by Sienna Blake
The man was yelling and holding his nose, which was bleeding heavily. Dyson didn’t give him a chance to pull anything else out of his coat. He immediately tackled the guy, slamming him to the ground.
The guy tried to fight him, but Dyson was bigger and far stronger. He put the guy in an armbar, keeping him immobile as security finally rushed over.
There was a lot of shouting and chaos as security piled on the crazy guy. Meanwhile, Dyson was yelling to explain who he was: a certified bodyguard with a concealed carry permit.
Collins was at his side now. Dyson had to suppress a flash of annoyance. He wished Collins had stayed far, far out of harm’s way. In the next city would’ve been best. The next state, even better.
“Get your jacket off,” Collins demanded. “Now.”
Dyson glanced at him, frowning. He had no idea what the quarterback wanted or why he seemed so upset. Take his jacket off? He was trying to deal with a threat here.
He was too slow for Collins’s taste. The man reached out, grabbed his lapels, and dragged the suit jacket backward and off Dyson’s shoulders, yanking it down. Dyson shrugged the rest of the way out of his jacket, letting it drop to the floor. Adam’s baffling actions had caught him completely off-guard.
For some reason, his left arm felt warm, almost hot.
Collins was yelling at the bartender. “I need a sink! Turn on the cold water! Right now!”
The man had lost his mind. There was nothing else to say. After gaping at them in shock, the bartender lunged for a sink behind the bar and turned the faucet on.
Dyson happened to glance at the left sleeve of his dress shirt and froze in shock. The sleeve was smoking where the liquid had soaked through his jacket.
He barely had time to register that before Collins ripped open the shirt with a huge yank, sending buttons flying in all directions. The quarterback deftly stepped behind Dyson, drawing the shirt backward and off in one smooth motion like a magic trick.
Acid. He finally realized the clear liquid in the jar had been some kind of acid.
The man he’d tackled was still yelling and cursing as security started to manhandle him toward the door. He seemed to be cursing Collins the most—yelling that Collins was a cheater, a sell-out, a fraud…and a robot. Dyson thought he heard that last bit right, but he wasn’t sure. He was suddenly feeling unsure and rattled in the aftermath.
The bouncers and security dragged the attacker from the room, kicking and screaming. Dyson barely noticed. He stared down at his arm.
The skin where the wet cloth of his shirt had touched him was an angry red. It hurt, but it hurt more like a really bad sunburn. His skin wasn’t dissolving or anything, thank God. Not like you saw in the movies.
He was still standing there bare-chested, with his pistol in clear view in his holster at the small of his back. He was still gaping at his arm like a fool. That was when Collins grabbed his other arm and dragged him toward the bar. The man was strong. Dyson was not a light man, but Collins hauled him behind the bar with minimal effort.
Collins dragged him to the sink. His expression was tense, and his mouth set in a grim line. Dyson went with him without protest as Collins forced his arm beneath the stream of cold water and held it there.
Dyson winced at the cold water on the hot burn but only clenched his fist and endured it. His body was dealing with the aftermath of all the action. His heart was pounding hard. His muscles trembled with adrenaline. He could deal with guys with guns, but this acid attack was a new one for him.
He felt a chill as he realized what the guy had intended. The crazy bastard had meant to injure, maybe even permanently disfigure Collins. This had to be the guy making all those lunatic threats. You didn’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to figure that one out.
“There’s no chemical wash station,” Adam said. “We’ll flush it with cold water until the paramedics get here. It’s probably an acid.”
“Can’t we neutralize it or something?” Dyson asked through clenched teeth.
“No. The reaction would be exothermic. It would make the burns worse. Thank God it didn’t get directly on your skin.” Adam’s voice was shaky, keyed up by adrenaline. “Or on your face or eyes. That would’ve been bad.”
His words sent a deeper, stronger icy chill through Dyson. He wanted to find that bastard and punch him a few more times. But he only let Collins hold his arm under the strong flow of water.
Damn. The sports star turned out to be Mister Wizard when it came to chemicals, dropping the big science words. Who would’ve guessed? But he couldn’t help but feel a surge of gratitude. Usually, Dyson was the guy rushing into danger and helping other people out. Not the other way around.
Collins glanced at a couple of the security guys who were standing around, looking sheepish. “Call the police if you haven’t already. And get an ambulance.”
“The police are on their way,” one beefy bouncer confirmed. “I don’t know about an ambulance.”
“Find out,” Collins snapped, and the man hurried to obey. Then Collins drew his arm out of the water long enough to peer at Dyson’s skin. His touch was strangely gentle.
“You’ve been burned, but I don’t think it’s bad. How much does it hurt?”
“Not as much as being shot,” he said, amused and surprised at seeing this side of Collins. He probably shouldn’t have been surprised. This man was a leader on his team and on the field. It made sense that he would take charge here if needed.
Collins grunted—a sound halfway between amused and annoyed—and put Dyson’s arm back under the water again.
Kenyan was near them now, standing with his arm around April protectively. April was staring at them. There were tears on her cheeks.
Dyson felt strangely guilty about that, as if he’d been responsible for ruining their night.
April met his eyes. “Thank you. You stopped that man. You saw him, and you stopped him.”
“You’re a fucking hero, brother,” Kenyan said, his handsome face solemn. “How did you know? I didn’t even notice the guy.”
He didn’t know how he felt about the word hero. He was just doing his job. “I saw him slip past the bouncer at the door. Then he reached into his jacket. I thought he had a gun.”
“Thank God he didn’t,” April said in a small, shaky voice.
The music had shut off. The club staff and security were trying to keep people calm. A few minutes later, the police came in with EMTs right on their heels. The EMTs treated Dyson’s arm while the cops peppered him with questions. He was still bare-chested, but he didn’t need the blanket they offered. He wasn’t modest, and he certainly wasn’t cold.
He answered their questions while Collins lingered and hovered around him like a worried mother. In another situation, it would’ve been funny. When Collins gave his statement, he was full of the highest praise for Dyson. That shouldn’t have meant as much as it did. But Dyson found himself having to hold back a smile.
“These acid burns are minor,” the paramedic told him. “The top layers of skin were damaged. Looks like you got it under running water pretty fast.”
“Yeah, and my suit sleeve took the brunt of it.”
The paramedic nodded, applying a sterile pad and covering the burns. “It’s your call, but you probably don’t need to head to the emergency room for this. It didn’t get your face or eyes, right?”
Dyson shook his head slowly. “I won’t clog up the ER if there’s no need.”
“Don’t hesitate to go if you want another opinion,” Collins suddenly interjected. “I’ll cover all the costs, no problem.”
Dyson didn’t let his gratitude for the offer show. “It’s nothing. Feels like a bad sunburn.”
“It will hurt for a few days,” the paramedic said, nodding as he finished bandaging Dyson’s arm. “Keep the bandages fresh. Don’t put burn creams on it, just petroleum jelly or aloe vera. If anything gets worse or infected, head to a doctor. But all in all, you got lucky.”
Collins answ
ered before Dyson could. “It wasn’t luck. It was skill. Dyson had the guy marked from the get-go. I’m the lucky one.”
The quarterback’s gratitude touched him. But he didn’t get the chance to say so, or to say anything really, because there was more talk with the police, talk with security, and even talk with the club owner, who’d hurried down and was extremely apologetic. By then, reporters and paparazzi had started to show up. Collins went to speak to the reporters while Dyson signed the forms saying he was refusing a ride in the ambulance to the emergency room.
The cops had already arrested the attacker and were whisking him off to jail. According to his driver’s license, the guy’s name was Howie Ford. Adam didn’t know him. The star quarterback had never seen him before. But Howie Ford would sit in a cell and be arraigned in the morning.
Finally, after what seemed like hours, things began to settle down. A bunch of the other Razorbacks wanted to buy him drinks, which he’d had to refuse. They were full of praise and back slaps. April squeezed his hand and smiled. She gave him a soft “thank you,” while Kenyan told him if he ever needed anything, anything at all, Kenyan was there for him. Not only had Dyson saved his friend, but he’d also saved the Razorbacks’ entire season.
After things had died down and most people had left, Collins came wandering over. He rubbed the bridge of his nose and let out a long sigh. “This has been one hell of a long day.”
“You’ll get no argument from me there.”
“Come on,” Collins said, putting a hand on Dyson’s shoulder and giving him a tired smile. “Let’s go home.”
CHAPTER SIX
ADAM
It was late when they finally arrived back at Adam’s condo.
He was exhausted. Absolutely weary to the bone. He didn’t think he’d had a day this crazy in his entire life. All he wanted was a beer and to sit out on the balcony to catch his breath. He wanted to try and come to grips with everything that had happened.
They parked, headed up through the private elevator, and down the hall to his condo. He punched in the digital entrance code, but this time, Dyson went in first. Adam guessed it was to check if Missy had shown up unannounced again. He’d called down to have the lock code changed before they’d left for the party. Still, Adam wasn’t in the mood to protest if Dyson felt like being overly protective.
After all, Dyson had saved his ass tonight. Adam fought off a shudder at the thought of what could’ve happened if Dyson hadn’t been there. Adam might be in the hospital right now, covered with acid burns. Disfigured. Maybe blinded.
The thought was sobering.
Instead, Dyson was the one who’d ended up burned. Even though the burns on his left arm weren’t that bad thanks to luck and quick action, Adam still felt deeply grateful to the man.
Yeah, he wouldn’t be complaining about the bodyguard Macklin had hired for him anymore. Even though that acid-throwing psycho had to be the guy sending the threatening letters, Adam wasn’t going to send Dyson away anytime soon.
At least not until the season was over. Not by a long shot.
He followed Dyson inside the condo. No sign of Missy or any other kind of problem. His place was exactly as he’d left it.
Dyson was dressed a little oddly at the moment. He was wearing suit trousers, nice Italian leather shoes, and a team jersey given to him by one of the guys. His suit jacket was ruined. His dress shirt was ruined. So the guys had scrambled to get him something to wear.
Too bad Adam had been too busy trying to drag Dyson to a sink to appreciate the sight of him shirtless. When things had settled down a little, he’d stolen a few admiring looks, though. He would admit that much.
The bodyguard was as powerfully built as expected. Broad chest, some dark hair on that perfect chest, and an assortment of scars. Those scars said Dyson had seen some action somewhere.
Oh, and a huge amount of tattoos. They covered his arms, his back, and his chest. None of them were in color. All of them were black ink, but the effect was striking and unforgettable.
“I think you’ve earned the rest of the night off,” he told Dyson wryly as he moved past the bodyguard, headed toward the kitchen. “How about a beer out on the balcony? Give us a chance to catch our breath and unwind.”
“Sounds good. I’m going to go change if you don’t mind.”
Adam nodded and paused at the kitchen threshold. “You have a preference when it comes to beer?”
“Right now, I’ll drink anything as long as it’s cold.”
“Amen to that.”
Dyson vanished to change. Earlier this afternoon, the bodyguard had brought over a supply of his own clothes and some personal stuff for the guestroom. If he needed anything else, Adam would happily have the concierge pick it up.
That kind of convenience was one of the upsides of being wealthy and living in a place like this. If you wanted something, someone would happily get it for you and get it quickly. Anyone who claimed that being rich wasn’t easy was lying. He knew better than anyone what a change it made to every aspect of your life.
Adam was the middle kid in a family of three. His mother had raised the three of them on her own. They hadn’t been easy kids either. There had been a lot of trouble and fights and sneaking out. They’d grown up working poor. His mom had raised them on a waitress’s paycheck, working two jobs, six days a week, Sundays off for church. Growing up had meant a life of cheap spaghetti meals, potatoes, and lots of hand-me-down clothes.
So he knew the difference between what money could buy and what life was like without it. What it felt like to want. He knew it very well. You never forgot that lesson.
But now things had changed in a huge way. His contract with the Razorbacks was worth twenty-five million dollars over five years. He was set for life. His nephews and nieces would be going to college on his dime. And he would’ve bought his momma her own place in some nice little neighborhood outside of Dallas, except she had died of lung cancer during his last year in college.
He pulled open the fridge and grabbed a few ice-cold beers. Two pale ales, an IPA, and something dark, just for a decent selection. He set them on the counter and grabbed the bottle opener, still lost in his thoughts.
A low melancholy had settled on him, seeping into his bones like an old ache. He didn’t spend a lot of time feeling sorry for himself. That would be pretty hypocritical. But thoughts of his mom and her passing had brought his spirits down. Not that they’d been very high to begin with. Especially after the ugly breakup with Missy and the attack that had left him completely rattled.
His mother hadn’t been there to see him get drafted in the first round by the Razorbacks. She would’ve been so proud of him. He shook his head, his throat tight. She’d been so extremely proud of him when he’d gotten a sports scholarship to Texas A&M. A full ride. She’d cried when he’d read her the acceptance letter. He remembered it like it had happened yesterday.
He had never told her that he was gay. That fact haunted him, even after all these years. Back then, he hadn’t believed she would understand or accept him. But he realized now that it had been wrong of him not to give her a chance. It had been wrong to deceive her the same way he deceived everyone else.
It had been wrong to keep such a big part of himself secret.
Was that why he tried so hard to keep up this playboy facade even after all these years? Because he was ashamed that he’d kept that secret from her and she’d died before he could ever tell her the truth? So he kept it up. Too ashamed to come to grips with what he’d done?
Maybe. Or maybe he was simply looking for excuses when he was really a coward.
It took a lot of effort, but he finally managed to push those thoughts out of his head and leave the kitchen. He was still feeling subdued. And exhausted, of course. He felt like life had sacked him today and smashed his face into the Astroturf.
He wandered out onto the balcony through the big glass doors. After setting the bottles on a small table, he sank down into a comfortable
chair. Only a small part of the balcony was covered, although the balcony itself wasn’t all that huge. It was big enough for his large, stainless steel grill, a scattering of expensive patio furniture, and a small fire pit that ran on natural gas. Kenyan always teased him that country boys like Adam should know how to build a real fire from scratch. But Adam only laughed and ignored him. After all, Kenyan was from Detroit and was afraid to go hiking because he was sure he’d end up lost or bitten by a snake.
It was definitely cold enough tonight for a fire. He turned on the gas, and the fire whooshed to life. Then he popped the cap off his beer bottle and leaned back with a sigh.
The sky was mostly cloudless. The stars were out, sparkling in the dark stretch of night sky. Downtown Dallas glittered and glowed even brighter. The skyscrapers and buildings were lit up. He could see the traffic moving along the distant streets, the white headlights and red taillights. He stared at the scene, trying not the think of anything in particular. That was the only way to relax after a day like this.
Dyson came out a few minutes later. He was wearing a hoodie with the Army logo blazoned across the front, work boots, and jeans. The jeans were worn-in and faded. They looked good on him.
“I brought a variety of beers,” Adam said. “Go ahead and grab whatever you like. There’s plenty more in the fridge. Some different kinds, too, if you don’t like any of these.”
“Thanks,” Dyson said, grabbing the dark beer and levering off the bottle top. He stood there and took a long, deep drink.
Adam sat back and watched him. It was quite a sight, seeing the big, fierce-looking bodyguard with his head tipped way back and the bottle to his lips, his throat working as he swallowed, chugging a good portion of the beer. It was a sight Adam found powerful…not exactly erotic, but striking. Yeah, it was weird. But there was something about watching the other man’s pleasure, how he gave himself entirely to the act of slamming back that beer, that Adam couldn’t look away from.