Chapter 14
NEW YORK
Bryson woke up with sweat clinging to his skin and heat pulsing under his skull. He rolled onto his side, flexed his legs—and froze. His limbs stretched out freely beneath him. This wasn’t a cell.
Panic fluttered in his chest as memories fractured back into place: a safe house. Adria and Seth lay curled nearby, their breathing even and untroubled. He lifted his head—sensation spiking in his ribs—and saw Eric stretched out, one mattress over.
Pain jabbed at him when he sat up too fast.
Bryson rolled his shoulders. The soreness ran deep. It felt raw and ragged but no longer urgent.
Glancing down, he saw the fresh bandages on his chest, and the tube was no longer there. The I.V. line from earlier was gone. A brown wrap coiled around his leg like a serpent.
He rose unsteadily and shuffled into the adjoining room. Kaydon sat on the couch, back to him, fingernails scraping at the inside of his forearm. The motion was frantic, almost violent.
Bryson stepped forward, and Kaydon spun, eyes widening with relief. “Hey, boss.”
Bryson settled beside him. Every movement throbbed, but he reached out, took Kaydon’s wrist, and gently pried the scratching hand away. He leaned into Kaydon, wrapping his arm around his broad shoulders. For a moment, the world stilled.
“Some life we’ve got,” he whispered. He felt Kaydon’s chuckle, low and comforting against him.
He let the silence stretch and felt Kaydon’s warmth anchoring him, before forcing out the next question. “What’s the plan?”
“Adria’s contact can fake us new passports and IDs. We fly to Mexico, then South America, meet her guy, ‘X,’ lie low until this dies down.” Kaydon’s voice was steady, practical.
Bryson nodded into the pale evening light filtering through the patio doors. “I knew she’d come up with something.”
Kaydon’s finger traced the edge of Bryson’s chest wrap. “Looks like you’ll live.”
“Hard to kill,” Bryson managed, but the words tasted hollow.
Their usual banter falling flat between them.
“Hungry?” Kaydon asked, voice too light.
“Not really.” Bryson’s stomach fluttered, but it wasn’t hunger.
Kaydon turned his gaze to Bryson’s forearm, which held dark bruises from Regan’s grip. He reached out, fingertips gentle…and Bryson flinched so hard the couch shifted beneath them.
Regan’s face—sweat beading on his brow, flushed with arousal—flashed behind Bryson’s eyelids. His breath hitched and he jerked his arm back, curling it protectively into his side.
“You can talk to me about it,” Kaydon said softly, concern threading his tone—the same concern that usually made Bryson feel safe. But now? It sent heat crawling up his neck, his pulse skyrocketing.
He pushed away. “I…need some air.” His voice cracked.
He stumbled toward the glass doors, fingers fumbling with the lock before wrenching the panel open. A cold breeze crashed against his face, sharp and alive.
Bryson closed his eyes against the sting. The night air filling his lungs—deep, steady breaths.
“You know, I haven’t felt a breeze in months,” he whispered.
He glanced behind him, but Kaydon was gone.
Bryson’s chest tightened, but the air slipped in and out, reminding him how brutal it had been to breathe just hours ago.
What had Adria said? “He was lucky to be alive?”
Lucky—the word stuck in his mind.
He shut his eyes, and Regan’s sandalwood scent crept in like a scratchy blanket, suffocating him.
Bryson leaned his forehead against the cool glass, trying to will the breeze into his veins, to carve out the panic.
He inhaled deeply, counting each breath, forcing himself to believe he was safe. That somehow, he was still lucky.
When he moved back into the room, he saw Kaydon lying next to Adria. Seth was curled into a ball, his back pressing into her center. The three looked so comfortable with each other.
Bryson, not wanting to disturb them, moved into the bedroom next door—the makeshift hospital suite, the room where, just a few hours ago, a doctor had performed emergency surgery on him.
It still smelled of antiseptic and bleach, but Bryson opened the far window and crawled into the cold bed.
He enjoyed the night sounds and the smell of fresh air.
Bryson pulled the blanket up to his chin and stared at the ceiling.
Not wanting to see Regan behind his eyelids, he just watched the lights of traffic dance around the room. Waiting until morning.