9. Cole
NINE
Cole
Finn fell asleep clutching Seb’s mitt. When Morgan transferred him to bed, Finn looped his arms around his neck, filling me with loss and longing for what shouldn’t be, what will never be.
Seb should be here. Not me.
I shouldn’t have come tonight, and I definitely shouldn’t have stayed, but the kid is impossible to say no to, especially when Morgan looks so sad and Shay is taking care of my man the way I should be.
I’m such a selfish bastard.
Being here feels wrong, and I don’t just mean sharing the guest room at my dead brother’s house with my estranged husband. Being alive feels wrong. If I had died, I wouldn’t be in pain, and Morgan would have already moved on, and Finn wouldn’t have lost both parents.
Morgan’s cologne simmers in the small guest room. It’s my fault he’s crammed in here. I should tell him to come get his stuff from the loft, give him the closure he deserves, but if he moves out completely, then I’ll have to confront the reality that we’re over.
His laptop is shut on the small desk by the window. I’m too afraid to snoop. Is he researching divorce attorneys? Poring over our finances since I’ve neglected all financial obligations as much as I’ve neglected him?
I stub my toe on a dumbbell under the bed. “Fuck.”
There’s a book on Morgan’s bedside table with a bunch of sticky notes stuffed in it. On the cover, one larger hand holds a smaller one.
“Hurt, Not Broken,” I mumble and flip it over. It’s a book on parenting kids who have suffered immense trauma.
Another reason why I shouldn’t have come at all. Why come around again only so Finn can lose me when I leave?
Morgan slips inside and closes the door softly. “I wasn’t sure you’d still be here when I got back,” he whispers, eying me warily, like he’s not sure if I’m going to rake my nails down his back or rake him over the coals.
“Me neither.”
He laughs and shuffles from one foot to the other, then fluffs the pillows on his side of the bed.
I groan. “You’re not preparing for round two, are you?”
“No more pillow fights. I promise. Just nervous, I guess.”
Bering Sea fishermen don’t get nervous. That’s why it’s so hard to live on land. There’s no dopamine here. I used to rile Morgan up so he could fuck me hard enough to scare me.
I turn away and pull off my hoodie. Lawrence didn’t give me enough time to change into something else, and Morgan hasn’t commented on it, but he has to recognize it.
“Thank you for coming. Finn kept looking for you every time the door opened.”
My hands pause on my joggers. “Poor kid’s unlucky he has a shithead for an uncle.”
“I didn’t tell you so you’d feel bad. I want you to see how much love you have, how much Finn needs you.”
I swing back toward him. “The last thing Finn needs is…”
The sight of Morgan wearing nothing but boxer briefs steals my speech.
Muscles ripple along his long swimmer’s body. His thighs are thicker than I remember, and his six-pack is more defined. He must be putting all that heartache in at the gym. My gaze dips to the trail of dark hair disappearing inside his waistband, the outline of his generous cock behind blue fabric.
Fuck, I mouth.
Heat floods my body. My cock thickens so fast I feel dizzy. It’s impossible not to be turned on by him. He’s the only man I’ve kissed, the only man I’ve slept with. I don’t want anyone else.
Aquamarine eyes smolder back at me, thick lashes casting shadows on his cheeks as his gaze drifts down my body. He rakes his teeth over his bottom lip, plucking every hair on my body to attention. I swallow hard and fist my hands, willing my cock to soften.
He smirks. “You look good too, Sunshine.”
“I’m tired.” I drop my joggers, and crawl under the covers, then roll onto my good side, away from him. The soft cotton sheets smell like him, but they don’t feel like ours. I hate myself for taking his home from him.
“I’m tired too,” Morgan says. “So tired of living apart, of missing you. I want you. I know you want me too.”
I want him more than I’ve ever wanted anything. I’m not just saying that. I’ve almost drowned, so I actually know what I’m talking about. I want my husband back more than I wanted air when my vision turned black.
It’s never been about not wanting him.
Morgan sighs and turns off the light. The bed dips, and his warmth radiates along my back as he sidles up behind me without touching me, making him even more difficult to resist.
In the dark silence, there’s nothing to distract me from the pain in my lower back.
I clench my hands until my fingernails bite into my palms and take short, shallow breaths to avoid stretching my back muscles.
I’m going to pay for that pillow fight, for the game of catch, for Lawrence throwing me into his truck and forcing me into the middle seat with Javi on the other side.
“I know you’re hurting.” Morgan palms my right hip.
Commercial fishing has a big culture of working through pain without complaint, but I’ve never been able to hide my pain from him. That’s part of why I kicked him out.
“I can feel your muscles spasming,” he says.
“I’m fine.”
“Don’t lie to me.” He squeezes my hip.
I suck in a sharp breath as pain cascades down my leg.
He relaxes his hand. “Shit. Sorry.”
“It’s okay.” There’s no limit to the pain I’m willing to withstand to feel his touch.
“Does it always hurt this much?”
It takes me a few seconds to realize he’s not talking about my broken heart. “Sometimes it’s a little worse, like tonight, but it’s always there.”
He clicks his tongue. “Do you want me to try working on you? It doesn’t have to mean anything.”
I don’t protest. I don’t nod either. I want him to choose this so I don’t feel like I’m taking advantage of his kindness.
“Cole?”
“Yeah, okay,” I whisper. “I mean, if you want to.”
“I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t want to.”
His hands move, slowly at first, massaging around my hip and lower back before focusing on my hamstrings and glutes, increasing the pressure with each pass, massaging at a punishing depth. I gnash my teeth and curl my toes until my calves burn.
“Are you still taking oxycodone?”
“I weaned myself off and stick to over-the-counter stuff.” I suppress the urge to cry out as he attacks a knot strangling my sciatic nerve. “Fuck,” I hiss.
“Sorry.” The pain ebbs away as he eases into a gentle massage. “You didn’t pack any pills with you?”
“To a kidnapping? No. Stop interrogating me.”
Morgan’s parents overdosed on a bad batch of heroin when he was a kid.
After my dad died, Lawrence and I got shit-faced one night.
When I got home, Morgan wasn’t angry; he was distraught.
He told me addiction was a hard limit, and he couldn’t be with me if I continued down that path.
The threat of losing him was enough to scare me into sobriety, but the truth is, I love him too much to put him through the pain of loving an addict.
“I’m not interrogating. I asked because I don’t want you to be in pain.” He massages deeper again. “What about physical therapy?”
“It makes it worse.”
He clicks his tongue. “And pelvic PT?”
I laugh bitterly. “What do you think?”
The only reason I ever went was because he made me. My therapist was professional and gentle, but pelvic PT consisted of uncomfortable and humiliating internal and external work around my groin.
“Do you want me to try?” He clears his throat. “Just the outside.”
I nod in the darkness.
“Okay.” He waits a few more seconds, then gently repositions my knee closer to my chest to grant him more access.
He knows what he’s doing. My therapist taught him how to help me at home when I threw a fit and threatened to quit mid-appointment.
“Tell me when to stop, and I will.”
“Okay.”
I relax a little as he lightly massages my sacrum and around my perineum. He’s not tackling tension yet; he’s assessing me.
“You’re so tight back here,” he murmurs.
“Wow. Buy a guy a drink first.”
“Sorry.” He laughs. “Take a deep breath with me.”
We both inhale deeply as he focuses steady pressure on every tight spot until I’ve lost any shred of humor.
“Keep breathing. I’m almost done. You can hurt for me a little longer, can’t you?”
He’s not fighting fair with that last line, but words are beyond me. I don’t know how much more pain I can take—body, mind, heart—self-inflicted or not.
Finally, the knot relaxes, and my pain dissipates. Endorphins flood my bloodstream in a heady mix that’s almost as good as sex.
He eases my knee back down. “Less pain?”
“Mmhm. I feel like a wrung-out sponge.”
He doesn’t laugh this time. “If you let me do this regularly again, it won’t hurt as much.”
“I know.”
I didn’t take the easy way out when I ended things between us. Opiates and muscle relaxers dull my pain, but I haven’t had a pain-free day since Morgan left.
“Can I hold you?” he asks.
I can’t answer that without leading him on, but he doesn’t press me to answer. He takes what we both need and spoons me from behind, wrapping me in everything that’s familiar and comforting and home.
Morgan drifts into sleep not long after, lips still pressed to the back of my neck where he kissed me.
The peace of painlessness and his presence should have ushered me off to sleep with him, but I stay awake, lambasting myself for hurting him, for hurting Finn, for causing Seb’s death.
I don’t deserve peace. Pain is my penance. I can’t have this. I can’t have them.