Chapter 9
Zayne
I shift on the sofa for what seems like the millionth time since I sat down just a few minutes ago, agitation running through my veins with every beat of my heart.
I wish I could blame the unease in my body on the upcoming job. It would be easy to point fingers at not knowing how this next task will end. The paramilitary guys aren't exactly known for having level heads and thinking shit through before they act, but I know better.
My vulnerability last night is what has me on edge.
I know Cerberus knows about Dakota and what happened to her.
I also know that they left such tragic details out of my dossier, but there was a part of me that had hoped that Frankie was aware of my loss.
Knowing now that he didn't have a clue about my loss has only taken a little bit of the sting out of it.
I needed him more than ever when we lost my sister so senselessly, and every day that passed without so much as a call cut deeper and deeper. The silence was deafening in those days following the terrible news, and with each passing second without hearing from him, a bitterness grew inside me.
I presumed I hadn't heard from him because he just didn't care. That the evenings he spent smiling at and laughing with her meant nothing to him. It felt callous and intentional, and I don't know how, after all these years, to accept that he hadn't been told.
It leaves me wondering what he would've done had he known.
Would he have come back home to comfort me? Would he have sent flowers?
Would he have ignored the news?
I don't know the man he’s become enough to even make a prediction, and that is just more salt in a wound that may never heal where he is concerned.
I flip open the laptop on the table in front of me, eager to get this video call done.
I have no idea when Frankie plans to come out of his room. I didn't hear so much as a peep from him after he left the kitchen last night. Not that I expected much from him anyway, but the house is so small that moving around would alert anyone to your presence.
What I can't tolerate is him not showing up and being present when it's required. He knows we have this meeting, and yet we're minutes out from connecting the call, and he's nowhere to be found.
I fight the urge to bang on his door and demand he take an active role in this job.
Not doing what's expected of him can get us both killed, and I've already suffered enough where that damn man is concerned.
I'll be damned if my parents get another call about the loss of a child because he isn't interested in handling business.
If the man isn't going to even show up for a scheduled call, it makes me doubt he can handle being undercover with a group of men who could easily put a bullet in one of our heads and eat dinner with a smile, unfazed by their actions.
I startle when the front door swings open, knowing just how stupid it was for me to even come out of my room without my gun. If I can't keep my shit together for even twenty-four hours, it doesn't bode well for the outcome of this job.
Frankie looks directly at me as he steps inside the house, and I grow even more distracted at the sight of him.
I didn't even know the front door was unlocked or that he had left the house, and that's just another thing to worry about.
Safety first has always been my motto. I know that I can't be successful in my job if I'm hurt or worse, killed.
The house's security isn't great, and I'm sure a toddler could break in if they wanted to. But at least a locked door would alert me and give me a few seconds to respond.
I'm too damn distracted, and half fucking tempted to call Hemlock and let him know that this shit just isn't going to work.
I watch, my mouth hanging open, as the man lifts the bottom hem of his shirt to wipe sweat off his face.
He's got muscles for days, the kind of valleys and ridges you see on the front of fitness magazines. My eyes travel along each and every one, mesmerized and torn between asking him what his exercise routine is and begging for permission to lick them.
I look up, my eyes meeting his, and for half a second, I swear he looks tempted to act.
His tongue skates over his lower lip. I feel the attention right at the nape of my neck, half expecting to hear a whisper of need in my ear, even though we've never kissed or had any level of real intimacy.
Maybe he thought at the time it made what we were doing "less gay," and that's the only way he could accept what was happening between us.
I knew for the longest time that blowjobs didn't make us a couple, but it never kept me from hoping that something more would eventually happen.
I fought the urge a million times to ask him for more, to tell him that what we were doing was chipping away at my sanity and my self-esteem.
However, I knew it would end the second my mouth even formulated those words.
As much as I hated not being his and him not being mine, I also didn't want it to end.
So I kept my mouth shut unless he was filling it with his cock, waiting patiently for him to look at me with anything less than disdain once those interactions were over.
The tears I've cried over this man were endless.
Seeing his bare chest and abdomen now is more than I ever got as a teen. Back then, he didn't even take his clothes off. He simply unzipped his pants enough to give me the access needed to get him off. This sight of him feels like a gift, as if he's offering me something he never has before.
I pull my gaze from his stomach and look up at him once again, a little expectant and hopeful, but instead of the desire in his eyes moments ago, his gaze is blank.
He drops his shirt and clears his throat.
It's only then, with my attention snapped back to reality, that I recall seeing the wounds Ace had talked about the other night, proof that he really was a god when he saved his men.
The pain he must've felt, the life he was so willing to sacrifice to keep them safe.
I fully understand now why he has the nickname he has, and I internally vow to never make fun of it again. He deserves the credit. He has earned it fully, every wound marking his skin proving it.
"Video call in, umm, five minutes," I say rather than hitting him with all the anger I felt earlier for presuming he didn't care about this job.
The evidence of how much he cares about his work mars his skin, and I have to have faith that the dedication he had to his men in the Marine Corps will carry over into everything that he does now with Cerberus.
Instead of taking the handful of minutes he has before the call to clean up, he walks closer and takes a seat right beside me on the small sofa.
The scent of clean sweat mixed with whatever soap he uses fills my nose, and I swear I grow a little dizzy from it. The warmth of his thigh against mine is almost enough to send me over the edge, but I've gotten a slightly better handle on the way I react in the years since we last saw each other.
I don't back down. I don't shift my weight and put a little distance between the two of us, and I know that's what he was expecting when a rumble of a laugh bubbles out of him.
He used more than one form of intimidation tactics when we were teens to get his way, to feel like he had the upper hand, but that shit doesn't work with me any longer.
"You gonna answer that?" he asks after what feels like a millennium of us sitting here next to each other.
I clear my throat, pull in a deep breath, and reach over to open the call coming through.
As expected, the video call shows Hemlock and Casper. What surprises me is that the second screen up shows Kincaid, Tug, and Max have also joined the call.
"Morning," Kincaid says. "Do you guys feel ready?"
We both verbalize our agreement, but I don't feel as deeply as I usually do on the day I start a new job.
"Let's begin," Kincaid says. "Casper?"
"Right," the acknowledged man says. "We got confirmation that there's an impromptu rally happening tomorrow in the Harbor Freight parking lot across from the Sevier County courthouse."
"Fitting," Frankie mutters about the location, and it makes me grin.
"Zayne, since you're more experienced with these kinds of people, we're going to let you be the one to pull the group's attention," Casper continues.
Half of me wishes the rally was today so I can get out of this house, and the other half wishes we could stay here and just hang out.
I scrunch my nose, wondering just when in the hell I got so fucking corny.
"You don't think that's a good plan?"
I pull my eyes from Casper to the man speaking, and suddenly feel like a complete jackass at Kincaid's question.
"No," I answer. "I think it's the perfect plan."
"That look on your face just now says differently," Kincaid challenges. "If we need to switch things up, now is the time to make those decisions."
"It's not the mission," I assure him. "This furniture smells awful."
Frankie grunts his agreement, saving me and not even realizing it.
"Let's continue," Kincaid says.
"We're hoping that this rally is going to be enough to get you at least a sit-down with someone from the group, but I wouldn't draw too much attention to yourself," Casper says. "As you know, this can go sideways quickly. It's a fine line."
Casper continues, explaining details that I know are for Frankie's sake because I've done this kind of shit more times than I can count. What frustrates me is when my name is called because I've zoned out.
Frustration coils itself around me, and I swear my cheeks heat with embarrassment.
"Zayne? You good?" Kincaid asks once again.
"Yes, sir," I answer, clearing my throat and sitting up a little straighter.
"You're ready for all of this?"
"I am," I answer, hoping I appear more confident than I feel.
When the call is over, I find myself watching Frankie as he stands and walks away without so much as a word.
I guess I should be grateful he didn't question my readiness, too. But maybe he knows that Kincaid's questioning has already shaken my confidence.
It's not that I'm not confident in the job. It's simply that I don't know how to be the man I've become while standing next to the man from my past, the one I never got over.
It's going to be the biggest challenge of my life.