Chapter 32
Jacob
His trailer smelled like sweat and sex and Liam—it always did lately. The scent lingered in the air, carrying warm skin, faint cologne, and that golden, alive note unmistakably Liam.
They’d been back in LA for two weeks. Two weeks of kissing their wives goodnight, saying all the right things, and sitting at the right dinner tables. Two weeks of pretending and lying through their teeth.
On set, they didn’t have to pretend. They’d barely gone a day without seeing each other. Filming gave them cover, access, and closed trailers with locked doors.
It wasn’t just sex anymore and they both knew it, even if neither of them said it out loud. There were too many soft touches and conversations that went deeper than they should.
They’d slipped into a rhythm, one that felt too easy. They were still going home at night, but between takes, they took whatever stolen moments they could. Ten minutes here, an hour there—long enough to forget who they were supposed to be.
Jacob hadn’t expected it to go this far. He hadn’t expected anything, but somehow Liam had gotten under his skin. He was everywhere—like sunlight that clung to him long after it was gone.
Liam lay half on top of him, his head tucked beneath Jacob’s jaw and one arm draped across his stomach. Jacob’s entire body felt loose, relaxed, and humming with satisfaction. Not wanting to move, he let his fingers drift down Liam’s back, slow and easy. “You’re an addiction,” he murmured.
Liam made a low and sleepy sound. “You love it.”
“Guess I do.”
A lazy smile tugged at Liam’s mouth as he shifted closer, pressing a kiss just below Jacob’s collarbone. “You’ve been quiet.”
“Just thinking.”
“Dangerous habit.”
Jacob huffed under his breath, but before he could respond, his phone buzzed on the nightstand. He almost let it ring, then sighed and leaned over, careful not to jostle Liam.
Unknown number. Stockton area code.
He answered. "Wolfe."
A crisp, professional voice came through the line. “Mr. Jacob Wolfe?”
“Speaking.”
“This is Dianne Keller. I’m the estate attorney for Marcus Wolfe.”
Jacob’s grip on the phone tightened.
“I’m calling with unfortunate news. Marcus Wolfe passed away yesterday.”
He said nothing.
“I understand this may come as a shock,” the woman continued, her tone gentler now. “I’m reaching out because your name appears in the will, along with Mrs. Wolfe and Mr. Knox Wolfe. You’re all listed as primary beneficiaries.”
He looked down, unseeing. “I haven’t spoken to Marcus Wolfe in nearly forty years.”
“I understand, but as his legal representative, it’s my duty to inform you of the arrangements and your rights regarding the estate.”
He dragged a hand down his face. “Right.”
“There will be a private funeral this Friday in Stockton. If you text me your email address, I can send you the location and time, as well as a copy of the will and the legal documentation. Is this the best number to reach you?”
“Yeah.” His voice came out rough. “Send it.”
“I will. Again, Mr. Wolfe… my condolences. If you have any questions about the estate, or if you’d prefer to appoint independent representation to handle things on your behalf, you’re welcome to reach out.”
“Got it.”
There was a short pause. Then, more quietly: “Take care of yourself.”
The line went dead. Jacob stared at his phone for a long moment.
Liam sat up beside him. "Who was that?"
He didn’t answer right away. He was trying to feel something—anger, sadness, anything at all, but nothing came.
He shrugged one shoulder. “My father’s dead.”
“Shit. Jacob.”
Jacob exhaled through his nose. “It’s not a big deal.”
“You sure about that?”
“I haven’t seen the man since I was six,” he said, too fast. “He left. Never looked back. He’s just—some guy who gave me a name. That’s all.”
Liam didn’t argue. Just watched him carefully, like he knew better than to push too hard.
Jacob dropped his head back against the wall, letting his eyes drift upward. "She said there’s a funeral in Stockton on Friday. He left everything to me, my half-brother, and his wife. Knox’s mom."
“Are you going?”
“No.” The answer came without hesitation. “What for? He didn’t want to be my father. I don’t owe him anything.”
Liam was quiet for a moment. Then he said calmly, “Maybe it’s not about him.”
Jacob turned to look at him.
“Maybe it’s about you,” Liam said. “Going might not change anything, but maybe it gives you something. Closure. Maybe that matters.”
Jacob held his gaze, something tightening in his chest. The kind of tension that came from knowing someone was right and not wanting to hear it. Before he could talk himself out of it, the words came: “Would you come with me?”
Liam blinked. “To Stockton?”
Jacob swore under his breath. “Forget it. That was stupid.”
“It wasn’t,” Liam said, cutting him off gently. He reached for Jacob’s hand, fingers brushing his like it was the easiest thing in the world. “It wasn’t stupid.”
Jacob looked down at their hands, at Liam’s thumb sweeping lightly across his. His heart was doing something complicated in his chest.
“I hate Stockton,” he muttered. “Every memory I have of that place feels like shit.”
Liam didn’t interrupt.
Jacob exhaled loudly. “I swore I’d never go back.”
Liam just sat there, steady and close, not pushing or asking for anything. Jacob looked at him for a long moment, then back down at their hands. Liam’s fingers were still wrapped around his—he hadn’t let go. His jaw tightened. “Will you come with me?”
Liam nodded once. “Yeah. I’m coming.”
* * *
The sun hung high in the sky as Jacob merged onto the highway, the hum of the tires blending with the thrum of classic rock from the speakers.
Liam sat in the passenger seat beside him, sunglasses on, elbow propped against the window.
One of his legs kept moving absently to the music—unable to sit still, as always.
They hadn’t talked much since leaving LA an hour ago, but Jacob didn’t mind. The silence stretched easy between them as the highway unrolled toward Stockton, the funeral waiting in the morning.
Caroline had offered to come, her face folding into quiet concern the moment he told her his father was dead. He shut it down before it could become a conversation, gently telling her it wasn’t necessary. That she should stay home with the kids. She hadn’t pushed.
Liam, on the other hand, had lied. Something about a location shoot north of the city, and a call time too early to risk LA traffic.
He’d told Emma he’d be home Friday night.
Jacob hadn’t asked how that conversation went.
He only knew Liam was here, in his car, and that made the trip feel slightly more bearable.
He was still trying to figure out why it felt easier to face his father's death with Liam by his side.
They drove with the music turned low, words passing between them now and then as the city gave way to long, flat stretches of road. The scent of coffee lingered from their last stop for gas, fading only when the first signs for Stockton began to appear.
The hotel was one of those polished-but-forgettable places—clean lobby, dim lighting, a polite woman at the front desk who smiled without asking questions when he gave his name and ID.
The suite wasn’t extravagant, but it was functional: a king bed, a small sitting area, and the soft buzz of an air conditioner already running. The kind of room that was meant to be used, not remembered.
Jacob dropped his bag by the dresser and rolled his shoulders, but the tension there didn’t ease. The muscles along his neck and back were locked in a knot that had been there since they crossed the Stockton city limits.
He walked to the window and looked out at the view: flat streets lined with chipped storefronts, chain restaurants scattered between parking lots, and the sky above smeared with orange and the dull gray of exhaust. The city hadn’t changed.
The memories came without invitation, crawling out of the shadows of his mind—sharp-edged, rancid things he couldn’t block out. The stale reek of cigarette smoke, the mildew in the carpet, the chemical tang of cheap perfume failing to cover up the smell of sweat and sex.
There had only been one room in the apartment.
His mother would send him into the hallway and tell him to wait, the cold linoleum seeping through his jeans.
He would keep his eyes fixed on the peeling paint and the rusted ribs of an old radiator, while some stranger grunted behind the closed door.
One in a long line of men, paying for the night—paying for her next high.
Even now he could still hear the creaking of the bed: the slow, rhythmic screech of the frame through the thin walls.
He never asked when he could come back in; he just waited.
He’d learned early that silence was safer.
Eventually, it stopped being shocking. It became nothing at all—just a Tuesday, or Friday, or whatever the hell day she needed to score.
Jacob exhaled sharply through his nose, like he could purge the smell that still clung to memory.
"You okay?" Liam’s voice was quiet behind him.
"I fucking hate this city."
Liam moved closer, the warmth of him reaching Jacob before his voice did. “What do you need?”
Jacob didn’t look away from the window. "You."
“I’m here. You have me.” Liam’s voice was warm—a quiet offering meant to anchor him.
Jacob let out a short breath, still staring out at the city. “Yeah. I know.” He turned around, his fingers flexing at his sides. “That’s the problem.”
Liam tilted his head. “Problem?”
Jacob’s jaw worked. “I need you more than I should, but if I touch you like this… I won’t be careful. I’ll take everything—every last bit of you—until there’s nothing left for anyone else.”
Liam didn’t flinch. "That doesn’t scare me, Jacob.”
Control hung by a thread. “No. Not like this. If I touch you now, I won’t know how to hold back enough to give you what you need.”
Liam’s gaze stayed steady. “You don’t need to hold back. I trust you.”