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“I’ve been considering that,” I admit. “I think Travis is close to retiring. Or maybe not fully retiring but doing what Keats does. Dropping in for quick missions. I wouldn’t mind that.”
“I’ve thought the same, for whenever Casey is ready to leave.”
My chest suddenly feels a hundred pounds lighter. If he’s in the same boat as me, maybe that crazy idea of buying a new house for all of us isn’t so crazy after all.
I pull out my phone, pulling up my favorite listing—a rustic farmhouse, all white and black with big windows, wide-open spaces, and gorgeous hardwood floors. The yard is full of trees and flowers just on this side of wild. There’s a fireplace for anyone who needs a safe place late at night. A big kitchen for Nolan to practice his cooking skills. Bedrooms for everyone, plus a few extra depending on who shacks up with whom.
“Where is this?” Jake asks as he scrolls through the pictures.
“Just fifteen minutes from Carter’s apartment.”
He sits back, eyebrows high on his forehead. His eyes are bright. “You’re going to buy it.”
“I was going to ask if we all wanted to go in on it. The operatives. Me, you, Travis, even Ace if he wants.” I try to keep calm, but excitement is bubbling up inside of me. No, not even excitement—hope. It’s a fucking rush. “It could be a new safe house. One without rules. One for our group. Carter can come and go as he pleases. Travis too. Nolan can go to the culinary school at the college in town. Matt can slowly integrate himself into a community. Bryce can take writing classes or whatever else he wants to do. They can work at that pub Carter works at. Or work somewhere else. Or never fucking work again because we’ll provide for them.” I pause, taking the phone to find the picture I know will win him over and showing it to him. “There’s a pool.”
“For Casey,” he whispers.
“For Casey,” I confirm.
“Hm.” He considers it, eyes still on the phone. I’m not sure what he’s thinking. I know him well, but our years together were spent over the phone. I can’t read his expressions quite yet.
I can do this on my own. I can afford it. But I want to do it with him. With the others. I want it to be a place for this messy family we’ve created. A safe place. A happy one.
“Do you know what Dr. Singh gets paid?” he asks.
I tilt my head, taking a moment to process what feels like a strange shift in topic. And then I realize it’s not a shift in topic at all. He’s extending the list of people to inhabit our new home.
“Yes, I do. And we can afford him. Especially because I think he’s grown to like us all here quite a bit. You know, he usually doesn’t stay at a safehouse this long. He usually only handles the initial flood and gets everyone settled down. Then he usually goes elsewhere and continues speaking to survivors via video until they’ve left their respective safe houses and are no longer under our protection. But he’s still here.”
“Make him an offer.” Jake taps the counter beside my phone, the screen still displaying the house. He’s grinning. “And talk to Travis and Ace about this. I’m in.”
Dr. Singh says he needs to consider the offer, but unlike with Jake, I know Singh’s expressions. He’s going to agree. Especially since the house I’m looking at has a small cabin on the property that would be perfect for the man to settle in.
I reach out to the realtor, wanting to get the ball rolling before we lose the place to someone else. Then, since I’m sitting at my computer already, I indulge in a little research. Today’s topic—Hunter Meridian’s social media. Ace had refused to give me access to the software he built to get into people’s private accounts. This isn’t operational, this is stalking, he’d chided. I offered to buy him those disgustingly overpriced boots he’s had in his online shopping cart for months now. He didn’t even look ashamed as he gave me the software and reminded me that he’s a size eleven.
I start first with his standard accounts, filtering through shared articles—usually about history or politics, with the occasional world event or online fundraiser—and tagged posts by names I recognize from the list of his close friends I procured. The posts are all perfectly appropriate, showcasing their shared time spent at breweries and ball games, at art shows and concerts, at cookouts and birthday parties. He rarely posts pictures of his own, but when he does they’re of places he’s traveled to or him with his friends or of a particularly pleasing image of a coffee. He’s from Oregon, employed by the university, and single.
I dive into his fetish accounts next—of which he has two. A local one, seemingly more for dating, and a broader one where he socializes with kinksters from around the world, participates in forums, both offers and seeks advice, and posts his own tutorial videos. He’s very adept at rope bondage and orgasm control. Well, according to the comments on his videos at least. I’m not authoritative enough to say one way or another. Not that I don’t still watch. In fact, I watch… quite a few of his videos, always with him dressed in black pants and a tucked-in black dress shirt with the sleeves rolled to mid-forearm and the top two buttons undone to show just a little of his chest, always with the same watch on his right wrist, always with the same black masquerade mask with golden accents to assure his anonymity. I watch him tie two chest harnesses, a hip harness, and an arm binder. I watch him explain how suspension works, the best ties to use, and how to ensure the submissive being suspended is safe. I watch—
“Knock, knock,” my favorite voice in the world says as the hinges of my office door creak open.
I slam my finger on the power button of my computer and spin around in my chair. Nolan is standing in the doorway wearing one of my sweatshirts again. He gives me a sleepy smile. “Working late?”
“Am I?” I glance at the clock, surprised to find I’ve spent a few hours down the Hunter Meridian rabbit hole. “Sorry about that.”
“Something wrong?”
“Not at all.”
He eyes the computer, taking a hesitant step toward me. “What were you looking at?”
“Nothing you should have to see.” Which isn’t untrue. After everything he’s been through, he doesn’t need to be seeing a man who enjoys tying people up and controlling them sexually. I don’t judge people who want that consensually, even if I can’t quite understand the desire for it, but that doesn’t mean I like it. I’m pretty fucking sure Nolan wouldn’t like it either. It still blows my mind that Carter is into that kind of thing, but I’m sure his situation is rare. “I’m glad you came by. I think we need some us time.”
He perks up a little. “Yeah? I think so, too. It’s been a crazy few days.”
“That it has.” I leave my desk behind, ready to be done for the day. I’d much rather spend my time catching up with him instead. He wraps his arms around my neck once I’m within reach, pulling me against him. “How are you doing?”
“I’m okay. I’ve been trying to spend time with Casey, but he’s been pretty latched onto Jake. Not that I care. Whatever makes him happy right now.” He plays with the hairs at the nape of my neck. “You know, I never even got the chance to ask you how everything on your mission went. Bryce says you got the bad guy? Quinton?”
