Chapter 11
Vaughn
He kissed my temple. Whispered work like an apology.
Slipped out of bed so carefully you'd think I was made of something breakable, and I lay there with my eyes closed and his pillow against my chest and the vanilla-sugar smell of him fading from the sheets, and I let him go because he needed to go and because holding on too tight is the fastest way to make Robin run.
Downstairs, Ash is waiting.
Not in an ambush way — in a leaning-against-the-counter-with-two-coffees way. He's dressed. Boots on. Keys in hand. The particular readiness of a man who's been awake since before the sun and has already run out of things to do in his own house.
"Range?" he says. One word. Like he's offering me the weather.
I stop in the kitchen doorway. Yesterday's clothes, bite mark barely hidden by my collar, hair loose because Robin's bathroom didn't have a spare tie. I look exactly like a man who spent the night with his little brother, and Ash Martinez is offering me a trip to the shooting range.
"Is this some scary older brother thing? Because I spent the night with Robin and now you're taking me somewhere with guns?"
Ash laughs. A real one — short, sharp, the kind that sounds rusty from disuse. "Vaughn. Of all the men I know my brother has had sex with, you're the only one I don't completely despise."
"That's... touching."
"I'm going to the range because I go to the range. I'm inviting you because you're standing in my kitchen and we can get breakfast burritos on the way." He holds out one of the coffees. "You in?"
I take the coffee. "Yeah. I'm in."
The burrito place is a truck parked in a gas station lot off the highway. The kind of place you'd never find unless someone showed you — hand-painted sign, no menu, the woman behind the counter knows Ash by name.
"Dos de asada, Maria. And whatever he wants."
"Same," I say, because Ash has better taste in food than anyone except his brother.
We eat at a picnic bench around the side, bikes ticking as they cool. The burritos are enormous and perfect — crispy tortilla, tender beef, a green salsa that clears your sinuses. Ash eats his in about four bites. Military efficiency. I take my time.
Ash wipes his hands on a napkin. "Robin's happier than I've seen him in a long time. That's you."
"That's not just me."
"It's mostly you." He squints against the morning light. "He's been performing happy for years. This is different. The humming. The baking. The fact that he talks about you when he doesn't realize he's doing it." He pauses. "His boss noticed too."
I looked up at him. "What do you mean?"
"Robin came home last week singing. Actual singing, in the kitchen, making something with chocolate.
I haven't heard him sing since he was a teenager.
" Ash turns the coffee cup in his hands.
"Next morning he left for work at four and came back at six looking like someone scraped him hollow.
Wouldn't talk about it. Made dinner, smiled, went to bed early. "
"Gordon."
"Gordon." Ash's voice goes flat. "Robin won't tell you how bad it is. He'll tell you it's fine, it's the industry, it's normal. It's not."
"I know it's not."
"You know some of it. You don't know all of it.
" He doesn't elaborate. Doesn't have to — the way he says it tells me Ash has been watching this longer than I have, has been cataloging the same data points, has been waiting for someone else to see what he sees.
"Our mother stayed with our father for twenty years.
He screamed. He cheated. He made her feel like she couldn't survive without him.
They were honestly terrible to each other, but he watched her be broken down.
And she stayed because she believed our dad. "
I set down my burrito. "You think Robin's doing the same thing."
"I think Robin learned from the best. Perform fine.
Endure the bad. Tell yourself it's normal because admitting it's not means admitting you chose to stay.
" Ash looks at me. "He's not going to tell you.
Not yet. Maybe not for a while. Don't push him on it — he'll shut down completely. But don't stop watching either."
"I never stopped."
"I know. That's why you're eating burritos on this bench instead of getting the shotgun talk." The ghost of a smile. "Just — be patient. And when it breaks, because it will break, be there."
"I will."
"Good." He finishes his coffee. Crushes the cup. "Now let's go shoot things. I need to work off some energy."
Delgado's Range is in the industrial area on the edge of town — long low concrete building, gravel lot, faded sign. Ash has been coming here since he was barely tall enough to see over the counter.
The smell hits me before we're through the door. Lion. Different pride, older male, territory soaked into the walls. I stop short, instincts prickling.
The owner — sixties, graying ponytail, weathered face — looks up from the counter and studies me with the calm assessment of a lion who's held this ground for decades.
"One of Knox's," he says. Not a question.
"Yes, sir."
"Good to see one of his boys here again. Jason was in with Ash a while back." He nods, something warm and territorial at once — professional courtesy between prides. "Lane six is open. Welcome."
Ash is already heading back like he owns the place. I follow, the old lion's gaze on my back until we round the corner.
"You could have warned me," I say.
"About Delgado? He's harmless. Known him my whole life. Didn't even know he was a shifter until Jason came here and they clocked each other." Ash shrugs. "He likes Knox's pride. You're fine."
The range is louder than I expected, even with the ear protection Ash hands me. He moves through the space like it's his living room — checking chambers, setting up targets, handling firearms with military precision. This is his element the way the garage is mine.
"Ever shot before?" he asks.
"Not really. It's not something we do."
"Lions and guns." He almost smiles. "Jason said the same thing. Come on, I'll show you the basics."
He's a good teacher — patient, specific, correcting my grip and stance without making it feel like criticism. I'm terrible. The grouping is everywhere, my hands aren't built for this kind of precision, and the recoil is a full-body surprise every time.
"Breathe out on the squeeze," Ash says. "Don't fight the recoil, just let it happen."
I adjust. The next few shots are closer together. Not good, but closer.
"Better," Ash says, which from him is practically a standing ovation.
We shoot for an hour. I don't improve much, but the rhythm of it is good — the focus, the repetition, the way it empties your head of everything except the next shot. I can see why Ash comes here. Not for the violence of it. For the silence it creates inside.
Back at the bar, Ash pulls off his helmet and says, "Jason's probably told the entire pride by now."
"Told them what?"
"That you stayed at Robin's. Jason can't keep a secret to save his life. It's his worst quality." He says this with open affection. "Expect commentary."
He's right.
Jason is in the garage when we pull in, and he starts grinning before I'm off the bike. He must have come from Ash's this morning, found the house empty, put it together.
"Don't," I say.
"I haven't said anything."
"Your face is saying everything."
He follows me into the garage, pulling up a stool, settling in. "So. You and Robin."
"Me and Robin."
"Are you together? Did you define it? Are you his boyfriend?"
"We're — something."
"Something." His eyes go soft. "That's the most romantic thing you've ever said."
Silas appears from his booth, book in hand. Takes one look at me, one look at Jason's face, and says, "Finally."
"The entire pride has a pool going," Silas adds. "I owe Ezra twenty dollars."
"You bet against me?"
"I didn't think you'd figure it out this decade." He retreats to his corner, satisfied.
Ezra materializes from wherever Ezra goes when he's not visible. Holds out his hand to Silas without a word. Silas ignores him. Ezra nods at me once — his version of a standing ovation — and disappears.
Jason is still on his stool, chin in his hands. "Have you texted him?"
"Why would I — he's at work."
"Send a good morning text. Let him know you're thinking about him."
I pull out my phone. Stare at it.
Thanks for last night — too hookup. Missing you — too intense.
Hope your morning's going well. Last night was perfect.
Simple. True. I hit send before my brain can interfere.
"Look at him," Jason says to no one. "Sending his boyfriend good morning texts."
"He's not my—" I stop. "We didn't define it."
"You stayed the night, Vaughn. You came back after leaving and held him all night. You're sending good morning texts. He's your boyfriend."
I don't argue. I go back to my workbench and pick up a wrench and try not to check my phone every five minutes.
I check it every three.
Ash's voice in my head: When it breaks, be there.
I will.
Chapter 11
Robin
It's been a week since Vaughn stayed the night and I still don't know how to be someone's boyfriend.
Not that we've used that word. We haven't defined anything, which is fine, which is exactly what I prefer, which is why I've changed the subject every time Toby asks "so what are you guys?
" Because defining it makes it real and real things can break and I've never been particularly good with fragile.
But Vaughn is at Ash's house three nights out of five now, sleeping in my bed, and the other nights I'm at the bar until closing and he walks me to the Audi and kisses me against the driver's side door like he's trying to memorize the shape of my mouth. So. Boyfriend. Probably.
Wednesday morning. Gordon's kitchen. 5 AM.
I'm piping petit fours for a gallery opening — two hundred and forty of them, each one requiring a glaze coat, a fondant flower, and a steady hand — and I'm thinking about last night. Vaughn's hands, Vaughn's mouth, the sound he makes when I—
"Martinez!"