Page 67 of Point of Contact

Watkins continued to cry, and when he subsided into hiccups, Jesse asked, “Do you want me to come over?”

“Yeah, come over, Byrney. Please?”

“Be right there.” Jesse hesitated. “Put the beer away, Evan. No more, okay?”

“’Kay,” Watkins mumbled. “No more beer. Jus’ come over.”

With a ragged sigh, Jesse hung up and headed back to his truck.

* * *

The next morning Trevor stood in front of Jesse’s apartment, juggling a drink carrier with two cups of coffee and a bag of sesame bagels. He knocked once and, receiving no answer, knocked again louder. At last he heard the shuffling of footsteps inside and the click of the dead bolt just before the door swung open.

Jesse stood there peering at him, blond hair sticking up at crazy angles, his blue eyes shadowed with exhaustion.

“Oh, shit, I woke you,” Trevor said contritely. “I didn’t think it was too early, but I should’ve called first.”

Jesse scratched his bare chest and stood back to let Trevor in. “No, it’s okay,” he said huskily. “Just had a late night.”

Trevor froze a few steps into the apartment. “Do you have company?” he asked in horror. “Jesus, I’m sorry—”

Jesse shook his head, cutting him off. “Sat up all night with a friend in crisis,” he said, shutting the front door and leading the way to the kitchen. “Is that coffee you have? If it is, all’s forgiven.”

Trevor handed him a cup. “Indeed. Cream and sugar’s in the bag.”

He waited until Jesse doctored his coffee and took several sips before saying, “I’m really sorry to wake you. I wanted to ask you something, and I didn’t want to do it over the phone. Plus, you’ve driven out to my place so often, I—”

“What’s on your mind, Trevor?” Jesse interrupted gently. “It’s okay. You can call, or come over, anytime you want. Seriously.”

“You’re way too nice to me. Seriously.”

They smiled at each other over their coffee cups, and Trevor asked, “Is your friend all right?”

Jesse’s smile faltered, and he looked down. “Not really, no. He’s a combat vet, and he’s drinking too much, getting in fights with his wife.”

“PTSD?”

“More like a shit-ton of survivor’s guilt. Counseling hasn’t helped, and I just don’t know what else...” He shook his head, the expression on his face indicating the discussion was closed.

Trevor took the hint and dropped it, letting Jesse finish his coffee and half his bagel, relieved when Jesse declared he felt much more human. Trevor got up to throw their trash away, his attention suddenly caught by the tattoo on Jesse’s bicep. He stopped next to him, unable to keep from reaching out to run his fingertips over it.

“What’s this mean?” he asked. “It’s really pretty.”

The tattoo was a stark black against Jesse’s golden brown skin, a design of three cursive letters intertwined but distinct: an E, an M and a P.

“Estes, Miller and Patterson,” Jesse whispered.

Trevor caught his breath. “Three?” His fingers trembled as he traced the E over and over. “Three friends?”

“Three brothers-in-arms,” Jesse clarified softly, his pulse beating wildly in the hollow of his throat. “2008 was a rough year.” Goose bumps pebbled his skin, and Trevor reluctantly pulled his hand away, not before pressing his palm briefly over the E one more time.

“I’m sorry.” Trevor hovered there another moment, wanting to ask Jesse what happened to them, to all three of them, but once again the timing didn’t feel right. With a last pat to Jesse’s bare shoulder, Trevor went to the trash can in the corner and dumped everything inside.

When he turned around, Jesse was fishing a T-shirt out of the dryer in his minuscule laundry room, pulling it on over his head.

“What, uh, did you want to talk to me about?” Jesse asked, his voice a little rough. He led the way to the living room, throwing himself down in the leather recliner and draping one leg over the arm.

Trevor followed suit, sprawling out on the couch opposite him with a sigh. “It’s nothing big, really. I didn’t sleep a whole lot last night myself, and I started thinking about what you said, you know, about coming out to Riley on the beach.”