Breakfast was fifteen conversations over pancakes, and I could barely keep up. Holmes asked Truett for help with his fade—half a millimeter off regulation, probably—and Truett happily obliged.
Holmes is in the military, just like he always wanted to be, even if the only thing I know about his highly classified service is that hereallycares about the regulations. Also, I can tell when he’s in danger because I feel it in my chest.
I’m internet famous, so Itotallyget being in high-pressure situations. I mean, God. I could lose followers if I used the wrong product on my luscious, sun-streaked curls.
Now that Holmes and Truett have taken off and the conversations about all the fucking that went down last night have settled, my thoughts, as always, go straight back to Boone. I’d been doing well on that front, but we reconnected a few months ago.
Reconnectedin that he cuffed my drunk ass at the tail end of a spring Pride event and dropped me back home.
Turns out, he still fucks with Earth’s gravity whenever he’s near.
I’m pretty sure he meant the whole Pride incident as a warning, but I’ve turned it into foreplay.
Realizing there’s still conversation going on around me, I knuckle down and concentrate on making the words make sense. Rami’s talking about his barber, and the uncles are teasing me mercilessly, so…the usual.
As I’m getting into the swing of things, though, my hard-won focus is hijacked by a rush of adrenaline and a tightening right beneath my sterno.
Sternum.
My cousin’s phone chirps, and he reads the incoming message, leaning forward as his brows meet in the middle. We simultaneously turn to each other and goosebumps spread down my arms and across my chest.
“Is it Holmes? Is something wrong with Holmes?” I ask, barely able to catch my breath.
Whatever this is, it’s worse than what I’ve felt when he’s on his missions.
Honoré looks beyond me to Rami.
“Holmes just texted. He heard a shout and squealing tires, then raced over to Truett’s car. The driver’s side door was left open, and Truett is nowhere to be seen.”
Holy…shit. “What the fuck?”
Uncle Anders grabs his phone, his thumbs flying. Seconds later, he’s nodding at the screen. “Jake’s on it. He’ll grab the security feed from the garage.”
What?
The others crowd around Anders’ phone as the door to the stairs opens. Holmes jogs in, cutting the cord on the tension in my body. He sends me a quick nod, touching his chest before turning to Uncle Anders.
“What happened to him?” Holmes asks. “Did you see?”
“Jake’s sending me the feed right now,” he says as everyone presses in a little closer.
Not knowing what to expect, I walk up behind the group and stretch up on my tiptoes, trying to get a glimpse at the small screen.
My uncle taps the link that comes through, and security footage from the garage boots up. My brain trips up on the angle, the lighting. Like it’s some sort of fucking student film and not…shit.Three men in military gear kidnapping Truett.
Truett fights back, nearly connecting with one guy until one of the other men slams the butt of his gun into his temple. His legs give out, and they scoop him up like a sleeping child, shoving him into a van.
Omar holds up his phone. “Wimberley’s scrambling a response. We’ve got a description of the vehicle, and they’ll have air support within the next five minutes.”
Wimberley? Air support?
For a second, I think I’ve misunderstood him, but then everyone is on the move.
Silas brushes by me, Cupcake on his heels as they hit the stairwell, and the others go to the back, leaving Oakley and me in the living room. I’m so fucking confused.
“What’s going on? What’s happening?” I ask, panic rising in my chest again.
Oakley seems to be taking things in stride, even though he looks as confused as I am. “And what, exactly, is Wimberley scrambling?” he asks, his voice low.
