Chapter Two
The morning light streamed through the blinds of Oren Callaghan’s small room, cutting across the pale gray walls in harsh stripes. He sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, palms pressed together, as if he were trying to pray the thoughts out of his head.
But it was no use.
His mind was still caught on the image of Ty Monroe and Dale Ricoh circling each other on the mat.
Sweat-slicked skin, flexing muscles, gritted teeth.
The way their bodies had moved together—fluid and brutal and beautiful.
It had wrecked something in him. Or maybe awakened something.
Either way, he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it.
He’d gone back to his room and stepped into the shower, hoping the cold water would cool his blood.
It didn’t. The heat that rolled through him as he remembered Ty’s strength, Dale’s speed, the way they looked at each other—it twisted low in his gut.
He’d braced his hand against the tile and taken himself in hand, eyes clenched shut, not even trying to pretend it wasn’t them he was thinking about.
What the hell was happening to him?
He was the proverbial son of a goddamn preacher. Raised with fists and fire-and-brimstone sermons. He’d been told what was right and wrong—who he was allowed to be. And now?
Now he wasn’t so sure.
He stood abruptly, angry with himself, and pulled on his jeans and a black branded work shirt. He needed to get out, move, sweat it out at the site. He couldn’t stay still, or he’d drown in his own thoughts.
He stepped outside into the morning air, the scent of cedar and dry earth grounding him, until a voice pulled him back.
“You heading toward the building site?”
Oren turned.
A man he didn’t recognize slowed his stride beside him. “Hey, I’m Carson,” he said, extending his hand. “One of the new builders brought in to help with the therapy wing.”
Late twenties, broad-shouldered, dark brown hair and eyes, good-looking in that clean-shaven ex-frat-boy kind of way, Carson had the easy confidence of someone who thought they belonged everywhere.
Oren gave the offered hand a quick shake. “Oren,” he replied curtly. “When did you start with Redline?”
“Couple days ago,” Carson said with a grin. “Still getting the lay of the land.”
Oren gave a nod, already angling his body toward the path to the site. “Yeah, I was heading to the building site.”
Carson’s gaze swept over him in a way that made Oren’s skin crawl. Not because it was a man looking—he’d grown used to that. But because there was something too deliberate about it.
“Shame,” Carson said with a grin. “I’m finished for the day, new guys always get the back shifts. You ever get waterboarded, Callaghan?”
The question hit Oren like a gut punch.
For a moment, the world dropped out beneath him.
A memory slammed into place—too fast, too vivid. Darkness. Screaming. A soaked cloth pressed to his face. The taste of mildew. The agony of drowning without water. The panic. The violation.
His breath caught, his fists clenched. He wasn’t on the Ridge anymore. He was back in that cell in Afghanistan. Strapped down. Helpless.
He took a step back, shoulders tense, jaw tight. “Don’t joke about shit you don’t understand,” he said coldly, voice rough with the effort to stay in the present.
Carson nodded, then raised his hands. “Hey, just making conversation. Didn’t mean anything by it.”
Oren stared at him for another long second before turning sharply and heading toward the build site. His hands were shaking.
The past wasn’t staying buried.
And he didn’t know how much longer he could pretend it wasn’t clawing its way back to the surface.
At the site, Ty was already there, clipboard in hand, talking with one of the contractors. When he spotted Oren, his brows creased.
“You okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Oren shrugged, trying to breeze past it. “Fine. Just tired.”
Ty stepped in front of him. “Cut the crap, Oren. I’m not buying it—what’s really going on?”
That’s when Oren snapped.
“You want me to talk about my fucking feelings? Jesus, Ty, is that what this is now? You corner me in a hallway, kiss me without consent or warning, and now I’m supposed to open up like this is fucking therapy hour?”
Ty reeled back like he’d been slapped. “What the hell, Oren?”
Oren’s face was flushed, breathing ragged. “I don’t need this. I don’t need either of you crawling into my head. Just stay the fuck out of it.”
“You know what, fuck you,” Ty snapped.
Oren glared back, teeth gritted. “Yeah, I know you want that, too—but newsflash, you’re not my type. I don’t do needy little bitches who throw tantrums when they don’t get their way.”
Dale had stepped around the corner just in time to hear that. “Oren—”
“No,” Ty cut in, voice like a blade. “Don’t even try to fucking twist this like that.
You can hate me, you can call me names, I don’t give a shit, but do not accuse me of forcing myself on you.
That’s not just bullshit—it’s cruel. I’ve lived through that kind of trauma, and I’d never put anyone through it.
Fucking. Never. Damn you for throwing that at me like it meant nothing, and fuck you for making me say it out loud. ”
The silence that followed was thick.
“Goddamn you, Oren.” Ty shook his head and walked off without saying another word.
Dale didn’t follow. He turned to Oren, his expression unreadable. “That was rough.”
Oren slumped onto a low bench in one of the half-finished therapy rooms and dropped his head into his hands. Dale sat beside him, quiet. Everything from the past ten minutes whirled around his head, and he could accurately see the cause and effect of his behavior and he groaned.
“I fucked up,” Oren muttered.
“Yeah, you did. Big time.” Dale said simply.
Oren lifted his head with a snort. “Thanks for sugar-coating it.”
Dale’s voice was calm. “You don’t need sugar-coating. You need the truth.”
Oren nodded, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “You think he’ll forgive me?”
“He’s your best friend. And he cares about you. A lot. He’s angry now, but ... yeah.” Dale looked over. “He’ll forgive you. But he’s going to make you work for it.” Oren winced, knowing that was true and that he deserved to have to do it.
Dale stood up from the bench and turned to stand in front of him. “We should all talk. Tonight. My suite. I’ll cook.”
Oren hesitated. Then nodded. Ty wouldn’t turn down a chance to spend time with Dale. This might be a chance to start on Operation Please Forgive Me. “Okay.”
Dale stood staring at him for a moment, then reached down to grip Oren’s shoulders and wrench him up. “Seems only fair I get a taste of you, too.”
And then he kissed him.
It wasn’t soft or questioning. It was confident and deep and full of fire. Oren’s hands gripped Dale’s arms before he even realized what he was doing.
When Dale pulled back, Oren stared at him, lips tingling, mind scrambling.
He hadn’t expected that—not from Dale. The kiss had been hot, consuming, and for a second, he’d leaned into it like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Dale was licking his lips, eyes dark, a crooked grin playing at the corners of his mouth.
“That was, um, wow,” Oren said, breathless, still reeling.
Dale chuckled low. “Hell, yeah, it was.”
Then, what Dale had said finally registered and Oren blinked. “You and Ty ... kissed?”
“Yeah,” Dale said with a grin. “Different, but still fucking awesome. See you tonight. 1800 hours.”
And then he left Oren there, breathless, confused, and maybe a little hopeful, thinking about the kisses he’d shared with both men—and wondering what the hell his life was turning into.
****
Oren arrived first.
He wore fitted jeans and a black button-down shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His red hair was combed but still slightly unruly, and the soft scruff along his jaw made Dale’s mouth water. There was something effortless about him—something real.
Dale didn’t hesitate. The moment he opened the door and saw Oren standing there with a six-pack of local craft beer in hand and uncertainty in his green eyes, he stepped in and kissed him.
It wasn’t soft.
It was hot, claiming, and purposeful.
Oren made a surprised noise in the back of his throat but kissed him back, warm and eager. When they finally pulled apart, Dale chuckled and took the beers from his hand.
“Welcome to the Ridge House,” he said, heading for the kitchen. “Come in, make yourself at home.”
The suite was warm and smelled like garlic and tomatoes. Dale had music playing low in the background—an old Italian jazz playlist. He wore a simple t-shirt and joggers, barefoot as he moved around the kitchen with practiced ease.
“Smells amazing,” Oren said as he took a seat at the breakfast bar.
Dale grinned. “Family recipe. My great-grandfather came over from Sicily. When he arrived, they misspelled his name on the immigration papers—supposed to be Ricco, ended up Ricoh. But hey, they couldn’t take the sauce out of our blood.”
He poured Oren a drink—red wine, rich and bold—and handed it to him with a wink.
“Didn’t know you cooked,” Oren said, taking a sip.
“I like it. Keeps me sane. Plus, feeding people is its own kind of love language.”
They chatted for a bit about neutral things—work on the therapy wing, the latest Pathfinder trainees, the weather. Dale kept the conversation easy, trying to soften the tight lines around Oren’s eyes.
But even as they talked, Dale kept glancing toward the door.
Oren noticed. “Is Ty coming?”
Dale paused, nodding slowly. “Yeah. I talked to him. He said he’d be here.”
Oren looked down at his glass. “I wanted to talk to him at the barracks, but he never came back.”
“He’s hurt,” Dale admitted. “Pissed. But he said he’d come.”
Internally, Dale hoped like hell he would. He’d left the door ajar on purpose—hoping Ty would walk in, would hear something good from their man. Hoping the three of them could start figuring this out.