Epilogue
Dirk
“Fuck me,” Trav says as I climb off his bike. “I forgot to grab the wine. I had a nice bottle picked out.”
“It’ll be fine, Trav.”
“No, it won’t. I can’t show up empty-handed when your brother’s finally extending an olive branch. Go on inside, I’ll run back and grab it.”
There’s no use arguing when he’s that adamant, so I don’t tell him that Hunt hates lateness more than anything. I don’t want him to speed, because he will.
He takes off his massive black helmet just to kiss me, and I head inside.
I almost knock, but fuck it. Dash never does at his dad’s place.
Yeah, still. I do think he should knock before he storms into Trav’s office, or one day he’s gonna see something traumatizing, but maybe he’s got a point about the house.
I have a key; I don’t have to knock to enter Hunt’s house.
Besides, the heavy oak door makes a loud enough sound when it shuts. He’ll hear that.
It’s Wednesday, and we leave this Friday for Vegas and the Sutterchuck wedding. That’s gonna be a gong show and a half. I’m hoping the fireworks don’t start tonight, that it’s a nice, calm dinner. But with my brother and Trav, hard to say.
Removing my shoes and jacket, I head toward the kitchen, but something’s off.
There’s no buttery air. No bread baking, no roasted garlic, no heat coming from the general direction of the kitchen to give a hint as to what Hunter’s made for us.
Do I have the right day? He can’t be planning take-out, or can he?
No. Not unless he was trying to insult Trav, and he wouldn’t do that—invite us over only to be a dick.
My heart claws at my ribs. Something’s wrong. My mind spins into wild scenarios, like … what if a rogue beater flew off the hand mixer and into his eye—what if he’s on the ground, what if he’s—
Okay, calm the fuck down, Boulder. Maybe he worked late, that’s more like Hunter. But I didn’t get a text, so my nerves remain on high alert. I storm into the kitchen. The light’s on, but no one.
Until I hear the fucking war cry. I turn, a thin man with hair so blond it might as well be white’s hurling toward me.
There’s a flash, metal, and all I’ve got time to do is react.
Thank the hockey gods for my quick reflexes.
My hand moves, a searing line of hot pain breaks across the underside of my forearm, and blood sprays over Hunter’s pristine counter.
But I’ve got his wrist now, and I’m at least two and a half times the size of this dainty little waif. I make him eat granite, pushing him flush with the countertop.
“Who the fuck are you?” I bark.
“Who the fuck am I? Who the fuck are you?” His voice is kinda … posh. And this little fucking criminal smells like a flower bouquet—an expensive flower bouquet.
“Let go of the knife, or those pretty teeth are gonna be on the floor.”
The knife clatters to the ground, and I wince—poor Hunter’s nice hardwood flooring. He installed it himself. “There, knife gone. Now, tell me who the fuck you are,” he demands. “Are you fucking him—is he fucking you?”
“Ew! Hunter’s my brother, you little dipshit.”
Boots stomp across the entryway. There’s a jingle of keys and the heavy oak door closing. I’d know that combo anywhere. “Hunt! A little help in here.”
“Dirk?” The boots get louder, and there’s rustling. “Shit, you’re bleeding.”
I pull the culprit off the counter. Hunter doesn’t seem surprised to see the interloper, which must mean he’s not an interloper.
Fucking Christ. Is this my brother’s hook-up?
I look the man up and down. He’s wearing a t-shirt that’s several sizes too big for him, one I recognize, because I bought it for Hunt’s last birthday, and a pair of equally oversized pajama bottoms, rolled up at the waist as if he tried to make himself look stylish.
I release him, Hunt tosses me a kitchen towel.
“Just a surface wound,” I tell him. But it’s a long one. This is gonna be a bitch to deal with while we’re in Vegas.
Hunter turns a dark gaze onto the blond man. “Wanna tell me why you tried to stab my brother?”
“I thought he was breaking in—look at him. Are all Boulders the size of cedar trees?”
“I told you he’d be here.”
“I thought you were lying. He’s incredibly hot—looked more like a hookup to me.”
“Ew,” Hunter says.
“Anyway, he hurt my pretty face when he almost broke it on that countertop. It’s going to bruise, and I have a photoshoot tomorrow. If he doesn’t apologize, I’ll make sure you’re fired.”
“You don’t have that kind of power, Riley. Sit the fuck down.”
“I don’t have to listen to you.”
My brother’s eyes get deadly. “I’ll tie you to the goddamn chair.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? You sick bastard.”
Hunter looks to the ceiling for help, taking a slow breath. Maybe this isn’t a hookup? But then why’s he wearing Hunter’s clothes? I’m so fucking confused. Whatever he is, Hunter’s had enough. He gives up on nice and takes a step toward Riley.
“Okay, okay. I’ll sit down,” he says, hopping onto the blood-soaked counter instead of the chair Hunter told him to sit in. He sits taller, like he’s the king of everything. “Is he always this violent?”
I hold up my still-bleeding arm. “You tried to stab me. My reaction was self-defense.”
He smirks. Why do I get the impression he just wanted to hurt me?
Instead of making him get down, Hunter retrieves an ice pack from the fridge freezer and wraps a dish towel around it. He shoves Riley’s legs apart, steps between them, and wrenches his face sideways by the jaw, tilting it so he can inspect it.
I don’t know what’s more shocking, the rough way Hunter’s taking care of the delicate-looking man, or the fact that Riley’s letting him. Hunt keeps his face like stone, not giving a single thing away, but unfortunately, I know him too well.
That fire mixed with darkness. The way he’s afraid to breathe. The careful way his gaze analyzes Riley, taking stock of any other injuries he might find.
Shit.
Holy shit.
My brother’s completely fucked.
And Riley’s jealousy is real. It’s hard to say if he knew I was Hunt’s brother or not, but I don’t think he gave a fuck either way. If the way he keeps eyeing me is anything to go by, he doesn’t want me too close to Hunter.
Interesting.
Hunter’s gentle when he presses the ice pack to his face.
“I can do it,” he says.
“I’ll do it,” Hunter snaps.
“Will it be gone by tomorrow?” He pouts.
Hunt laughs. “No chance. Just use some of that makeup crap you like.”
Not sure what’s happening, but it feels intimate, like I should give them some time.
The roar of Trav’s bike gives me an excuse to leave them.
I open the door and step onto the porch, admiring his ass as he climbs off his bike.
He pulls off his helmet, and his dark strip of hair falls across his face, over his nose. His eyes zone in on my arm.
“Dirk? Shit.” Leather creaks as he races over. “I was gone for twenty minutes. What happened?”
“Had a run-in with a psychotic blond squirrel.” I give him the lowdown as he insists on taking over, taking a peek at the slice, determining that it’s not dire, and rewrapping and holding with the pressure of his strong hands to stop the bleeding.
“Why are you smiling? He stabbed you. I’m gonna kill him.”
“Yeah, you’ll have to fight Hunt—again. Pretty sure Hunter would protect that guy with his life.”
“Are they dating?”
I shake my head. “Don’t think so.”
“Fucking?”
“Didn’t catch that vibe.”
“Then I’m fucking confused. C’mon. Lead me to the first aid kit, and let’s get you patched up.”
Hunt’s sent Riley upstairs to clean up, but he’s pacing, repeatedly running a hand over his barely-there hair. He keeps looking toward the kitchen entryway, the bags of groceries he brought home still on the floor.
“I’m so fucking sorry, Dirk. Everything kinda fell apart today. I didn’t wanna let you down, I thought I could make a quick barbecue meal. I’ve already got buns I’d frozen previously, thawed in the fridge, fries are cut—I’d planned to distract you with beer while I cooked it up.”
His gaze jumped to the kitchen entryway three times over the course of those sentences.
“You’re worried about him, Hunt.”
“I … he gets into trouble,” he huffs.
Trav’s at the kitchen table, still in his leather jacket, sitting with the chair sideways so his back’s against the wall, and his arm rests on the top of the chair back. I smile.
“You know, Hunt, Trav and I make a damn good team when we’re in the weeds at work. Bet we could have this together by the time you finish helping Riley.”
“Yeah? You wouldn’t mind?”
Trav’s already standing, removing his jacket, rolling up the sleeves of his red plaid shirt. I take a quick second to admire his biceps—they’re literal works of art with all the ink he’s got on them.
“Yeah, go. We’ll have the wine waiting for you two.”
He pauses. “Uh, is it … expensive wine? That’s all he’ll drink.”
I bite back the laugh. What’s Hunt doing with this guy?
“It’s expensive,” Trav assures him.
Hunter nods, ambling toward the stairs like he doesn’t know the way around his own house. Trav raises a brow, and I wander into his arms, lifting his shirt enough to take another look at the tattoo he got to match mine: Pretty Boy’s Keeper.
He kisses my lips. “Yep, your brother’s fucked. I’ll do the burgers, you’re on salads.” He smacks my ass.
“Bossy fucker.” I roll up my sleeves.