A swift backhand across his face stunned him again.
“Shut up,” Goon #2 growled. He hauled Cole away from the wall, dragging him by his arm and his throat. Cole stumbled, nearly dropping to one knee, but the asshole kept him up.
Goon #1 appeared and relieved Cole of his pistol. Cole struggled and shouted, but both guys were easily twice his size. It was practically four-on-one, and Cole wasn’t even that great inone-on-one.
In between kicking and punching, he looked around for anything that could help. A weapon. Something he could use for leverage. The man who’d come in with him.
Then he saw him—Will. Or at least, Will’s feet. He was on the floor, broken glass and wood all around him. And he wasn’t moving.
Oh fuck. No. Colehadto get loose. Hehadto get to Will and?—
Something cold and hard pressed into his stomach, and he froze. Goon #2 glared at him. When Cole flicked his gaze downward, he wasn’t surprised to see the man jabbing a gun into his midsection.
“Okay. Okay.” Cole relaxed as much as he could while being restrained by the two assholes. “You win. I give.” He wasn’t at all interested in finding out if it was true that abdominal gunshot wounds were among the worst ways to die, right up there with rabies or listening to Mother talk about cubism. He wouldn’t do Will, Cheyenne, or anyone else any good if he was dying on the floor.
The goons relaxed their holds on him a little—enough that they weren’t cutting off any circulation, but not enough to stop hurting.
“What the fuck?” Marcus’s voice echoed off the high rafters. When Cole looked at him, Marcus’s features contorted with fury, shock, and an extra layer of fury for good measure. Cole had seen variations of that expression before. Usually when he’d had the audacity to stand up to Marcus instead of being his reliable doormat.
Jesus. How was I ever attracted to you?
Well, okay, that was an easy enough question. Marcus was a tall, blond Swede with piercing blue eyes and a charming smile. He could be reserved and even shy at first, but he was gregarious and fun once someone got past that first layer. He was magnetic. There weren’t many people who wouldn’t be attracted to Marcus.
The real question?
How was I ever in love with you?
Ugh. Gross.
Marcus came closer, stepping over debris and pottery shards in the mess he’d made of Cheyenne’s sprawling studio. “What the—how are—” He shook himself, the shock giving way to—oh, what a surprise!—more fury. His gaze locked on Cole, and a disgusted sneer twisted his lips. “My God, Cole. You were always such a snob about thrifting and upcycling. But then here you come with another man’s sloppy seconds.” He huffed an ugly laugh. “How the mighty have fallen.”
Swallowing past the bile rising in his throat, Cole growled, “I mean, maybe if you got the job done, no one would need?—”
A fist to his gut doubled him over and shut him up.
Okay. Okay. Bad strategy. Bad idea. Instead of taking his ex’s bait, he needed to get himself free and get to Will. The lack of movement or noise had his worry intensifying by the second; Will wasn’t even that still or quiet when he was sleeping. He could be unconscious. Severely injured. Worse.Muchworse. Cole needed to help Willandsignal their backup that shit had gone south.
He squirmed against the men holding on to him, and Goon #2 dug his fingers in even harder, driving a cry of pain out of Cole.
“Easy, Bill,” Marcus said, chuckling. “Let’s not break him.” His expression darkened again. “I still need him to show me to the Puffin.”
“I don’t—” Maybe that was the wrong play here, telling Marcus he didn’t have it. Maybe what he needed to do was bluff. Get Marcus to believe he was about to get what he wanted. It was better than any other thought he had, so he went with it. Sighing with exaggerated resignation, he met his ex-boyfriend’s glower. “Fine. Fine. Just…” He tipped his head to where he’d seen Will. “Get him some medical help.” He nodded at Cheyenne. “Let her go. And let me go. Then it’s all yours.”
Marcus studied him, and God, Cole knew him. He knew that look. He’d thought Marcus had the actual Puffin, but he could see the desperation in Marcus’s eyes. The asshole didn’t have the stupid little sculpture—heneededit. Whether for his own purposes or because he’d promised it to someone else—maybe Alders thought he had it?—Cole couldn’t say, but Marcus was desperate, which gave Cole the advantage.
He kept his cards close. “Those are my terms. You want the Puffin?” He shrugged as much as Goon #1 and #2’s grips allowed.
Marcus’s lips thinned into a nearly invisible line—a tell that he was nearing the end of his patience. “Why were you getting a counterfeit made if you have the real thing?”
Cole narrowed his eyes. “Why were you chasing us all over the goddamned place if you don’t think we have it?”
“Idothink you have it.” Marcus gestured at Cheyenne, who was trembling in the shadow of Unnamed Goon #3, who’d entered the studio at some point. “What I want to know is why you were procuring afake?”
“To sell. Obviously.”
Marcus crossed his arms. “To whom?”
Cole shrugged. “eBay?”
