"If anyone thinks of anything, let me know. Head home and get some shuteye. I'll call if I need you."
There were murmurs of assent, and some of the guys started talking amongst themselves. Annabeth tapped on her keyboard while Hamm peered over her shoulder. Cade watched sullenly as the table eventually emptied, except for Natalie. When the room cleared, he remained standing, frozen in place, having no idea what he should do next.
His eyes followed Annabeth as she stepped away from her computer and grabbed two bottles of water from the fridge. Walking to Natalie, she offered her one bottle and said, "If you want, you can rest on the couch. I'm going to work right over there if you need anything."
Accepting the drink, Natalie moved to the sofa, pulled a blanket from the back to cover herself, and stared vacantly at the black screen of the TV. Cade clocked her defeated expression and the dark circles under her eyes. Jesus, she was only a kid and had already been through somuch. It was unbelievable that this was happening. The universe had a fucking sick sense of humor.
Hamm approached, drawing Cade's attention from Tristan's sister. "You should go home too, get some sleep."
"I'm not leaving the house. We have to find him, and I need to stay here with Natalie."
"We're working on it, she'll be fine here, and you need to sleep."
There was no way he could sleep in this condition, with his mind whirring and his heart in his throat. He needed to do something; he just didn't know what.
Finally pushing himself off the wall, Cade mumbled about using the bathroom and crossed the room. Once safely behind the closed door, he splashed cold water over his face and hung his head. For a moment, he couldn't find the will to move, to act.
Gazing up into the mirror, his reflection stared back at him, mocking him. He looked drawn, haggard. He bitterly thought it was fitting that he looked like shit, because he felt like it too.
And he deserved it too, deserved to suffer for his mistakes.
As his anger swelled again, Cade stalked out of the bathroom and over to Hamm.
"I need to burn off some energy. Can I use the gym?"
Hamm raised an appraising eyebrow. "Suit yourself. Close the door so you don't disturb the kid."
Cade strode into the room that held Hamm's gym, tugged off his jacket and dropped it over a bench. Scanning the equipment, his eyes landed on the heavy punching bag suspended from the ceiling. Perfect. He really needed to hit something, and Tag had already left.
He didn't bother wrapping his hands, just started punching, at first slow and steady, warming up his muscles. Cade tried to focus on his form, the positioning of his hands, but couldn't concentratewith this fear for Tristan consumed him, cramming his mind with unthinkable scenarios.
Was Tristan bound and gagged? Bleeding and injured? Already dead?
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Losing any sense of time, Cade let the rage and bitterness pour out of him. He pounded more forcefully, more ferally as his thoughts about Tristan's condition became more horrific. He channeled as much power as possible into each blow as sweat blanketed his skin and dripped from his forehead and nose, as his knuckles burned and the skin split and bled.
T-shirt clinging to his back and chest, arm muscles cramping and burning with pain, Cade kept going as if some invisible energy drove him forward, as if some part of him was afraid that if he stopped, he would be forced to face reality and admit he fucked up so badly it had maybe cost Tristan his life.
The idea of Tristan suffering some horrible fate was unbearable. Tristan was supposed to be alive and well, vibrant and spirited. Grinning, teasing.
Cade continued to pummel the bag as familiar images of Tristan danced through his brain: Tristan's eyes sparkling with humor as he teased over the backgammon board; his earnest gaze when he asked a baseball question; his soft, stunning profile in the sunlight under the trees; and then, Tristan riding him, wearing his marks, staring at him like he hung the moon.
Fucking fuck.
Cade wanted more time with Tristan, more of those smiles and teasing remarks, more nights watching baseball, more days with him in the kitchen and in the woods, and yes, in bed.
In that instant, he knew.
He wanted a life with Tristan. To hell with his lofty self-sacrificing thoughts that the other man would be better off without him, to hell with his ignorance about relationships. He'd figure it out, he had to, because he could never choose to live like this, like a piece of him had been hacked from his body.
Cade thrashed the bag some more and promised that if he got Tristan back, he would never let him go, would never leave him unprotected, would never let anything like this happen again. He would give Tristan whatever he wanted, make him happy; however the fuck that worked, Cade would figure it out and do it.
He was lost in grief and guilt, oblivious to everything around him until fatigue finally caught up with him. With leg muscles burning, he lost his balance and grasped for the bag to prevent himself from crashing to the floor. Once steadied, he hung his head and gasped for air, breaths shallow and labored, feeling dizzy from lack of oxygen. When he dropped his hands to his side, his arms stabbed with pain and felt so heavy he didn’t know how he lifted them a second ago.
Stumbling a few steps to the nearby weight bench, he sat and let his head hang limply, so exhausted he wasn't sure he could hold it up much longer. Big drops of sweat trickled over his brows and stung his eyes before falling to the floor one by one.
Or maybe those were tears.
