“Aye, and they even have a swimmer at their table.”
To me and Jack, the termswimmermeans more than the obvious. SBS—SpecialBoatService, the sister regiment to the SAS unit we both served in. “Who is it?”
“Whitlock.” Jack raises his hand to his eye again, but catches himself before it makes contact. “You know him?”
“Nope. Do you?”
A pause stretches out. A series of complex emotions cycle through Jack’s features and he shakes his head. “I don’t remember.”
He should. We’re trained to recall every scrap of information that comes our way, and my brother was the kid who never lostso much as a damn sock. But we aren’t kids anymore, we’re not soldiers either, and everything’s fucking different.
The realisation slams into me years too late, and I don’t know what to do with it. Another awkward silence expands until Jack breaks it. “I thought he might be a good contact for you.”
“In case I want to be a biker?”
“No, in case you want to be a lorry driver, or talk to someone about shit no one else will understand and I’m not up to the fucking job.”
Sharpness coats Jack’s words. He sounds like someone I know even less than the brother I abandoned to a life-changing injury, and guilt settles in my gut, adding to the weight dragging me like a stone tied to my ankles.
Not how it went, mate.
Vinnie’s too kind.
Always was.
I’m not, and on the ground, atwar, it’s a skill that saves time. Here…fuck. It’s a different battle, but I know it’s going to land me in trouble if I can’t get my head together enough to soften it. “I don’t need to talk to anyone,” I say, mindful of the space between me and Jack that already has no fucking oxygen. “But I’ll tell you if I do. How’s that?”
Not good enough. Whatever’s happened to my brother, he’s still canny and wise. His gaze intensifies, and this side of him Idorecognise, and it hurts, because I’ve missed him.
But the air shifts before he can speak. A change in pressure and quiet footsteps on the landing.
Skylar.
Jack moves past me to embrace him as if he’s been gone as long as I have, and his big body obscures my view enough that my breath moves freely, and I begin to believe it’s going to be okay.
Then my brother steps back, and fuck.
Fuuuuck.
I thought I remembered how beautiful Skylar is.
Clearly I don’t, because I’m not ready for the sight of him in the doorway, hair damp from the shower, water still clinging to his inked skin. I’m not ready for his smoke and metal stare or the tee that clings to all the places I shouldn’t look, and I’llneverbe fucking ready for the heat climbing my spine as our eyes meet, flaring in my chest like he’s struck me at point-blank range.
He already killed me the first time.
And all this…it blooms in the delayed seconds it takes Oscar to notice Skylar. For him to glance up from the newspaper. But it feels much longer and my imagination finds the space to wonder how it would feel to trace the line of Skylar’s forearm with the tip of my finger, a delicate touch that’s never occurred to me before with anyone, even the rare hook-ups I’ve seen more than once.
I swallow hard.
Jack speaks, but I don’t hear him. I don’t need to—IknowSkylar’s name. And aye, it is fucking nice to meet himagain, even if I have to kickstart my brain to step forward and shake his hand—hiscoolhand, a chill lurking beneath his skin, which makes no sense unless he’s just doused himself in cold water like I did an hour ago, standing naked in the bathroom we now share.
And it sure doesn’t match the spark I feel as we make contact. The jolt where we touch, as sharp and bright as the first time, like a new flame meeting oxygen and sparking with energy that can’t be tamed.
Does he feel it? I try not to look too hard, to look at him much at all, a feat that should be easy since I once spent eighteen hours curled like a pretzel in a stress position, ordered to lock in with a single speck on the ceiling, but I don’t feel like a soldier gunning for Regiment selection right now. I feel like a man—aweakman. My pulse hammers in my throat with restless energy,and Skylar’s thundery gaze darkens, like he knows, like he feels it, and he tugs his hand back as if itburns.
Reeling, I grieve the loss of his palm the instant it’s gone, and I think of all the hands I’ve ever touched. Ever smashed with my boot or a rifle butt. Ever held in mine as a brother-in-arms slipped from this earth. But away from the carnage of the life I’ve left behind, it all blurs, and I’m left with one thought, one certainty in an existence I’m not sure of yet.
That none of those fucking hands ever felt like Skylar’s.
