“Another butterfly tattoo up front.”

It was déjà vu all over again.

Gage pushed away his lunch and stared up at his twin. Twenty years ago, they’d been each other’s mirror image: same dark hair cropped close to their skulls; same jeans and T-shirt combo that might as well have had “hand me down” scrawled on the tags. Their faces were clean-shaven, and even their father’d had a problem distinguishing them.

Then Ben Harvey had died on the job, and Owen went on a bender.

He’d racked up two arrests within three months, thanks to a bad habit of brawling at a local motorcycle club. No one had bailed Owen out. Own your shit, was the lifelong motto their father had instilled in his two sons. Owen had fucked up, and that was on him.

For years, Gage and Owen had stayed on the straight and narrow. For years, they’d focused on the future—the two of them working side by side for the NOPD, just like their dad, and the two generations before Ben.

Protecting the city was in their blood.

Nowadays, it was just in Gage’s.

At least Owen had ditched the bad attitude a few years ago. Now the bastard was just moody as hell and constantly on Gage’s case about working for Inked on a full-time basis.

“I’m not taking this one,” he muttered. “Last time I was in, I reached my butterfly quota.”

“From what I’ve seen online, that one worked out in your favor.”

Owen was talking about Lizzie. Lizzie, who Gage couldn’t shove from his thoughts no matter how hard he tried. Their trip to the Barataria Preserve four days ago had been a shit-show. At the same time, it’d been the sort of day Gage couldn’t remember having with anyone else.

Ridiculous.

Funny.

Erotic.

He hadn’t meant to land them in the bayou, but he’d felt no guilt whatsoever once she fell into his lap, squirming and wet and straddling the line of ticked-off and amused.

“Are you dating her?”

Gage thrust a hand through his hair, hating that age-old question. “Nah, it’s not like that.”

Owen folded his arms across his chest, looking like a New Orleanian lumberjack: ripped jeans; flannelled shirt, despite the fact that it was balls-swelteringly hot outside; a beard that could rival one of those Hemsworth brothers’. “What’s it like then?”

“Jesus. Do you see me digging around and asking you about what’s-her-name?”

Black eyes cooled. “We’re not talking about Savannah, dude. She’s not up for discussion.”

Gage clasped his hands behind his neck. “Exactly. You don’t want to talk about Savannah. I don’t want to talk about Lizzie, especially when there’s nothing to discuss. I’m helping her out with something.”

The moody vibe left Owen’s expression and was replaced with something worse: concern. “When she came in the other day, I couldn’t help but think she reminded me of—”

“Don’t.”

The word was ripped from Gage’s heart—or whatever was left of it. He wasn’t going to . . . He shook his head, trying to dislodge the memories. No matter that fourteen years had passed, the wound still burned whenever he thought of it. Her. The lowest moment in his life when the person who’d pledged to have his back for the rest of their lives but had walked away instead.

Just like that.

Gage stared down at his hands, curling and unfurling his fists so that he could do something more than just wonder for how many more years he’d think of her and feel gutted. Love had fled the scene early on, because a person didn’t get fucked over like Gage had and still cling to ridiculous hopes.

But the cut of the blade? The realization that you couldn’t count on anyone but yourself, not even your own flesh and blood? Yeah, he’d learned that lesson real quick.

He was fortunate that the guys in his unit were all good men who came to work ready to put their lives on the line.

That sort of behavior limited the chance for betrayal.

Everyone wanted to go home. Everyone wanted to return to their families.

Even if all Gage had nowadays was Owen, and he and Owen hadn’t been tight—not like they used to be—since the time of their father’s passing.

One pregnancy.

Two sons.

Two separate life courses.

Gage was pretty sure that there was a shitty country song out there with that exact verse.

Hell, it was telling that he’d rather tat up a twenty-something with a butterfly than remain a prisoner to his own thoughts.

Casting one glance at his half-eaten lunch, Gage drew in a deep breath and stood. He was doing this, working himself to exhaustion, for his brother. His best friend, whatever that meant nowadays.

Owen clapped a hand to Gage’s shoulder, halting his trajectory to the door. “C’mon, man, don’t close up on me like that.”

Pot meet kettle. Gage shrugged off his brother’s hand. “I’m not holding anything back. Lizzie and I aren’t anything. Like I said, I’m helping her out with something. That’s it.” Black clashed with black as their gazes met. “Don’t bring up Michelle again. That shit belongs exactly where I left it—in the past.”

His twin gave a small shake of his head. “I’m worried about you, Gage. If you’re not out in the field, you’re here. And if you’re not here, then you’re—”

Yeah, he didn’t need for Owen to finish that sentence. He knew exactly where he spent his extra time, and Owen was wrong. They’d been over this before, more times than he could count. “I’m doing good,” he said in a low voice, “I’m doing what I can to make a difference.”

“I know. I get that, but . . .” Owen scrubbed a hand over his bearded jaw. “It doesn’t matter what I say, does it? You’re going to keep on going, aren’t you? Working here, working for the NOPD, running the—”

A knock at the door cut off Owen as Jordan, the parlor’s other tattoo artist, poked his head in. “Y’all good? I can grab the lady waiting at the front, if you want.”

Owen’s shoulders rose and then fell. “Yeah, just take her. Gage has got to be somewhere.”

With a two-fingered salute, Jordan disappeared, and the sound of his heavy boots echoing against the tiled floor faded into silence.

Leaving Gage and his twin alone.

Hell, it wasn’t supposed to be this awkward.

It hadn’t always been this awkward.

“You should have just let me take the patron,” Gage muttered, shoving his fingers into the pockets of his jeans. “I give you shit over the butterflies because I know it gets under your skin, but I would never leave you hanging. You know that.”

“Yeah, I know.” There was a long pause before Owen added, “Let’s be real, man, your butterflies are getting sloppy. Kindergarten-level shit.”

And just like that, they were good again.

On the surface, at least.

For right now, it was enough.