“The water’s too cold to be in it for that long,” Sawyer had said. The wind was coming directly from Antarctica, for fuck’s sake. Sawyer didn’t need to touch the water to know it was cold. It looked dark and deep—and freezing.
Tobin had laughed him off, dismissing the idea with a wave of his hand. “Nah. Nordic heritage. Swimming in ice water is good for the circulation system.”
They’d both said it too easily, toothe same, like it was a rehearsed line.
Something to tell the outsiders when they questioned why anyone would swim in such frigid, black waters.
The whole interaction was off.
Then, at Fraser’s place, Ciaran had just stood there, far too tense and seemingly unable to speak. He’d met Sawyer’s gaze, and he’d winced, jaw clenched, as if he was in physical pain, his naked torso, muscular and still wet, trembling with barely contained restraint.
And oh boy, had Sawyer noticed his body.
Pale skin, strong lines and hard planes of muscle, trim waist, and a happy trail of copper-coloured hair. And that tattoo. Red tentacles weaved up his forearm. Sawyer had never really gone much for tattoos, but he had to admit, he liked that one.
And Fraser.... When he’d gone to the fridge to grab a beer, Sawyer had noticed the tattoo on his back. A giant blue octopus covering most of his back, the tentacles reaching up over his shoulders.
It was striking. Menacing, almost.
Was it cool?
Sure. Maybe not as cool as Ciaran’s red sleeve, in Sawyer’s opinion. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe the red tentacles were more discreet than a giant back piece. Something about Fraser’s tattoo seemed oddly familiar, though. Maybe he’d used a picture that Sawyer had seen somewhere.
Maybe it was a generic octopus image.
But what was with the octopuses?
They both had tattoos of them. Maybe it was a low-key gang thing. Maybe that’s what they were. What had Carpenter said they called their little group?
A consortium.
Sawyer sat there at his work computer, tapping the desk....
Hmm.
He slid the keyboard closer and typed in a question: “What is the collective noun for octopus?”
A consortium.
Sawyer almost smiled.
“Figures,” he mumbled to himself.
They thought of themselves as a group, a gang.
How many of them were there?
He counted off the names on Carpenter’s list.
There were eight.
Hmm. Eight members, eight arms.
So that explained that.
He’d yet to meet Aurin, Dylan, or Hendrix yet, though. Or whoever the hell Salem was. Or Mr Brown. He hadn’t met the doctor officially, either, but he’d seen him in the doctor’s office and in the café. He’d been the guy reading some papers, the one who’d picked up all the sugar sachets when Ciaran had dropped them.
Ciaran...
