Chapter Fifteen
Rand
“Huh,” Rand muttered as the bathroom door slammed shut. The rings that attached the shower curtain to the metal rod screamed in protest followed by a very unmanly shriek, and he prayed Rory couldn’t hear him cackling. He couldn’t help it; the agent was uncharacteristically edgy. In fact, he’d seemed anxious since they’d left Dallas, and Rand really couldn’t blame him. They were about to confront the man that had hurt Shannon in unspeakable ways, the man that had preyed on a confused and inexperienced teenager that only wanted to be loved. Bruce Pearson was a sadist and, if their suspicions were validated, he had murdered several innocent men. Hell, just thinking back to the night Shannon had told them about the cruelty he’d lived with for years caused a spike in Rand’s blood pressure. Two decades spent either in the military or working law enforcement and Rand had seen depravity the likes of which they made movies about. But Pearson, well, he was lecherous and vile and a different kind of evil that Rand had no experience with. And while Shannon carried the scars from his time with Pearson inside and out, he’d worked hard not to let the abuse drown him or allow it to define who he was.
An image of Shannon at the beach the previous summer, laughing at something Taylor said, his brilliant blue eyes sparkling in the midday sun, those perfect, pert lips upturned at the corners, flashed through his mind. He’d been drawn to the young man from the moment he saw him. Tall and thin, with pale blond hair and a smile that could light up the night sky, Shannon was the very definition of ethereal. Were he thirty pounds heavier with longer hair, he could have passed for the hot-as-hell elf with the bow and arrow in the Lord of the Rings movies. More than once he’d unknowingly commanded Rand’s attention, without even trying. “Get your shit together, Davis. He will never be yours, because he belongs to the man in the shower.” Instantly the blond in his head was replaced with a shorter, black-haired, green-eyed, striking FBI agent. Nostrils flaring, he closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths, pushing thoughts of a naked, wet, and slippery Rory just on the other side of the door, out of his mind. “Jesus, I need to get laid.” Truth be told, he was inexplicably drawn to both of them.
Snatching the tie off the back of the chair, he finished getting dressed and was sliding his feet into the brown Freeman Henley Chukka Boots he loved when Rory stepped out of the bathroom. Rand barely managed to stifle the groan at the sight before him. Still slightly damp with nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist—small beads of water dripping from the ends of his hair, landing on his olive-colored skin and slowly trailing down his back, disappearing beneath the white cloth—Rory looked fucking edible. Had he been a weaker man, Rand would have stood, stalked over, and snatched the towel away so he could squeeze what he was certain would be perfectly rounded ass cheeks. Then he’d spin the annoyingly sexy man around, lift him, sit him on the counter and drop to his knees to…
“Earth to Rand.” He blinked when Rory snapped his fingers inches away from his face.
Growling, partly because his fucking hormones had gone haywire, and partly because, well, Rory was goddamned aggravating, he shoved Rory’s hand away. “What?”
“I asked what time we needed to meet Gonzales in the lobby. Did she say last night, or do I need to call her?” Oh, holy hell. Somewhere between floating out of the bathroom like a dementor and snapping at him, Rory had gotten partially dressed. He stood mere inches from Rand, wearing his slacks and a white dress shirt, the top two buttons open, a slight dusting of chest hair visible around the neckline.
Taking a few steps back and clearing his throat, Rand finally remembered how to speak. “Yeah, um…nine.”
Rory stood and glared at him for a moment, his emerald gaze full of emotions Rand couldn’t quite place. Shaking his head, he turned and walked back over to the tiny closet opposite the bathroom, mumbling something Rand couldn’t make out. Wanting—no, needing to get the fuck out of the small, confined space of their motel room before he did or said something he might regret, he grabbed his coat and shrugged it on before jerking the door open. “Need coffee. See you in the lobby.” He tossed the words over his shoulder as he left the room.
The elevator took far too long to arrive. Stepping inside, he closed his eyes and exhaled, trying to push any thoughts of the happy couple out of his head. Lord, give me strength. It’s Taylor’s fault, really it is, putting his goddamn romance-novel ideas in my head. Rory loves Shannon and Shannon loves Rory. They are in a committed relationship, and you are an idiot. Why the fuck do they have to be so sexy and alluring?
“God…damn, I need a cigarette,” he growled. He hadn’t smoked since he was in Iraq, quitting cold turkey when he came back stateside, but the terrible twosome currently trampling around in his head would drive a person to drink. When the elevator dinged, doors sliding open in the boisterous lobby, he damn near ran right over Gonzales.
“Whoa, where’s the fire, Davis?” Connie joked.
Fast on his feet, he thought up a lie and thought it up quick. “Gotta return a call to work. It’s important—I’ll meet you guys out front.” She moved aside and agreed to wait for Rory, grab coffee, and pull the rental car around while he took care of business.
There was a chill in the air and a slight breeze that was welcome. A few minutes in the sun and fresh air and he was able to clear his mind. Yes, he was attracted to Shannon and Rory, but then he was also attracted to the beefy guy at the gym and the adorable geek that worked in IT at the station back in Dallas. The difference was, he hadn’t seen either of those men vulnerable and broken as he’d seen Shannon. Or nearly naked and pissed off, lines blurring like with Rory that morning. He didn’t know them, had not established rapport and, oddly enough, a friendship with those strangers as he had with Rory and Shannon. And as their friend, he had to respect their relationship and establish boundaries, even if the barriers were metaphorical.
His phone vibrated in his pocket and he pulled it out, seeing a missed call from Claire. Listening to her message, Rand couldn’t help but feel lighter, his sister ranting about the state she found his apartment in when she went to check his mail and water the plants. “For fuck’s sake big brother, you’re a grown-ass man. Don’t you know what this contraption in your kitchen that shoots hot water all over the sink full of dirty dishes is used for? You need a man—no, you need a fucking maid. If it didn’t reek in here, I’d leave it—but then the CDC might consider this a hazardous waste site. And cockroaches, Rand. You don’t want those nasty little fuckers in here. They’ll be the only thing that survives the apocalypse: cockroaches and Spam!” He was laughing so hard he teared up. God, he loved his sister. She could always lighten the mood and make him laugh. Little Miss OCD with her canned goods arranged in the pantry alphabetically had gotten all the sanitary genes in their pool. Rand, he was a slob and he owned it. And why pay for a maid when his little sister showed up on his doorstep weekly, bitching while she worked, but cleaning nonetheless?
Disconnecting and wiping his eyes, he grinned and waved at Rory and Connie as they pulled up beside him. Opening the door, he slid into the back seat, taking the steaming cup of coffee Rory passed back to him with a thank-you. Mind cleared, head in the game, he was ready to roll right over one heartless attorney. “Let’s do this.”