No answer.
"So you're not in trouble with your boss?"
Cade didn't look up. "No."
"He's not mad that you botched the job?"
That got Cade's attention. He spun around to face Tristan. "What the fuck? I didn't botch the job. You botched it for me!"
"I helped you distract him!"
"After you screwed up my plan by being there in the first place."
"That's not my fault."
"It really is," Cade snapped back.
Their eyes locked in angry, twin glares until Tristan relented.
"Fine. It was sort of my fault, I guess."
Cade squinted at him, then nodded curtly and went back to cleaning his gun.
Tristan stared at the other man's broad back, not knowing what else to say. Should one apologize when they broke into a houseand stopped someone from interrogating and murdering someone? Cade had not been able to question Wilson, but he had ended up dead, so Tristan had technically only messed up half of his agenda.
Was there an etiquette guide or Hallmark card for this occasion? He imagined a flowery greeting card with gold cursive print saying, "Sorry I ruined your murder plan," and laughed to himself.
When Cade turned and eyed him suspiciously, he cleared his throat, then asked, "Which side of the bed do you want?"
"The one closest to the door."
Tristan pulled down the covers and crawled into the lumpy bed. He closed his eyes, still trying to process the night's events. His mind buzzed with images as he replayed the encounter at the house. When he remembered what Cade said about the fate of the missing girls, he felt like vomiting again.
He could hear rustling from the desk, probably Cade putting away his gun and kit. Then footsteps padded across the room, and the bathroom door clicked shut.
When the door creaked again, Tristan couldn't help but pry his eyes open to observe his new roommate.
Cade wore nothing except black boxer briefs.
He looked like a wet dream come to life.
Tristan's gaze hungrily raked over the toned flesh, wanting to commit the sight to memory for future reference.
Cade's tall frame loomed in the small space, and Tristan guessed he was a few inches over six feet. A tribal-style tattoo covered the left half of his chest, shoulder and upper arm. His body was flawless, perfectly sculpted with broad shoulders, thick arms, chiseled abs, and powerful thighs. His boxer briefs clung to him tightly, and Tristan's mouth watered at the bulge that suggested an impressive cock.
Oh hell.
Cade was totally his type. A tall, muscular bad boy with tattoos and a take-no-shit attitude?
Right out of Tristan's dirty fantasies.
For as long as he'd known he was gay, he'd been drawn to reckless rule-breakers, starting with the ninth-grade class delinquent. The man in front of him was perhaps the ultimate bad boy, all wrapped up in the body of a Greek god.
The physical contact in the motel office had tied Tristan in knots, tangling his brain and awakening his body. He now had a taste of what Cade's hands felt like, how hard his body was, what he smelled like.
And the whole package was so tempting that he would have jumped on it, literally and figuratively, if not for his current circumstances. They were mixed up in a life-and-death situation, not prowling a nightclub. And though he was in the middle of an admittedly prolonged dry spell, he needed to focus on his sister, not his sex life, despite what his body was telling him.
If Cade noticed Tristan's ogling, he didn't let on. He dropped his clothes on the chair, checked the lock on the door, and flicked off the lights. In the darkness, Tristan felt the bed sink with his companion's weight, and he waited while Cade shifted, then settled.
