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He snorted, his eyes lighting up with laughter. “Don’t be such a grumpy ass, Burne,” he said, calling me by my last name. He only ever called me Taylor when we were off duty. Honestly, he was the only person who called me by my first name. Even in my foster homes, I was always called by my last name. It was a way foster parents and other kids kept their distance—kept boundaries between us.
Why would they bother forming attachments to a kid that was just eventually going to get moved around again?
Having Donald call me Taylor felt kind of sacred. I wanted it to stay that way.
Didn’t help that I had the crush of the goddamn century on him, which made him calling me by my first name even more special. He was funny, kind, and down-to-Earth, and he was the only person who didn’t bat an eye at my grumpiness. In fact, the first day we’d met four years ago, he’d patted my chest, told me to lighten up, and proceeded to wiggle his way beneath my skin and into my heart.
I still had no idea how he’d truly managed it. It all had happened so fast and without me ever realizing what he was doing to me.
Unfortunately, Donald was as straight as they fucking came, which was another reason I knew he would never feel anything for me. I’d even caught him with his dick inside some random woman’s pussy a few times before since we lived together. Donald had never even glanced at a man in that way, and trust me, I’d been watching him enough to know.
I was just fine keeping my feelings bottled up. Locked away tight inside my heart to never see the light of day. So long as I got to keep him as my best friend, as someone I could rely on, someone I could lean on, I could deal with my unrequited feelings.
“Fuck!” Sergeant Blume suddenly shouted, jerking me out of my head. “Incoming!”
That was all the warning we got. The truck in front of us hit an IED. Bullets rang out everywhere, the sound deafening. My ears were ringing, but I managed to knock Donald to the ground just as a bullet ripped through my shoulder, fucking murdering my good arm. I rolled to the side, grinding my teeth in pain as fire licked along my nerve endings. All I could do was stare up at the smoky sky, blood slipping down my arm and making me a bit lightheaded.
The pain was nauseating.
“Get up!” Donald barked at me, hovering over me now, blocking my view of the smoke billowing into the sky. Gripping the front of my uniform, he yanked me off the ground, hauling me to my feet and slamming my gun into my chest. When I grabbed it, he stepped to the side, drawing his weapon?—
And stepped on an IED.
“Donald!” I roared, but it was too late. There was nothing of him to save.
The only things really remaining of him were clinging to my uniform. To my skin.
And to the bleeding pieces of my heart and soul.
I jerked upright, sweat clinging to my skin despite the cool temperature of the room. The fire in the fireplace had long gone out—nothing more than smoldering embers now—leaving the room cold, which felt damn good to my overheated skin. My heart was racing in my chest, and my entire body was trembling. Tears blurred my vision, but I blinked them back, my breaths ragged.
I hadn’t had that flashback in fucking years. I’d long ago gotten control of my PTSD. Had gone through extensive online therapy with a trauma therapist to get control of my shit.
But I had a feeling Gabriel being in danger, being in the middle of that goddamn shootout at the clubhouse, had brought it all back to the surface. Because, once again, someone I loved could’ve died. I could’ve fucking lost Gabriel that day.
I wouldn’t survive losing him, too. If I lost him, I knew without a doubt that I would put a bullet through my own skull.
Life without him would mean nothing.
I eased out of bed, being careful not to jostle Gabriel, and padded barefoot to the bathroom. I left the light off and turned the water on in the sink. After cupping my hands under the faucet and gathering some water in my palms, I splashed it onto my face, repeating the process three times to cool down my overheated skin.
Too bad I couldn’t wash away the mental image of my best friend being blown to fucking pieces right in front of my eyes. His blood staining my uniform. His abruptly cut-off scream. The way his body parts just flew in all directions, pieces of his skin clinging to mine.
Vomit rushed up my throat, but I swallowed it back down. Throwing up would wake up Gabriel, and my boy needed his rest. I wouldn’t disturb that.
“Tango?” Gabriel said softly. I jerked in surprise, glancing in the mirror to meet his sleepy-eyed gaze. He rested his hand on my sweaty back, concern washing over his features. With my hands flat on the counter, I turned my head to look at him, water dripping from my chin. Even in the darkness, I could see the worry for me in his eyes.
“I didn’t mean to wake you,” I rasped, hating how raw my voice fucking sounded. My emotions were too close to the surface, and everything inside of me fucking hurt.
He stroked his thumb along my damp skin. “Come back to bed.”
I heaved a sigh but nodded. After grabbing the hand towel, I dried my face and then followed him to bed. Once we were both laying down, he cuddled up next to me, his arm draped over my side, his other hand pressed against my steadily beating heart, which had finally slowed down to a steadier pace and no longer felt like it was threatening to hammer out of my chest.
“I heard you shout,” he said softly. “You shouted for a guy named Donald.”
I swallowed thickly and rested my chin on the top of his head. I hadn’t realized I’d yelled his name out loud, and I was slightly annoyed with myself for waking Gabriel up when he needed to sleep.
“Donald was a friend of mine,” I told Gabriel quietly.
