Chapter Five
THE BLOODIEDshirt lay in a tangled ball on the black-and-white tiled floor as Cal stepped out of the shower. He’d scrubbed the scrape on his arm open again, and blood dripped, pink and diluted, down his arm to his fingers and then onto the floor.
Cal grimaced and grabbed a washcloth to sop up the blood. He held it against the cut while he unzipped the first-aid kit he’dgrabbed from the car. A quick application of an alcohol swab made him hiss, and then he stuck a square of gauze against his forearm. The ends of the cut peeked out from under the bandage, but it would do. He fumbled one-handed with a roll of tape and tore papery lengths of it off to clumsily slap it down on his arm.
The final result wasn’t pretty, and he was going to lose some hair later, butit would do. Cal gave himself a quick rubdown with a towel, head to balls, and then glanced at his reflection in the mirror. The asshole at the cemetery had thrown an elbow that caught Cal in the jaw and rattled his teeth. He could feel the ache of it in the bone, but the bruise hadn’t come up yet.
Cal rubbed his jaw, the scruff of stubble that had grown back in since he’d shaved that morningrough under his fingers, and wondered idly how Joe would feel about a beard. He caught that thought and grimaced at himself. Sex might always be on the table for him, but he was pretty sure that, as far as Joe was concerned, that itch was scratched.
Besides, he probably had other things on his mind than Cal’s ass—things like complicated feelings about his mother, and nobody enjoyed that in bed.Like El and his soon to be ex.
Cal hung the towel off the hook on the back of the door and padded naked into his bedroom. He grabbed a fresh uniform from the wardrobe—washed, pressed, and ready for wear before Ryan dropped them off—and got dressed mechanically while he wondered what he should do about Joe’s complicated feelings.
He shouldprobablystill spill his guts to Edward. Standard operatingprocedure was to cooperate with their client’s security teams. Little Ms. Bouncy Popstar might appreciate that you sneaked her out to KFC at midnight, but when her security team blacklisted the firm, she wouldn’t fight them.
Problem was—Cal shrugged the shirt on last and rolled the sleeves back, remembered the giveaway slash on his arm and rolled them back down again—that Edward was a prick,and Cal liked Joe. Even though he was a high-strung brat… with an out-there theory that he still needed to explain.
Cal took a quick look at himself in the mirror. The close crop had grown out enough to stick up at odd, short angles. He scrubbed his hand over his head to flatten them down and headed out into the suite. The faint sound of bubbling water led him down the hall and into the large,country-house-styled study, with a heavy wooden desk in one corner of the room and two oversized leather-and-tweed armchairs in front of an empty hearth.
There was a coffee maker on the desk, wreathed with steam as it spat milky coffee into a round glass cup. Joe stood in front of the bookcase with his attention halfheartedly focused on the rows of hard-backed books. He’d changed out of his scuffle-damagedsuit and into black jeans and a fitted black jersey shirt, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. His hair flopped over his forehead, more curled and less styled as his gel wore off.
Cal bit his lower lip with sharp interest. It was something about the juxtaposition between the intimacy of casual wear and the fact that Joe’s casual wear was what most people would wear on a date. Hell, if Doc hadlooked like this on their date, he’d have told El to shove it when he called.
“Anything good?” he asked.
Joe glanced around at him. “Pretty sure they were bulk bought for their bindings. There’s a copy ofRobin Hoodhere, though, that seems up your alley.”
“Not really a reader,” Cal admitted with a shrug. “Look, this thing with your mother….”
“You think I’m crazy?” Joe said.
“No. Maybe,”Cal said. “I mean, it sounds a bit weird but people do stuff. My mum pretends I don’t exist, that the life where she had me and El never happened. People rewrite themselves all the time. They even believe it sometimes. I’m not saying it’s right, but it seems more important that someone is trying to kill you.”
The last drops of coffee drained from the spout into the cup. Joe picked it up by thehandle and cradled it gingerly in his bruised hand as he stared into it.
“It’s not,” he said quietly. “Not to me.”
Cal snorted. He spread his hands when Joe looked at him. “That’s the sort of thing I say,” he said. “Now that I’m on this side of it, I can see why it pisses my brother off.”
Joe raised one dark, straight brow. “What happened to minding your manners?”
“I don’t expectyouto sayplease in private,” Cal said.
Something dark and heated flickered through Joe’s eyes. “Good to know,” he said softly. Then he blinked, and the moment was gone. He took a drink of coffee, grimaced in distaste, and set the cup back down on the desk. “I’m not stupid, Cal, and I’m not putting myself at risk. Today was the first time this guy’s gone further than threats. In future I’ll be more careful.”
He said it as though he were being reasonable, all his cool self-possession back in place after it had slipped earlier. Cal scowled at him in frustration, because it wasn’t fucking reasonable.
“Why not talk to your dad?” he asked. “Now you know he’s lying, maybe he’ll come clean.”
Joe snorted. “You clearly haven’t met my father,” he said. “Confession, like publicity, is something for idiots.And to be clear, I don’t need your permission. A few hours in my bed doesn’t give you a say in my life.”
Cal rolled his eyes.
“I don’t want a say in your life,” he said. “I don’t want a front-view seat to your death.”
Joe snorted. “It was a thug with a penknife,” he said. Apparently he’d forgotten how badly shaken he’d been earlier or maybe he didn’t want to admit it anymore. “I wasn’t in anyreal danger. Cal, I don’t expect you to get involved. In fact, I’m telling you not to. You said it yourself—you’re a driver, not a bodyguard.”
YEAH, CALwas sick of his own words being used against him. Frustration pushed at the inside of his skull with a rattled pressure that needed a release.Use your words—that’s what the therapists always told him—not your fists.Cal had never beengood at that.
