Aw, shit. The tattoo he was supposed to do tomorrow morning.
In the chaos of the day, he’d forgotten to touch base with Jeremy about canceling. And once the guys had arrived, he hadn’t had a chance to talk to him. Jeremy was smart enough to know when to keep his head down and his mouth shut, and after slipping through the apartment in the midst of a tense discussion that had gone suddenly quiet, he’d holed up in his bedroom.
Which was just as well. Much as possible, Rixey wanted to keep his kid brother out of this in case the whole thing went south. No way he was letting any of Merritt’s bullshit rain down on another innocent person, especially not his own blood.
So Jeremy would have to be on a need-to-know.
A click turned off his desk light, plunging the room into darkness. He wasn’t gonna sweat the tattoo. It was the least of the problems he’d have tomorrow. Take a frickin’ number.
On a deep sigh, he sank to the edge of the couch, made quick work of removing his boots and socks, and tugged off his shirt. The action brought to mind Becca’s voice. Take your shirt off.
Her hands had been soothing against his skin, adding a dose of solace to the seizing ache of his side and lower back after Murda’s dirty kidney hit and his little run-in with the counter. Her touch had gentled as she’d examined the area around his scars, like she’d known he hurt there. And she had. She’d known he hadn’t been taking regular breaths, she’d observed his posture and understood what it had meant. They’d known each other but a few days. Either she was a damn good nurse or she could read his body and his tells already. Probably both. He didn’t know whether to be horrified or to take her into his arms and never let her go.
’Cause that thought was really fucking helpful right now.
Maybe it wasn’t. But he couldn’t deny that Becca’s hands had touched him in places that lay deeper than his skin.
On a sigh, he undid his jeans and added those to the pile of clothes, but he left the cotton boxers on so Becca didn’t find him lying bare-assed out here in the morning.
Stretching out, Rixey threw the cover over himself. No matter how he lay, his back screamed. Finally, he turned into a position in the neighborhood of tolerable and closed his eyes. And found himself looking at the picture of that jackhole jamming a knife into Becca’s ribs.
Jesus.
He blinked the image away and tried again.
And this time saw the horror on her face as she stared at Charlie’s finger. The blood had literally drained from her skin. If Beckett hadn’t hauled the garbage can in front of her . . . well, it was a good thing he had. And then the guy had held her hair out of her face—all Rixey had felt toward that touch was gratitude for the man’s compassion and help. In that moment, every bit of anger he’d been holding onto from the fight had fizzled out of him. Murda was a good man. They all were.
But the rage they felt had the power to turn them into loose cannons. He’d need to remember that. Direct it. Find a way to use it as an advantage.
The image playing against the inside of his eyelids shifted again. He saw Becca, coolly calm as she’d taken care of him after the fight. If he hadn’t found her competence and focus sexy enough, she’d had the guts to order Beckett to back off, to dress down his men, to stand up for him when it was pretty frickin’ clear a whole lot of aggression was aimed his way. When was the last time someone had stood up for him that way? He might not deserve it, but the fact that she’d done it lit him up in places that were usually deep dark.
Rixey blew out a long breath. Sleep was about as likely as stepping into a time machine, traveling back a year, and undoing the hell his life had become.
At some point, his brain miraculously and finally stopped churning, and Rixey dozed off.
Click. Click.
Rixey’s eyes popped open at the soft sounds, and his brain surfaced from the haze of sleeping. Staring into the darkness, he listened and realized what he’d heard was the bathroom door closing. A few moments later, he heard the door again just before a dark silhouette crossed the far end of his office, moving slowly and silently along the wall.
“You okay?” he said, his voice ragged in his own ears.
She gasped. “Shit, you scared me. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“It’s okay. What time is it?”
“About one.”
“Can’t sleep?” he asked, pushing up onto an elbow. That made the second night in a row.
“No.”
There was something in the tone of her voice . . . He needed to see her. “Shield your eyes,” he said, stretching for the lamp next to the couch. He squinted against the glow and found her standing by the door, hugging herself like she was cold. “You all right?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m happy to report you’re a lousy liar.” He winked and eased into a sitting position, moving slowly because his back was still being a pain in the ass. Literally. Better than earlier, though that wasn’t saying much.
She shrugged with one shoulder. “Took me a long time to nod off,” she said, “and then I had a nightmare. So . . .”
The sadness in her words and the fear in her eyes drew him off the couch. A sudden need filled his chest. He wanted her to lean on him. He grimaced, his muscles not appreciating the too-quick movement. “Uh, sorry,” he said, grabbing and stepping into his jeans.
“Your back still feeling bad?” she said, eyes on the floor.
Forcing himself not to limp, he stepped in front of her and studied her face for a long moment. With her soft blond hair and her wide blue eyes and her alluring feminine curves, Becca was so very pretty. The marks on her face did nothing to detract from her appeal. Instead, they made him want to kiss her to make sure she wouldn’t feel their discomfort. But he shouldn’t. He really fucking shouldn’t. After all the ways he’d failed the men sleeping down the hall, he didn’t deserve the spot of lightness she’d bring to his life, even for just a short time.
And it was clear his men agreed. Jesus, it had been downright frosty between them most of the night. Maybe too much time had passed to try to fix all the ways he’d failed them. If so, it was his own damn fault. Again.
Becca peered up at him, those worried eyes so open and honest. That honesty appealed right to the heart of him and had him unthinkingly sliding his hands over her shoulders and under her hair to cup the slim column of her neck. She wasn’t her father, damnit. She didn’t play games. She didn’t hold back. Time and again, she’d come right out with the truth, even when it couldn’t have been easy to say. “What was your nightmare about?” he said in a low voice, ignoring the internal alarms telling him to keep his distance.
She twisted her lips and stared up at him. He felt like he was willing the words out of her, he wanted them so bad. “Charlie being tortured.” Her eyes went glassy, but she straightened her spine like she refused to let the undoubtedly terrifying images bow her.
Nick’s gut clenched and he softly squeezed her neck. Nothing he could say to make that ugly reality any better. “I’ll do everything I can.” Everything I can to make sure you don’t lose your last remaining family. But he couldn’t say that part out loud. He refused to make a promise he didn’t know he could keep.
She nodded. “I know.” She closed her eyes and rolled her head in response to his fingers. That little expression of comfort and pleasure shot straight to his cock. Eyes still shut, she said, “On a scale of one to ten, how bad’s your back?”
He couldn’t keep his lip from twitching. Apparently her sharing came with a quid pro quo requirement. And fair enough. “Three.” Her eyes flew open, filled with skepticism. “Three if I remain absolutely still and don’t breathe.” She arched an eyebrow, but he’d almost eked out a smile. “Okay, a six.”