“My dad can get us in unseen…it’s going to be messy…” I know Trey’s opinion of his father—the hatred that runs so deep from everything he’s said and explained. But my time Johnathon…he was stern, quiet, controlled. I could see parts of him in Trey, though I don’t think I’d ever tell him that. Then I wonder…Does Trey act so animated because he wants to be seen as anything but his father?
“Okay…” I say with a heavy sigh. “But please. Come back safe. I can’t lose you again, Trey. I won’t.”
“Lose me? Nope. Sorry, beautiful, you’re stuck with me…” he says, then his expression sharpens. “But first…first I’m going to show Giddy-up-on-this-dick what happens when you fuck with my family.” His gaze holds mine without wavering, unwavering in a way that makes it clear this decision has already been made.
“For you,” he says quietly, before his hand shifts, resting gently over my stomach. “For us. For our baby.” My vision blurs as a tear slips free, tracing a warm path down my cheek before I can stop it, and even as he reaches up to wipe it away with a tenderness that feels almost at odds with everything else in this moment, I understand something with a clarity that settles deep in my bones. Loving him means knowing that when he walks into that war, there is a chance he won’t come back from it.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Trey
Alive – Madden
Iknow something is wrong the moment my fingers brush my ear and I’m met with nothing but dead silence, because there should be at least a crackle of static, some indication that the line is still alive, that Chace is still there on the other end holding this whole thing together, but instead there is only the muffled roar of thousands of voices pressing in from all sides, and I force my expression to stay neutral as I adjust the earpiece again like I’m just another man in the crowd trying to hear the sermon better,when in reality I am standing blind in the middle of enemy territory with no way of knowing if the plan is unfolding the way it’s supposed to.
“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath as I lift my chin, trying to catch a better glimpse of the stage through the shifting mass of bodies.
Theodore doesn’t swear…get in character, fuckface.
It feels wrong in a way I can’t quite explain, like I’ve stepped into something I don’t control, like I’m a wolf standing in the middle of a pen full of sheep with no way to hear my pack, cut off from the only people who are supposed to have my back in a situation like this.
I am a lone wolf, awoooo…
Maybe Theodore can howl?
The silence presses in harder than the noise.
The air is thicker than it should be for a February evening in Los Angeles, cool at the edges but heavy where bodies pack together, clinging to my skin beneath the layers I’ve been forced into wearing, crawling under the cotton like my body is rejecting every part of this disguise.
Cotton. Fucking cotton.
It’s definitely not because of nerves and me shitting myself.
The fabric drags against my legs with every step, the pink polo pulling in all the wrong places.
What sort of Sunday best perverts wear polo shirts like this…fucking degenerates.
Then there is the canary yellowcardigan—Jesus Christ, the cardigan—tied around my shoulders like I’m about to ask someone if they’ve seen my fucking yacht keys, threatens to slide off every time I move.
It’s all a part of my perfect “Theodore” disguise.
I adjust it again, jaw tight, already knowing that if a single photo of me in this outfit ever hits the internet I will denyit until my dying breath, and it won’t matter how much proof exists because this version of me does not exist in any reality I’m willing to acknowledge.
Post a hundred thousand pictures of me fucking my wife’s tight little asshole...but none of me in the shitshow.
My fingers twitch at my sides, missing the familiar weight of rings, the cold bite of metal, the ink that usually tells my story now buried under layers of makeup, my piercings stripped back to almost nothing, and the irritation that simmers under my skin sharpens as I roll my tongue against the inside of my cheek.
With my tattoos hidden I am a blank canvas.
What would Theodore have for a first tattoo? A heart with “mum” in it? A lion and a clock on his arm with something in Latin about loyalty or power…nah, too out of character. If he was faux-manly alpha, maybe. Hmm…maybe a Disney character? Still, at least I left my most important piercings in.
Not that anyone here is getting close enough to check.
Though, if all goes to shit…I do regret not cloning my dick into a silicone mold so my wife can always have me with her.
Oh, my fucking God.A thought occurs to me.
If I got a casting made, I could name it Lucille, like Negan’s barb wired club…
