Chapter 11 Connall #2
It would be so easy. He could have Izzy and Eli’s information in hand in under an hour. He could have them under him in—
Fuck.
“I need some coffee.”
“I can’t fucking believe you. Is that it?” His dark eyes are wet, and the last is a whisper. “You’re giving up?”
“I’m not giving up. I’m giving them a chance, B. A chance at a safe life. Surely you can understand that?”
Beau lifts his chin, black eyes glittering in the low light. “I understand that you’re afraid.”
The words themselves are certainly true, but the tone—and his stance— is a challenge, one that makes Connall’s wolf bristle.
Connall tilts his head, not breaking eye contact. For all the years they’d been friends, Beau had never once not offered Connall a degree of deference. Connall had never wanted it—saw them as equals—but they both knew Connall was meant to lead them.
“Pardon me?”
Before Connall can blink, Beau is in his face, thick finger jabbing into Connall’s chest. Each impact is harder than the last until he’s backing Connall up against the trunk of the willow tree.
“You are a fucking coward.” He jabs him again. “What the fuck are you living for?”
Connall doesn’t think about his answer, just lets the words flow out.
“I’m not. I may look alive. Sure feels like I’m living every fucking second of this miserable life. But really living?” Connall laughs, and it sounds horrible, even to him. “I’m only alive on the outside.”
Beau whines, his dark gaze finally overflowing with tears of anger—grief, surely. With a roar, he punches the trunk of the tree not three inches from Connall’s head.
“Hey,” Connall whispers, not daring to look away from his friend. He squeezes the back of Beau’s neck. “I’m okay.”
He’s not placated in the least. Frowning, Beau yanks him in by the front of the shirt.
“Don’t fucking lie to me. I hate it. I hate this. And right this fucking second, I hate you.” He gasps the words, making them both flinch. “I hate you for leaving them.”
His hand drops from the front of his ruined shirt, so Connall can pull him in. Let him rest his forehead on Beau’s broad shoulder. Connall holds him close for as long as Beau needs, and for once, he’s not counting the seconds until he can disengage without hurting his friend’s feelings.
They stand there under the swaying boughs of the weeping willow, holding each other up for Goddess knows how long. Minutes pass—maybe an hour—but the sunset turns the lagoon dark, and the scent of night blows through their little piece of quiet.
It doesn’t ease the ache of the day, but it’s familiar, and a comfort Connall doesn’t deserve.
“Want food?” he whispers, before pressing his lips in a featherlight kiss to his friend’s cheek. A kiss of gratitude and pure affection. So light, it’s almost as if it weren’t there at all.
Beau chuffs a laugh under his breath. Wiping his nose on Connall’s shoulder, he breaks free without a backward glance, on his way to the car.
Dropping into a crouch, Connall dips his fingers back into the dark blue pool. He can see there are fewer carp than he’d imagined before. Five…no, six. All different, and all swirling together in a flowing pattern known only to them.
“Thanks,” he whispers. “I might be back sometime.”
It’s a promise he’d like to keep. Like the one he’d made to his grandfather about those damn birds in Lupine Park. Something to look forward to rather than back.
Jogging to catch up, he snags the dirty towel off the roof of the SUV just as Beau puts the vehicle into gear. He slips into his usual spot, eyes on his friend’s neck tattoo.
Familiar. Normal. Even though he feels anything but.
Lowering the windows to air out the sad scents, Beau merges into traffic.
“I’ll take you home,” he says, and it brooks no argument.
But Beau isn’t the Boss. He says so all the time.
“I’ll go into the office.” Connall can’t bear the thought of slowing down. Giving his mind the chance to obsess over his mates somewhere in Nashville. The pain of separation would have Connall on foot in minutes without the distraction. This time running toward them rather than away.
No. He’ll work and figure out how he’s going to live the next hour, and then he’ll worry about the next. He’s done it before; he can do it again.
His words are met with a resigned sigh, and when Connall checks out the window, he sees that they’re already headed toward the bar, as if his friend had known Connall would say.
“You’re still an idiot.”
“You are grossly unoriginal. Do better,” Connall murmurs, resting his head back against the seat. His fingers find the seat warmer, and even though it’s a tolerable seventy degrees outside, he’s suddenly cold to his bones.
“I’m the fucking OG,” he exclaims, his voice two octaves higher in outrage. “There’s no one more original than me. You…you…you’re not pretty enough to be that stupid.”
“Rude,” Connall mutters, deadpan. “Pretty people can be smart—not that you’d know.”
Beau rolls into the Dunkin’ drive-thru for the second time that day, and for a moment, Connall wishes he could have a do-over. That he’d asked Gideon to meet him at All’s End instead. Then, maybe fate wouldn’t have kicked his ass so hard today.
Rubbing the sore place over his heart, he contemplates forgoing the coffee—not the best idea on a stomach that will not stop rolling over every time his traitorous brain throws up a vision with pink hair and pie-flavored kisses.
Or soft, intelligent eyes, and the sort of determination Connall respects and admires.
Or glowing amber eyes, the scent of expensive cherry smoke, and a drawl that skims Connall’s nerve endings with fire.
“Large, two shots of espresso,” he says. Not his usual order, but Beau doesn’t even raise an eyebrow and orders the same for himself.
“We’ll order food in later,” Beau says, passing him the coffee between the seats.
Connall will not be eating anything for a while, but he nods. “Yeah, sure. Whatever you feel like.”
“You lie, but at least I know it now.”
“Yeah, good thing,” Connall murmurs.
Raising the hot coffee to his nose, he’s distracted by a lingering scent on his sleeve. He can’t even take a sip before he’s dropping the cup into the holder.
He avoids Beau’s knowing gaze in the rearview mirror and presses the sleeve to his nose. The faint trace of lush lime sugar still lingers, overlaid with that luxurious scent of cherry smoke. He wishes he could catch a whiff of black tea with lemon.
And heliotrope.
Maybe he’ll ask Oliver to order some for the office. He’s been smelling them everywhere lately.
They must be in season. Right?