Chapter 47
three percent fine
Light streamed into the attic bedroom. Kit eased awake beneath Darius’s hand, so groggy and safe that for a few blissful moments, he thought it was a normal morning. Then he rolled onto his back, and reality announced itself with every scrape and bruise.
His worst memory was dead.
“Are they back yet?” Kit croaked, sitting up. More bruises protested the movement.
Darius sat on the edge of Kit’s bed. He’d found time to shower, change clothes, even shave. His chiseled jaw gleamed dark and glossy in the morning light.
“Not yet,” Darius answered. “Shiloh wants to see you before Carla takes him home. Is that okay?”
“Of course.” Kit scrubbed the sleep from his eyes, trying to shake off dreams he couldn’t remember. “I need to…”
Shower. Except he already showered when he got home last night.
This morning. Whatever the fucking time was.
He’d spent a hazy ten minutes scouring every speck of dirt from his body, while Darius leaned against the bathroom counter.
Neither of them felt like making the shower fun, but without discussion, they agreed Darius should make sure Kit didn’t fall asleep. Or do something stupid.
Not that Kit had the energy or inclination to do anything stupid. But he’d felt better knowing he didn’t have that option. Guard rails for his dysfunctional brain.
Now, Kit squinted. The light was wrong for morning. “What time is it?”
“Three in the afternoon.” Darius stood, offering a hand. “You needed the sleep.”
Kit accepted the hand up. More help he didn’t need, except for the emotional craving. The solid heat of Darius’s grasp was better than coffee.
Though coffee had better still be on the menu.
“Have you heard anything?” Kit asked, heading for his dresser. He should probably wear something besides Holden’s boxers and Darius’s tank top to talk to Shiloh.
“Bishop managed a quick call. He says it’s going better than expected, but no details.”
Probably best not to discuss criminal cover-ups over the phone when they were literally at the police station.
Assuming that was where they were. “What about James and Holden? Since they…” Kit faltered, reviewing his memory to make sure that part was real.
“Since they crashed a car through the fucking wall.”
Darius joined Kit at the dresser. “They got checked out at the hospital before heading to the station. Nothing but bruises from the airbags.” Darius handed Kit a faded band tee, solving his indecision. “That’s one reason Bishop kept them along, and I got to bring you home.”
Plus, Darius might have had a worse time with the cops, because the cops sucked. Kit hated not knowing what was going on, but not as much as he expected. He trusted Bishop, James, and Holden to take care of each other. Even Holden only cared for Kit’s sake.
Kit slipped on a pair of neon green sweatpants, and Darius covered his eyes. “Warn a guy before you blind him.”
“You don’t have to stare at my ass,” Kit said, pulling Darius closer.
“Yeah, I do,” Darius murmured, before meeting the kiss. Sweet, slow, grounding.
This moment was real. The lingering taste kept Kit steady on his journey downstairs.
Carla and Shiloh sat at the kitchen table. Well, Carla sat, perfectly refreshed and sipping from a baby pink travel mug. Shiloh was hunched over, his brown hair a bird’s nest. He nearly toppled the chair jumping to his feet.
“Are you okay?” Shiloh asked, eyes wide. Exhaustion grayed his face, and he looked both younger and older than seventeen.
And extremely relieved to see Kit.
“I’m fine,” Kit said, with reflexive cheer. Except it was actually true. He repeated more softly, “I’m fine. What about you?”
Shiloh ran his fingers through his hair, explaining the bird’s nest. “I’m like, three percent fine. But yesterday was zero percent fine, so, you know. Shit’s looking up.”
“Good. That’s good.” Kit braced against the back of a chair. A mug of coffee steamed next to his hand—thanks, Darius—but he didn’t feel coordinated enough to grab it yet.
Fuck. Kit hadn’t thought this far ahead. What was he supposed to say here? Sorry my disgusting father kidnapped you to get to me?
There wasn’t a social script for this. Except Kit didn’t need one, because Shiloh was in the same strange headspace.
“Did it help?” Shiloh asked.
Kit knew he meant the sedative. “It slowed him down. Thank you.”
Shiloh shrugged. “Anyone else would have done the same.”
“Not true.” Kit inhaled, taking in the coffee and kitchen spices and whatever jet fuel energy drink reeked from Carla’s mug.
The fact that he stood here at this moment was thanks to so many choices.
Good ones and bad ones, by unlikely people.
“Laird was a manipulative asshole. A lot of people did what he wanted because he scared them. You broke his plan. That was brave.”
Shiloh pushed his hair around again. Oops. That was way too sincere for a seventeen-year-old to deal with, however insane the circumstances. “Anyway. He’s dead now?”
“Thanks to my boyfriends, yeah,” Kit said, without thinking about the plural.
Shiloh froze mid-hair fuckery. “Oh. Okay. That’s cool.”
The kid was clearly trying so hard to be casual and accepting and not shocked. It was kind of adorable.
Carla stood, keys jingling. “Are you ready?”
Darius rubbed Kit’s shoulder. “Before Carla takes you back, are you okay at home?”
Shiloh blinked, confused, then laughed. “Yeah. Home’s fine.”
Right. Enough scandalizing the kid. The cops hadn’t been looking for Shiloh because he’d run away before. But Kit held himself back from prying deeper. One bad coincidence didn’t give him the right to Shiloh’s life story.
Shiloh was his own person, with his own secrets and choices. He wasn’t just a substitute for Kit.
Some advice was warranted, though, from Kit’s older and wiser perspective. “You should talk to someone about all of this. Like a therapist.”
Shiloh tilted his head. “Have you done that?”
Darius laughed, damn him.
“I have,” Kit said, then had to admit, “I hated it.”
“I’ll consider it.” Shiloh tugged his hair again. “Uh. Good luck with your trauma and boyfriends and whatever.”
He retreated to the front door and Carla, leaving Kit to loop an arm around Darius’s waist. The door opened, then closed. Kit’s heart thudded, then settled.
“How are you feeling?” Darius asked quietly.
Kit took his time considering. “Twenty percent fine.”
The house’s security system beeped a reassuring welcome, as the garage door rumbled. Someone was home.
A grin spread across Kit’s face. “Forty percent fine.”
Kit ticked all the way up to sixty percent fine when the rest of his men spilled into the foyer. James first, then Holden, and Bishop bringing up the rear. Kit barely saw them all before Holden surrounded him in a hug.
“Darling,” Holden purred, arms tightening. “I missed you.”
Inhaling deeply, Kit hugged back. Holden smelled reassuring. Musky, clean. Better than he should, given the events of the past 24 hours. “Why do you smell good?”
James draped himself around both of them. “We stopped at Bishop’s on the way back,” he explained into Kit’s hair. “Sorry for delaying our reunion, but Bishop needed to pick up some papers, and Holden and I needed to shower the car crash off.”
“Together?” Kit asked, intrigued.
James’s chuckle reverberated through them. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“Not together.” Holden’s disgust almost sounded friendly. “Stop hugging me, old man.”
“I’m hugging Kit,” James said loftily, squeezing them both tighter. “You could always get out of the way.”
Before they could suffocate him in their hug-off, Kit wriggled free. His escape took him directly, happily into Bishop’s arms.
Bishop ruffled his hair with one broad hand. Tension melted away from them both. Kit buried his face in Bishop’s chest until his eyes stopped stinging. He wasn’t going to cry. He was just overwhelmed.
Those facts were related. Kit was overwhelmed because he wasn’t crying. He felt… not fine. Still in those middle percents. But he let himself get kidnapped last night, in the bad, not-sexy way. His father hit him and planned to do so much worse. Then he watched his father die. Brutally.
That was last night. This afternoon, Kit was calm. Not in his old numb way. He just felt secure that no matter what happened, he and his men could handle it.
“Are you two okay?” Kit asked, peeling away. Not far. Bishop kept him under one arm. “You drove through a wall.”
“And through a fence on the way up.” James rubbed his chest. “We’re fine. The bruises are going to look worse than they are, so don’t worry over the next few days, okay?”
Calculation gleamed in Holden’s eyes. “I’m hurt pretty bad. I might need some comforting for the week. Or the month.”
“Shameless,” Darius said, less annoyed than he would have been a couple months ago. Relief softened his face too, having everyone home. “What’s the legal status? Anyone facing charges?”
James shrugged. “I’m taking the negligent driving charges. My lawyers will settle it out of court, but I had to take something.”
“What about Holden?” Darius asked. “He was actually driving.”
Grinning, James slung an arm over Holden’s shoulders.
For about half a second before Holden shoved him off.
“How could I let my intern take the fall? We wouldn’t want to fuck up his graduation.
Besides, I’m a rich asshole. I’ll be fine.
My PR department will work some overtime.
I’ll take a sabbatical from direct company involvement for a year.
Then I’ll slide back in when the scandal’s not as fresh. ”
Despite James’s cheery tone, exhaustion ringed his eyes. A sabbatical might be good for optics, but it would be even better for James’s wellbeing. All of them could use time off.
Before Kit relaxed, there were a few more loose ends. “That covers the car crash, but what about the shooting?” Kit remembered Archie belatedly. “Both shootings?”
Bishop ruffled Kit’s hair again. “Officially, Archie Calvin is still missing, and I’m a police consultant who shot Laird Renaker in self-defense. There will be an investigation, but no charges.”
“Amazing how you managed to shoot him three times from three different guns simultaneously,” Darius commented.
“Ballistics aren’t as exact as people think,” Holden said helpfully.
“Blackmail is much more effective as a science.” Bishop grimaced. “They won’t ask questions about Laird’s death, and I won’t ask why his escape wasn’t announced for a month.”
Kit sagged, another layer of tension leaving. They were all going to be okay. Maybe some harsher consequences and a less corrupt police force would be good. On a moral level. But Kit didn’t give a shit about a moral level.
He just wanted to keep what was his, close in his greedy grasp.
“Hey, Kit,” Bishop said quietly. “How are you doing?”
Breath shuddered from Kit, leaving a strange, true smile behind. “Eighty percent fine. Pretty fucking good, right?”
Kit took in the four gorgeous faces focused on him. James’s heady boldness. Darius’s iron steadiness. Holden’s unconditional obsession. Bishop’s piercing insight. All of them were Kit’s, and he was theirs.
Suddenly, remembering Holden’s strategy, Kit reconsidered. “Actually, I’m not fine. I’m very upset, and I need you to make me feel better.” He chewed his lip, hooking everyone’s attention. “All of you.”
His boyfriends shared a look, then crowded closer.
“That can be arranged,” James said, with a wicked grin.
One hitched breath later, Kit dangled over James’s shoulder. “You fucking caveman,” Kit accused, but his next delighted protest was cut off by Darius’s lips. Nothing like the sweet, slow kiss they shared earlier. This was deep. Consuming. Electric.
Darius pulled away with a smirk. “Any excuse to rip those blinding sweatpants off of you.”
“Hey!’ Kit gasped, dizzy with the kiss. “My sweatpants are super cool.”
“They’re awful,” James said affectionately, with an equally affectionate slap to Kit’s ass. He headed for the stairs, Kit steady on his shoulder. “We need to remove them immediately.”
“The sweatpants are awesome,” Holden said loyally. “But I agree about removing them.”
Anticipation pounded quicker with each stair step. Without any discussion needed, James led the parade to the master bedroom—with the oversized bed that hadn’t yet been used for its intended purpose.
They’d fucked on the bed already, of course. Each memory yanked sharp and sweet on different nerves. But they hadn’t all fucked on it yet. Only two or three of them at a time. Not four. And definitely not five.
Kit could barely see Bishop past the others. Darius was murmuring something into Bishop’s ear. But from Kit’s brief glimpses, there was no hint of hesitation. Just a mirror of Kit’s own hunger.
James tossed Kit onto the bed. Kit barely bounced before James pinned him with a searing kiss. Fingers twisting in James’s silky hair, Kit moaned. Loud, high, deliberately showing off how badly he wanted this.
He didn’t even complain when James—or someone else—whisked his neon green sweatpants away, along with his briefs. Darius peeled away Kit’s socks, then held Kit’s feet firmly to the mattress.
Exposed from the waist down, Kit shivered. His cock twitched, nearly high enough to kiss his stomach. Every breath of air seemed to stroke from his balls to his leaking tip. Vulnerability crystallized until surrender felt strangely like control.
Every man in this room was obsessed with Kit. He bared his throat for them, and they handed him their leashes.
The mattress rocked with another body. Holden slid into James’s place, intensity sharpening his brown eyes. He touched Kit’s lips. Gently at first, then he fucked two fingers between Kit’s teeth.
A breath of silence caught them. Long enough for Kit to remember the issue of logistics.
“Who’s going first?” James said brightly, clearly on the same page as Kit. “We could draw straws. I don’t have any straws, but I can find a random generation site.”
Holden traced spit-slick fingers down Kit’s throat. “You all figure that out. I’ll be over here fucking my darling.”
“I’ll arm wrestle you for it,” Darius said, caressing Kit’s anklebones with confidence.
Bishop leaned against the footboard, still fully dressed and disheveled. Exhaustion or relief softened his piercing blue eyes into something impossibly tender. He was silent. Patient.
In Kit’s expert opinion, Bishop had been patient far too long.