“Not again.” Wes’s mouth thinned to a narrow line of skin and sweat. Fuck. What had Dustin missed in those precious seconds when he’d been caught up in his head yet again? What charge had been improperly place? Det cord kinked? “I’m going to have to go check—”
“Try again.” Checking could be deadly, and cold sweat gathered at the small of Dustin’s back. He simply refused to live in a world without Wes, and if Wes got blown up because he’d been irresponsible and distracted? Well, he’d never be able to live with that. “If there’s any checking to be done, I’ll do it, but try again.”
Wes hit the switch. This wasn’t a training exercise—no explosion meant that a weapons shipment would reach the wrong people’s hands in a few short moments, and they might face casualties in an open firefight on top of that. Everything in the mission hinged on the timing here. They had to have this explosion. Dustin tensed, every muscle ready to run back to the bridge and check the charges himself—no way was he letting Wes even think about being the one to do it.
Boom. The bridge blew up, right along with any pretense Dustin had had that he could carry on as usual. Maybe Wes could, but Dustin was a lousy excuse for a commanding officer who could have ruined everything with his distraction.
“It’s okay.” For a whisper of a second, their eyes met, first time all mission Dustin had let that happen, and it seemed like Wes was speaking directly to his fears and self-loathing.
Don’t beat yourself up, Wes commanded with his eyes.
I deserve it, Dustin flashed back. And then he looked away, because he’d promised no more long looks, no more eye conversations because Wes could see everything, always had, didn’t even need words to get inside Dustin’s head, know every last piece of shrapnel in the mess that was Dustin. Wes had seen him, really seen him, unfazed by all his kinks and quirks. Hell, Wes had made him feel...normal. Sexy. Wanted. He’d seen every last lonely inch of him and given him hope—however temporarily—that he might not have to be alone. And for that, Dustin should be grateful, but instead all he could manage was this unshakable feeling of loss.
That feeling accompanied him as they rejoined the rest of the team, through the subdued celebration after they intercepted the weapons shipment, and all went according to plan. Oh he did a better job of keeping his head about him, but that feeling was still there, dogging his every step. And when they were finally, finally, on the transport back to the States, he let his weary bones slump into a seat apart from the others.
Just like normal.
After all the time dark, without communication back home, all the other guys were busy sending messages and making plans. Not him. Didn’t feel up to being the third wheel with any of his partnered-up friends, wasn’t in the mood for drinking. Go to a bar, Wes had said. Ha. He no more wanted to flirt with a stranger than he wanted to paint himself green.
Behind him there was some commotion, guys moving around, and the senior chief making his way back. He swiveled his neck to watch the scene unfold. Bacon and Shiny were on either side of Wes, who looked utterly gutted, eyes wide, skin the color of old concrete, hands shaking on his phone.
It’s his sister. Dustin knew it in his bones. Wes had gotten bad news of some kind, and there was jack shit Dustin could do, even as his heart leaped out of his chest, taking all his emotional energy to right beside Wes, the spot he longed to be. Wes needed him, even if he’d never admit that, but Dustin was powerless. He knew the LT had been watching them both, suspicions not entirely laid to rest. And he’d promised Wes this was over, promised not to contact him, promised to move on. But how could he move on when Wes was hurting?
The senior chief stayed back there, talking to Wes, who didn’t look any better by the time the senior chief made his way back to where the LT sat. The two of them were in deep conversation for an interminable length of time. Dustin wanted to go over, but they hadn’t motioned for him, and he was afraid of giving away too much.
Fuck, this sucks. How long am I going to have to do this? How long could he put up with this world where he could see Wes but never really know him again? Where he could see him hurt but never comfort?
Finally, what felt like centuries later, the senior chief took the empty seat next to Dustin. “Lowe’s sister’s heart transplant is happening today,” he said without preamble. “She went downhill fast while we were deployed, got moved up the list. I’m working on getting him emergency leave to fly out there as soon as we touch down. Got the wife on getting him a flight, and I convinced the LT to sign off on the leave.”
“Sorry to hear that.” Dustin fought to keep his voice level. “The leave is the right call. He’ll want to be there, I’m sure.” Somehow he managed to sound detached, not like he knew precisely how much Wes valued his family.
“Yep. I’ll be working on getting something together from the team once we know her prognosis—flowers maybe.”
“Sounds good. Put me down for a contribution.” Fuck. This was his life now, a twenty being the only way he could connect with Wes, secondhand knowledge from the senior chief that he had to pretend wasn’t slicing him to the bone, pain for Wes tingeing each exhale and inhale as he forced himself to stay put, not go to him.
“Will do.” The senior chief didn’t give him another glance before returning to the rear of the plane, which was probably just as well, because fuck knew what was written all over his face. I can’t keep doing this to myself. And the worst thing, the absolute worst, was not knowing whether Wes would even want his sympathy. What if he needed Wes far more than Wes would ever need him, even in the face of an emergency? And fuck if he knew what he was supposed to do with that need.
* * *
Bacon drove like some sort of kid’s movie over-caffeinated chipmunk hell-bent on being a race car driver. The senior chief’s wife had gotten Wes a flight into Raleigh, but it was going to be a mad dash to the airport and then a tight connection in Dallas. All in all, seven more interminable hours before he’d reach Sam. His mom had texted shortly after they’d landed that she was being wheeled into surgery and that she’d update when she could. The surgery would take four to five hours, so if all went well, she’d be out before Wes got there. And if not...
Well, he just couldn’t let himself think about that.
Fuck. How had she gotten worse so fast? She’d been her usual sunny self when he’d talked to her right before they’d deployed. And that had been a hard conversation, her trying to crack jokes, him needing to act like his own heart wasn’t battered and bloody over Dustin. Had he even said he loved her? Had he been attentive enough? Fuck. He didn’t know.
“We’ll get you there.” Bacon zipped around a semi, making Wes need to push his shoulder into his seat to avoid crashing into Curly, who, as luck would have it, was in the back of the cab with him. Bacon had insisted on being the one to drive him, and somehow, both Shiny and Curly were riding along, all of them piled into Bacon’s truck, barreling down the interstate. They were all still in dusty uniforms, Wes not even stopping to pack a bag, just to grab his ID and wallet—he had enough clothes in his old room back home. All that mattered was getting there.
“Hanging in there?” Curly asked in a low voice.
“I’m fine,” Wes said, voice sharp, and he couldn’t be bothered to give a shit about that. In the front of the truck, Shiny and Bacon were chattering about the mission, Shiny still amped up over how they’d kicked ass. He’d take a while to come down—Wes had been there, all that rookie adrenaline pulsing through him with nowhere to go after a big mission.
“Listen.” Curly leaned in. “I think I screwed up. Few weeks back. Said something maybe I shouldn’t have to the LT—”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” Wes kept his eyes straight ahead.
“Anyway,” Curly pushed on, regardless of Wes’s rebuff, “I’m sorry if I made trouble for you. Thought... Doesn’t matter now. I wa
s wrong, and I don’t want you pissed at me.”
“I’m not.” Wes wasn’t lying. It wasn’t Curly who’d gotten him involved with Dustin, wasn’t Curly’s fault that Wes had been careless.
“Good. I’ve got your six, man. Out there in the field, and back here.” Curly said the words, but Wes wasn’t sure he quite believed him. He might not be pissed at Curly, but it was going to be damn hard to trust him as a friend again.
“Coming up on the airport,” Shiny announced, interrupting whatever guilt-ridden thing Curly was about to say next and saving Wes the trouble of figuring out a reply.
“No time to park,” Bacon said. “Be ready to hop out in the drop-off line. And good luck, man. Praying for your family.”
“Same here,” Curly and Shiny echoed as Bacon merged into the departures lane, following a line of taxis before reaching the front of the airline’s terminal.
“Give ’em hell,” Curly said, right before Wes jumped out of the car, the second Bacon pulled up to the curb.
Security was a bitch as usual and then he flat-out sprinted to the gate, making it right as the gate attendant made the final boarding call for the flight to Dallas. He spent that whole flight, phone in his lap, waiting for a text that didn’t come.
Racing across the sprawling Dallas airport, his phone finally buzzed. Still in surgery.
Hell, she should be out by now. Mind churning, he took his seat on the flight into Raleigh. He scanned the rest of his messages—tons from the rest of the team promising thoughts and prayers, one from Bacon wanting to know that he’d made the flight, but none from the one person he most wanted to hear from.
You said no contact. Told him to delete chat. What did you expect? Dustin wasn’t going to risk his career to reach out, not when Wes had told him in no uncertain terms that this was just sex. This was the outcome he’d wanted, right?
But hell if he didn’t miss him. First thing, as soon as the news had come in, he’d glanced Dustin’s way, soul seeking him even as the rest of him knew better. He might need Dustin, but there was no question that Dustin was better off without him.
The flight was bumpy, making it hard to dwell on Dustin or Sam or anything other than hoping his empty stomach didn’t rebel against the black coffee he’d poured down his throat. His aunt met his flight, taking him straight to the hospital.
“Surgery went six and a half hours,” she reported on the drive to the hospital. “And it’s still touch and go. It’s in God’s hands now, but I know your parents are going to be glad to see you.”
In the surgical waiting room, his parents were sitting with his uncle and a few other family members. As luck would have it, James was in Guatemala on a school trip, not scheduled to get back until tomorrow.
“You made it.” His mother stood, tears spilling down her cheeks as she embraced him. And oh shit, now he was at risk of crying too, not enough sleep or food and too much emotion catching up with him.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” he said gruffly. “We landed and my buddies got me straight to the airport. I’ve got a few days’ leave. How is she now?”
“The doctors say she’s holding her own, which is about all we can hope for right now—surgery went much longer and more complicated than they hoped for, and they had a hard time weaning her off the heart and lung machine.”
Wes settled in next to them, nothing to do but wait. Someone brought him a sandwich, which he downed, not tasting it. Coffee appeared, making the rounds to everyone waiting. Some relatives tearfully headed home in search of sleep with promises to return in the morning. Wes knew trying to convince his parents to go home and sleep would be a futile battle.
So he sat there, drifting, not really dozing, but not all that awake either. And as he drifted on a haze of sleep-deprivation and depleted adrenaline, his gaze kept returning to his parents. His dad kept an arm protectively around his mother, seeming to know instinctively when she needed another coffee or a tight hug. And his mom kept patting his dad’s knee, turning the waiting room TV to the documentary channel Wes and his dad always liked and making enough comments here and there to try to draw his dad’s attention back to the show.
They were a true partnership, years of knowing each other’s habits and needs. Today might well be one of the hardest days of their lives, but at least they had each other. I want that in my life. Wes had seen them together his whole life, but he’d never really let himself articulate that desire before. He wanted a partner, someone to build a life with.
Dustin.
He wanted Dustin to be that person. He could so easily picture some alternate universe where Dustin was right here with him, telling him jokes and getting him food, and knowing exactly what to say. And he could envision the converse too—Dustin coming home after a long day, Wes taking care of him with food and sex, putting his man back together so that he could go forth and face the world again in the morning. Because that was what it was all about—finding that one person who made you stronger.
“Lowe family?” A woman in scrubs came to the edge of the waiting room carpet, looking around.
“Here.” His mother stood, Wes and his dad following suit. “How...how is she?”
“Holding steady. She’s a fighter. Still heavily sedated and intubated, but we’re going to let y’all see her, one at time, five minutes max.”
“Oh thank God.” Fresh tears flowed down both his parents’ faces, and Wes’s own eyes stung.
His dad went first, then his mom. “Do you want a turn, honey?” she asked as she came out of the glassed-in recovery room, wiping her eyes.
“Yeah.” Wes nodded, not really sure at all, but each hour was a gift at this point, and he couldn’t turn down the chance. The nurse led him into the room where Sam was hooked up to what looked like a dozen machines, all beeping at different intervals. Eyes closed, she seemed so small in the huge bed, draped in white blankets and something akin to plastic wrap. The ventilator helping her breathe whirred, a constant reminder of how tenuous Sam’s hold on life was.
“Hey there, gorgeous.” Wes struggled to speak around the lump in his throat, needing to crack the silence beyond the machines and the roar in his head. “You’ve had a rough day, huh?”
No answer of course, and Wes settled into the lone chair in the room, knowing his time was short. What to say? He opened his mouth, prepared to tell her about how strong she was, how much his parents needed her to stick around, but instead what popped out was, “I did something stupid, Sam. Total idiot.” He paused to laugh at himself, the way Sam would. And she’d be pissed he hadn’t shared this months earlier. “Did the one thing I always swore I wouldn’t—I fell in love.”
He stopped to listen to the whir and beep of the machines a minute, as if there might be an answer in their rhythms. “And you know what’s funny? I know I could tell you, and you’d think it was great. ‘Go Wes, finally finding love.’ Because that’s you. You always find the bright side, even when I’ve made some downright shitty choices. I’ve... I’ve put someone at risk. And there’s really no way to fix it.”
Wait. Was that really true? Wes studied Sam, thinking of every time she’d encountered an obstacle in her life, how she’d conquered it. She’d inspired him to do the same—from his first triathlon through basic training through every mission. Find a barrier. Smash it.
“I remember when you were a baby,” he said. “Man, you were cute. And such a fighter. Every time they said there was slim odds, you proved them wrong. And that’s what you’re going to do again. You keep fighting, you hear?” He took a deep breath. “And if you keep fighting, then maybe I can do the same.”
And he would. Life was too short not to find a way forward.
Chapter Twenty-One
“You need a drink.” Dylan didn’t phrase it as a question as he passed Dustin a beer from the open fridge in his and Apollo’s gleaming, open kitche
n.
“Yeah.” Dustin didn’t bother pretending otherwise. Dylan had demanded his presence for fish taco night at their house, but that didn’t mean he had to be happy and social. Not that he could, even if he wanted to. It had been a long-ass week. And while he’d apparently run out of excuses for Dylan, he still wasn’t fit for company.
“Do we get to call you Uncle Dustin now?” one of the twins asked, ducking around Dylan to grab a juice box.
“Hey now, dinner’s almost ready.” Dylan plucked the juice back. “And what do you say, Uncle Dustin? Has a ring to it.”
“Whatever.” Dustin only realized how dour he sounded when the kid’s face fell. “I mean, knock yourself out, squirt. Uncle Dustin it is.”
Dylan waited until the girl had run back to the living room where her sister was playing to speak again. The noise of a kids’ show filtered out of their play space. “Dude. You’ve been off for months now, but snapping at one of the kids? What crawled up your ass and died—”
“Great visual, man,” Dustin deflected.
“I’m serious.” Dylan pulled his shoulders back. He wasn’t nearly as tall as Dustin, but he knew how to stare a man down every bit as good as the guys on Dustin’s team. Like Wes. And there he was, thinking of him for the millionth time that week.
“I’m home.” Saving Dustin’s bacon, Apollo strode into the kitchen, stopping to give Dylan a kiss that went on several moments longer than Dustin had the stomach for. Being happy for his friend and brother was one thing—routinely getting evidence of it was another. Still weird to think of his kid brother with any sort of love life.
“Fish smells great,” Apollo enthused when he came up for air. “You make the slaw already?”
“And the guac. But someone forgot to buy cilantro.” Dylan playfully swatted at him.
“Was it on the list?” Apollo countered. “You keep forgetting to add things to the list and assuming I’m a mind reader.”
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