Page 55

Damn, he really liked that truck. It better not be totaled. He’d paid it off not that long ago and had hoped to enjoy a few years of no payments before trading it in for a newer model. “Is it drivable?”

“No. The tires are slashed and the windshield’s broken. I called a tow truck; they should be here in ten—fifteen minutes. Where do you want me to bring it: the office, your apartment, or Tuffy’s?”

“Might as well take it to Tuffy.” That was the shop where they brought all of the Six Points vehicles when the repairs were beyond Wade’s skillset. Not the cheapest shop in town, but they were honest and did quality work.

Nate could only imagine what the tow bill from Jacksonville to Orlando was going to cost him. When he found the assholes responsible—and he would—he was making them eat their own teeth. “Any sign of a tracker?”

“No. If there was one, they took it with them.”

Figures. That shit was expensive. Still, it left unanswered questions about how those thugs had found them at the hotel. “Thanks for taking care of this for me.”

“No problem. It’s the least I can do before we fly out of town. Which reminds me, does Dorcas have a place to stay tonight? If you want, she can crash at our house. We won’t be back until the twenty-first.”

He and Vicky were traveling to New Zealand for a much-deserved two-week vacation. Actually, it was more like a late honeymoon. Their wedding had been a casual, intimate affair, but they’d delayed the honeymoon because of Vicky’s prior contractual commitment to work on a new movie.

“That’s a great idea. I appreciate the offer. I’ll run it by Dorcas, see if she’s cool with it.”

If she wasn’t, she would be by the time he was finished. Vicky and Ryan took their privacy seriously, and their home was more secure than a lot of military installations. It made sense, considering Vicky’s celebrity status and the troubles she’d experienced in the past. Crazy stalkers, nosy photographers. Hell, even her own mother. And with Ryan’s protective streak, he wasn’t about to take a chance when it came to his wife’s safety.

“Good deal,” Ryan said. “I’d actually feel better if someone stayed there while we’re gone. You know how the paparazzi get.”

“Yeah.” Nate had witnessed some of it firsthand when he worked on Vicky’s protection detail. The press was relentless in their search for celebrity dirt, and they weren’t above scaling walls, digging through trash, and peeking through windows. Having Dorcas on the property, as well as the additional personal protection, would serve as a deterrent to anyone with stupid ideas.

The heavy rumble of a truck’s engine reverberated over the phone.

“Wrecker’s here,” Ryan said. “I better go.”

Nate clicked off the call and rubbed his temples, where a headache was beginning to form. He was tired. Pissed off. And sexually frustrated. Not to mention, he hadn’t showered since yesterday morning and probably smelled like a barn.

On the bright side, he had clean clothes in his locker, so he left his office and made his way to the gym. Navarre was running on one of the treadmills, while Jackson pushed an obnoxious amount of weight on the assisted bench press. He gave them a nod as he crossed to the locker room and went inside.

To his surprise, he wasn’t alone. Wade stood by an open locker, still damp from the shower, wearing faded black denim and nothing else.

It was the first time—well, the first time since Wade had come home from Mexico—that Nate had seen his brother shirtless. From the nape of his neck to the waistband of his jeans, there wasn’t a single spot on Wade’s heavily muscled back that wasn’t...it was more than just ruined. It was destroyed. Some of the scars appeared to have been caused by burns, while others looked like the result of a lashing. Chain or whip, he couldn’t say for sure, but it made his stomach churn. The pain must have been excruciating.

“Jesus. How did that happen?”

“You don’t want to know.” Wade grabbed a black T-shirt from his locker, turning just enough to give Nate a glimpse of even more scars on his chest. He yanked the shirt over his head and dragged the hem down to his waist.

“Yes. Actually, I do.”

“Then how about I don’t want to tell you?” Eyes narrowed and jaw clenched, Wade slammed the locker shut and started to put on his shoes.

Nate understood the sentiment. Talking about that kind of trauma had a way of bringing it back. It was how he felt whenever he talked about his struggles with addiction. But still, there were so many questions that he was dying to ask his brother. What exactly did Aranza do to Wade, and for how long was he forced to endure it? And then there was the issue of his partner, Carmen, who didn’t survive the ordeal. As a female captive of a drug cartel, he imagined her torment had been worse.

As Wade turned to leave, Nate felt the need to say something—anything—to comfort his brother, but the only words to spill out of his mouth were, “Dude, I’m so damn sorry.”

Wade froze in his tracks. Slowly, he turned to face Nate, his features tight and his body rigid. “What the fuck are you sorry for?”

“It’s my fault. What happened in Mexico.”

Wade stared at him as though he thought Nate lost his mind. “You think what happened to me was because of you?”

“Not directly, but I’m the reason you took that job with the DEA.”

Growing up, it had been Wade’s dream to work for the FBI. He’d majored in criminal justice in college, and he’d chosen every class in the hopes of being recruited by the Bureau. That changed when he learned of Nate’s struggles with addiction, shifting his goal from the FBI to the Drug Enforcement Administration.

One corner of Wade’s mouth twitched. He stepped closer, but instead of the bro hug Nate expected, Wade smacked him hard upside the head.