Chapter Twenty-One
Donovan
I awoke warm—but not uncomfortably so.
Tyson remained plastered to my back.
Somehow, in the night, Hamish had turned in his sleep. He now snuggled up against me with his perfect ass resting against my cock.
Said cock was very happy about the situation.
Weak dawn light filtered through the blinds, meaning it must be close to eight o’clock. My bladder reminded me we’d gone to bed nearly ten hours ago.
So…disturb Tyson or Hamish?
Neither option appealed, but wetting the bed would be much worse.
As if in answer to an unsaid prayer, Tyson shifted, kissed my shoulder blade, then slowly pulled back.
I extricated myself from Hamish and gently rolled off the bed to follow.
Hamish curled into a ball and buried his face under the blanket.
Tyson chuckled, wrapped an arm around me from behind, and pressed another kiss to my shoulder. “You take the master bathroom, and I’ll head to the spare. Meet you in the kitchen?”
“I thought we could crawl back into bed and have our wicked way with him.”
“You did a number on him last night—physically and emotionally. Let the boy rest.”
“Boy?” I snickered. “He’s older than both of us.”
“Not by much. And yeah, boy might be insensitive. How’s former virgin?”
“Only marginally better.” I glanced over. “You think I went too hard?”
Tyson’s snicker was at the same decibel as our whispers. “No. I think he rode you just right. But he’s liable to be sore. For you, or for me, he’d be willing to go again. I say he needs rest. He was also pretty restless during the night.”
I rubbed my face. “Last night? God, I was dead to the world.”
“I don’t know if it’s because he’s not used to sharing his bed or, more likely, the whole disciplinary thing.”
“Or he might just be a restless sleeper. My sister—”
Fuck.
I hadn’t meant to say that. Remembering how she used to kick me and leave bruises when we shared a bed was a memory that both soothed and tortured me. We’d been innocent kids. The growing-up part had been the shittiest.
“I didn’t know you had a sister.” Tyson scratched his scalp. “Of course I don’t—”
“Not anymore. I have to piss.” Before he could respond, I headed to the bathroom.
Only as I relieved myself did I realize I should’ve brought my clothes.
Oh well. I brushed my teeth again and borrowed Hamish’s deodorant.
Seriously, coming here without my go bag ranked among the most amateur of mistakes.
I never left home without everything I might need. Guess I was really eager to get here.
After having assured myself I was somewhat acceptable for company, I crept out of the bathroom.
To find Hamish, in his bathrobe, holding my clothes. “I remembered to put them in the dryer. They’re nice and fresh.”
I eyed him. “When did you remember?”
He yawned. “About three.”
I snagged the back of his neck and yanked him in for a hard kiss.
He startled, then settled as I held him against me.
When I finally let him go, I scowled. “Don’t do that again, okay? I would’ve managed.”
“But now you don’t have to.” He clearly attempted to give me a haughty expression.
I suppressed the laugh—but I nearly blew it because, frankly, my heart wasn’t in it. “Get dressed. I’m starving.”
“Do you want leftovers or something fresh? I have eggs, toast, waffles—”
I swatted his ass again as I passed him. “I’m making breakfast. Hurry up.”
By the time I dressed and reached the kitchen, Tyson was there putting on the coffee and he had the kettle on to boil.
I headed to the fridge. “Eggs okay? Or I could make pancakes or oatmeal?”
He shuddered. “I eat oatmeal when I’m on duty. When I’m on break, I’ll happily enjoy anything but.”
“Fair enough.” I scouted Hamish’s fridge. “I can do eggs, bacon, toast, and sliced tomatoes.”
“Aren’t we supposed to, you know, cook for you?”
“That’s what I thought.” Hamish breezed into the kitchen. “I can do it.”
“Everyone get the fuck out.” I might’ve growled that.
Two dumbfounded men stared at me.
“I cook breakfast. It’s what I do. Ask Cole.” I pointed at each of them. “He’s learned not to argue.”
Hamish’s eyes went wide.
“We’ll just leave you to it.” Tyson saluted, grabbed Hamish’s arm, and dragged the poor man out of the kitchen.
“We will?” Hamish’s whisper was way too loud and carried into the kitchen.
“Yeah, you will. I think Julie’s on the breakfast show this hour.” I snagged the carton of eggs.
“On it.” Tyson dragged Hamish over to the couch and pushed him down. Then he grabbed the remote and, before Hamish could utter a word, had the correct station selected and was jacking up the volume.
Ah, a man who knew his way around a remote. A man after my own heart. A man I was coming to care for deeply.
I listened to the hosts ramble on about a boat show going on soon, and then the newscaster went through the day’s headlines.
Nothing I hadn’t heard before—possible transit strike, a missing snowboarder who’d gone out of bounds on Grouse Mountain and had been located, and the city council of one of the suburbs up in arms over some new bylaw proposal.
Yep, I loved my city. Rarely a shooting or stabbing or even many vehicular deaths. Some tragic deaths went unreported, though. But I wouldn’t think about the unhoused, drug addicts, or those feeling the need to take their own lives.
Fuck, Lisa, why? Twenty years on, and I still hadn’t truly accepted it.
She’d spelled her reasons out in the suicide note she’d left for me—but that didn’t get to the burning question of why she hadn’t come to me first. Yes, I’d just been twelve.
Yes, she’d been sixteen and unlikely to understand the trauma she was about to inflict upon her younger beloved brother. Still…
“Hey, Donovan, Julie’s on,” Tyson hollered.
Damn, I’d almost missed it. I moved the pans with both the eggs and bacon to cold burners and headed into the living room.
Julie radiated beauty and goodness. Her emerald-green eyes shone bright and wide as she recounted her adventures in Hollywood.
She gripped her statue tightly as she described how much she loved playing Lyric on Vigilante Justice.
Circumspect about Cole’s recovery, she said only that filming would resume when he felt better and—little shit—she mentioned me and my recovery.
Hamish cast a surreptitious glance over his shoulder. I waved him off. He held my gaze for one moment longer before turning back to the screen.
A photo of Julie and me flashed.
Tyson whistled.
Fucking hell.
“Donovan’s the best fight coach I’ve ever worked with. You know I used to be a competitive gymnast before an injury ended my career.”
The host nodded solemnly.
“Well, getting cast in VJ was absolutely perfect. Donovan lets me use those skills—so I don’t feel like I wasted fifteen years of my life.”
“He sounds like an important man in your life.”
“Oh, he is. Someone I consider a great friend. And I think he’s got someone in his life right now.” She glanced at the camera. “And I wish them all the best.”
Tyson glanced over this time.
Heat crept into my cheeks, and I was damn glad my skin color hid the worst of it. I waved off the interview and headed back to the kitchen, relieved to find neither scrambled eggs nor bacon burned. I put each back on the stove and resumed toasting whole wheat bread.
Hamish entered the kitchen. “Anything I can do to help?”
“Wash and slice tomatoes?” Normally, I could manage everything, but taking the time to watch the interview had put me behind schedule.
“Sure.” No missing the amusement. “So she knows about—”
I cleared my throat. “Well, she was there when I called Tyson to ask him to check on Cole, and she deduced…” I swapped out toasted bread for untoasted and put the warm ones in the oven on a tray.
“And…I might’ve gotten a little tipsy.” Jesus, I did not want to remember the third party. Or had it been the fourth?
“A little tipsy.” Tyson stood at the entrance to the kitchen, languorously leaning against the doorframe.
While Hamish was lithe, Tyson was solid.
Not as solid as me, but still pretty muscular.
He filled out the black sweater perfectly, and those jeans encased his thick thighs and his substantial package admirably. “You’re gawking.”
Swiftly, I moved to stand before him.
I kissed him hard.
Then I returned to dish out the eggs into a glass container. “Set the table?”
“With pleasure.”
Things got a little crowded as Tyson nabbed everything he needed and Hamish finished cutting the tomatoes. By the time I had the bacon resting on paper towels to absorb the grease, everything was done.
Hamish sat and—I swore to God—clapped his hands when I presented the toast, tomato slices, and eggs.
Tyson guffawed. “Tired of oatmeal?”
I cocked my head.
“He eats the shit every day.” Tyson scrunched his nose. “I only eat it when I’m working. And, like, only in the winter.”
Hamish mock glared.
This time, I guffawed.
We didn’t say a word for the first five minutes while we inhaled the food. Both men murmured their thanks, but that was about it.
Tyson had turned off the television, so we sat in silence. I couldn’t even hear the city below. “Good soundproofing?”
Hamish nodded. “Yeah, and Jervis at this end is pretty quiet. I hear garbage trucks and stuff, but the buses are too far away. In the spring and summer, though, I like to open the windows. Not just for fresh air, but because birds sometimes come up this high.”
I glanced to his balcony. “Probably because you have a feeder.”
He shrugged, but I caught the hint of a smile. “Yeah, possibly because of that.”
“Does this building allow pets?”
“Yep. Small dogs and cats. No more than two per unit.”
“You ever consider getting a pet?”
He glanced up. “Yeah, frequently. But with my work and crazy schedule, I’d be nuts to try.”
“Cats are pretty self-sufficient. You could get two, and they’d keep each other company.”