Page 23 of Dark ’N’ Deadly

Jesse ruffled Tiger’s ears, which his dog seemed to love, judging by the way he leaned into the kid’s hand and groaned.

“I’m sorry. I hope we didn’t—” Tess gasped.

“Holy shit, dude,” Jesse whispered.

Eric pushed from the door with one singular thought singing in his head—caffeine—then reached for the clean mug she’d set on the counter and poured a cup. Tilting the mug, he downed half of it before coming up for air. When he turned, Tess and Jesse were staring at him. More specifically, at his chest.

While he’d been drowning in caffeine, Tess had come closer and now stood only inches away. She smelled like the honeysuckle shampoo his sister had left behind in the guest bathroom.

With her mouth half open, she touched her fingers to his left pec, grazing one of his scars. Her fingers were warm and gentle, and his pectoral muscle twitched as if it had a life of its own. She dropped her hand, her green eyes soft and brimming with compassion.

Compassion he didn’t want, but it was his own damn fault for waltzing down here without putting on a shirt. Something else he’d have to get in the habit of doing.

“My god, Eric.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “What happened to you? How did you get all those scars?”

“Dude, you look like you got peppered with shrapnel, and that one on your back…” Jesse whistled. “That musta hurt like a bitch.”

It had. Not nearly as much as losing his friends.

The scars all over his torso weren’t raised and red anymore, and they were gradually fading, day by day. The pain of losing his friends, however, would always be there. Along with the survivor’s guilt that shadowed him every day of his life.

“I got hurt a few years ago.” He picked up the coffeepot and topped off his mug, so not wanting to get into the details that were, in reality, gory as hell.

“Hurt how?” Tess’s gaze once again roamed his body. Though her expression was sympathetic, knowing she was staring at his half-naked body began to stir something inside him that shouldn’t be stirred.

Clearing his throat, he pulled out a chair and sat at the table. Tiger’s claws clicked on the tile as he came and rested his muzzle on Eric’s thigh, reminding him that he still hadn’t fed his dog.

“Eric?” Tess sat beside him. “How did this happen?”

“There was an explosion.” He took another long swig of coffee. “I got hit with some flying metal and broke a few bones.” In truth, he’d been blown clear off his feet and thrown against a metal sign that embedded itself in his back. Pieces of shrapnel from the G-ride had flown at his chest and legs, cutting deeply into muscles and tendons and nearly severing his femoral artery.

“How long ago was this? Where did it happen?” she asked.

A chair scraped on the floor as Jesse sat across from him.

“About three years ago, while I was assigned to the Birmingham office.” After that, the ATF had force-transferred him to Massachusetts, fearing he’d go rogue and get himself killed seeking retribution.

They were right. That transfer had probably saved his life.

“You were in Alabama?” Jesse rested his forearms on the table.

“I worked there for nine years. It was my first duty station.” He would have stayed there, if only his entire world hadn’t exploded. Literally.

Tess and Jesse exchanged one of those looks he’d seen before, the same kind that had his gut worrying they were keeping something from him. Something important. Or it could be nothing more than surprise that he’d lived in the same state they’d grown up in. Maybe his cop brain was sending him suspicious signals over issues that didn’t actually exist.

A flash of color—something other than Tess—caught his attention on the window ledge. Flowers. How had he missed them? Stupid question. The second Tess had touched his bare skin, his highly tuned skills of observation had gone down the shitter.

Somewhere, she’d procured a vase he didn’t even know he owned—albeit, a black one—and filled it with a big bundle of the pink, orange, and yellow flowers from the beds in front of his house. They matched the colors of the sash around her tiny waist.

As if knowing the direction of his thoughts, she swept her arm out to encompass the entire kitchen. “All this black was driving me crazy. I promise, I only cut a few stalks, so you’ll hardly notice them missing from the flowerbeds.”

“What’s wrong with black?” he growled.

“Nothing. But everything is black.” She began pointing things out around the room. “The dishes, the cups, the floor, the counter.” With every move, the long strands of beads dangling from her earlobes clicked and clacked.

“So?”

Jesse made a smirking sound. “I am stayin’ outta your little love spat. Can I take Tiger outside?”