinking?”
Riley’s brows shot up. “You mean about us?”
Lucas nodded tersely.
“Just… What I said. I want to know—I want to feel—” He stopped there.
Great. Ifhecouldn’t put it into words, how the hell was Lucas supposed to figure out what he wanted?
“You want me to prove that I prioritize you.”
“Us.”
“Okay.Us. But I don’t know what that means or how I do that. What do you want from me?” The whole conversation was baffling, frustrating. Lucas rarely lost his temper, but he didn’t like feeling he was being presented with a test he was guaranteed to fail. “I don’t want to play games. Just tell me what you want.”
Riley’s eyes flickered at his tone. He removed his feet from his desk, , said shortly, “I want to feel like this matters to you.”
“Of course this matters.” And now Lucas was completely out of patience. “For God’s sake! What do you think I’m doing here? I want a relationship with you. I’m happy to have a relationship with you. I’m happy with you. Okay?”
Riley actually did a doubletake like he’d only now got a good look at Lucas. He said, “Oh.”
It wasn’t a happily surprisedoh. It was an oh-now-I-get-it, and it further aggravated Lucas who suddenly realized he was being an asshole—and he wasn’t even sure why. He didn’t like feeling forced into…making a commitment? Was that what Riley wanted?
Because… Lucas had sort of thought theywerecommitted. In the ways that actually mattered.
“You’re a priority. I love you. You know that,” Lucas clipped out.
It wasn’t the first time he’d told Riley he loved him. He’d told him that night in the hospital. He’d held Riley’s hand all night—though neither of them were the hand-holding type—and he’d told Riley he loved him. Told him more than once. Told him other things, too, things he’d never said to anyone else and never would because, for him, there was only Riley.
“Yeah, I know,” Riley was equally terse. “I love you, too.”
Not satisfied with knowing he was an asshole—and that Riley also knew he was an asshole—Lucas opted to go full monster.
He rose. “Great. So can we dispense with the games and the doom countdown and get back to work?”
The look on Riley’s face—that instant of naked, unguarded hurt. Lucas did not expect that. Had not intended that. Did not know what to do about it.
But the next moment the look was gone.
“You got it.” Riley turned back to the cold case files.
The uneasy suspicion that he’d won the battle but lost the war followed Lucas out of Riley’s office and all the way down the hall to his own.
.
