“Recovery sucks,” he said, and Cash didn’t have to fake cringing back. He’d left, and they both knew it. Glen had been about to go into surgery for that shoulder—for an injury he’d gotten while he’d been following Cash around in an earthquake zone—and Cash had left.
“I… I talked to Clive, you know,” Cash told him. “Made sure you got out of surgery okay. Made sure you got home.”
“That was real fuckin’ sweet of you. Did you give him a location for your own damned self?”
Cash looked away.
“I’ll go get you some clothes. I think Spencer’s last lay left something—he was about your size.”
“What happened to Damien?” Cash remembered Glen’s friend—the one he’d been so terribly worried about—and how he’d shown up and bailed them both out of the fire. Stunningly beautiful, he’d had Glen Echo’s hero’s swagger, and Cash had thought at the time that it was a shame Glen and Damien hadn’t been a couple.
They were both strong enough not to need sunglasses to shade their eyes from the glare of hanging out with gods.
“He’s living in Napa with my brother,” Glen said, and then he disappeared down the hallway, knocking courteously on the second bedroom door to his left.
Oh. That… that was sort of stupendous, actually. Preston had been special. Cash hadn’t had a lot of experience with people on the autism spectrum, but Preston’s very singular mind had been inescapable.
As had his compassion.
Cash had been afraid for him, afraid a hero like Damien would hurt him, wouldn’t appreciate someone not similarly gifted.
Wrong. Wrong again. Damien had apparently seen Preston’s gifts for the blessings they were. Cash wondered if he could ever trust in someone like that.
Glen came back, a pair of boxers, sweats, and a T-shirt in Cash’s size crumpled in his hands. “They’re clean,” he said. “You go shower. I’ll warm something up to eat.”
Cash went and gave in to temptation, allowing the hot water to sluice away some of his worry, some of his stress about coming here. Brielle was alive—he had to remind himself of that. He’d found her: he knew her situation. He was coming to Glen for help.
(And forgiveness.)
He ignored that little voice. He’d found Glen, tracked him down, as soon as he realized he couldn’t get Brielle away from Tranquilo Paz all by himself. He’d learned something, he hoped, from his and Glen’s adventures in Nayarit, and part of what he’d learned was that he didn’t know everything. He needed Glen’s expertise, his military knowhow, his resources.
(And forgiveness.)
Glen knew people—Damien, Preston—they both had skills he could use. And, a little part of him admitted, he’d liked Preston and Damien. As much as he’d dreamed about seeing Glen again, Glen’s family had appealed to him as well. He’d wanted to reconnect with people who meant something to him.
(And forgiveness.)
And God, what he wouldn’t give for Glen Echo to hold him again, like he had when Cash walked through the door, like there wasn’t Cash’s desertion and a whole lot of pain between them.
But first he had to earn forgiveness.
When he finally dressed and got to the kitchen, Glen had set two places on the table, and a big bowl of hearty homemade stew sat at one.
Glen thrust another one into the microwave, a paper towel on the top, and set the timer as Cash walked in.
“I’m gonna take my shower while that cooks,” he said gruffly, putting a gallon of milk on the table with two glasses. “I’ll be back out in a minute.”
Cash sighed. “You’re… you’re going to have to look at me eventually. You know that, right?”
A muscle twitched in Glen’s jaw, and he swung those bright blue eyes to Cash’s face, holding nothing back.
Hurt, anger, longing—Cash read it all there, and his heart ached in his chest. He opened his mouth and closed it, searching for something, anything, that would make that desertion in a hospital in Jalisco okay.
Glen shook his head and turned toward the hallway. “There’s seconds in the fridge,” he muttered and strode out.
Cash sagged against the table as he went, holding himself up long enough to shove himself in the chair.
Ask for forgiveness. Sure.
Past
IT was funny how Cash remembered their conversation almost word for word. Usually when he was attracted to someone, he was down to fuck and that was it. Even in relationships—the few he’d had—being together always meant sex, but doing things together wasn’t in his repertoire.
He’d always had Brielle to understand him. A lover didn’t have to do any heavy lifting.
But the handsome pilot who had wiped the floor with half the badasses in Nayarit was surprisingly easy to talk to.
Sardonic, sharp, and surprisingly kind, he listened to Cash’s story about Brielle with those stunning eyes intent on Cash’s face. He asked questions, pulled out information Cash hadn’t realized he had, and dropped the occasional zinger while he was doing it.
Sort of an asshole? Yes. But never once had he threatened Cash with the wrath of the wronged at poker—and he could have. Never once had he threatened bodily punishment or bodily restraint—and given how much his friend had invested in Cash’s ass, he probably had the right.
He’d merely sat there and talked quietly, ears alert for the steadily dissipating mob outside—and responded to Cash’s rabidly escalating come-ons with “I’m too old for you, kid.”
And then he’d made that promise, and Cash had wanted to cry. God, he’d been so worried—he’d contacted Brielle’s parents when her drug use had started getting out of hand and had gotten nothing beyond “She’s an adult, and she’ll make her own decisions.” He’d contacted Clive in the bitter hope that Clive could help him, and Clive had promised her rehab if Cash could get her there. But Clive didn’t have an emotional connection to her—Cash had that, and he was damned if he could find the words or the conviction to get her to commit to something that didn’t promise to ease the loneliness that had haunted her since they’d been friends in high school.
Just for once to have some help—even the illusion of help.
Cash didn’t care if Glen Echo was as old as Methuselah. That promise, the way he listened, his general badassery—all of it would have given Cash a boner without the whole handsome rogue thing and the weaponized eyes.
“I can make promises too,” Cash whispered, leaning closer. He smiled mockingly when Glen scooted away.
“Kid—”
“Twenty-five, old man. Not a kid. Not a virgin. You’re not my first hookup, trust me.”
Glen swallowed and then licked his lips. “Doesn’t put us on an even playing field, Cash. Not even close.”
But Cash had him—knew it with that lick of the lips. Glen wanted him, principles be damned.
“Why don’t you kiss me and see what game we’re playing?” Cash said archly.
Glen shook his head grimly and went to push himself up, and Cash knew right then and there that he’d regret it if he let this one slip away.
Cash scrambled to his feet and stopped him with a hand on his chest.