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"I can protect myself now, Maison." Carter starts to walk away. "You made sure of that."
Mexico is just as disgustingly hot as it was the last time Travis visited. He’s careful to keep his chin tucked to his chest and his ball cap tugged down low, not wanting to risk anyone recognizing him. The man with Nathan Roarke’s face could easily be recognized in one of the top trafficking cities in the same region he used to conduct business.
He pulls up behind the warehouse that matches the address he was given. It’s just after midnight, his black SUV with the headlights turned off blending in with the surrounding darkness. Within seconds, a metal garage door is rolling up. He takes the invitation and enters, putting his SUV in park as the door starts to roll down again.
His pulse races. It always does in situations like this. He’ll feel a hell of a lot better when he puts eyes on his partner and exchanges their code words.
Pulling his loaded gun out of his holster, he switches the safety off and slips out of the vehicle. His senses are on high alert as he keeps his back to the SUV and scans the area.
The dull thud of boots on a metal grate rings out to his right. He turns his head just as a body appears down a winding, rickety stairwell. There’s a very dull light coming from somewhere he can’t trace, so it takes longer than he’d like before he can see the person’s face.
When he does, he tilts his head back and groans. “Not you again.”
“That’s not the code word,” Keats says with a smirk. Then, before Travis can respond, he asks, “Did you see Carter? Tell me everything.”
Travis sighs.
They better kill Mica fucking soon.
Maison is avoiding Carter.
Or maybe Carter is avoiding Maison.
He really doesn’t care either way - he’s just glad it’s happening.
Carter can’t even tell who he’s more pissed at - Maison for meddling again, or Travis for letting him.
Cleaning his room is a good distraction. He angrily tosses dirty clothes in his hamper, strips his bed bare, sprays Febreze on the mattress to make the scent of their sex disappear, dusts the dresser and bedside tables, scrubs the toilet, sink, and tub of his attached bathroom, considers scrubbing the floor but decides against it, returns to his room, tries to muster up the energy to bring all the dirty laundry to the laundry room, sees a black piece of clothing under the bed, and everything… stops.
Throat tight, Carter lowers himself to the floor and pulls what his gut already knows is Travis’s black sweatshirt from the other night. He settles on his knees and brings the fabric to his face. It smells just like Travis. Not Nathan Roarke - scotch and expensive cologne. But like Travis. Lavender fabric softener and tea tree oil shampoo and something else he hasn’t been able to place yet. Something that might drive him a little nuts if he doesn’t figure it out soon.
He sniffs it again. It’s creepy and weird and it makes him laugh and cry at the same time.
Carter carefully places the sweatshirt on the top of his dresser and forces himself to finish what he started, deciding he’ll reward himself by pulling on the sweatshirt and crawling into his clean bedding once he finishes his laundry, staying there for the rest of the day wallowing in self-pity.
His plan doesn’t last.
Maison is in the laundry room, halfway through filling one of the washers. There are two washers and two dryers, since the house is so big and can fit so many people, but he’s not sure he wants to be in this room with his brother long enough to use the second washer. He squeezes the ball of bedding in his arms - he had decided to go with just doing that for today instead of his dirty clothes too, since he didn’t want to have to hang around for longer than necessary. Now he’s regretting leaving his room at all.
“Oh.” Maison pauses, one hand holding a pair of jeans with dirt on the knees. Carter stares at the dirt stains instead of at his brother. “That one is open. Ace just transferred his shit into the dryer.”
Carter eyes the open washer, then decides to go for it. He should be able to shove everything in, dump some soap, and turn the machine on within 60 seconds. Surely he can manage being in the same room as his asshole brother for that long, right?
Wrong.
Maison starts talking the moment Carter opens the lid of the washing machine. “About the other day-”
“No,” Carter says firmly, cutting him off. He stuffs his armful of bedding into the washer. Only about half fits at first. He starts to work the fabric around the middle piece so it can all fit. “We aren’t doing that. We aren’t talking about it. About anything. We aren’t talking, period.”
“So that’s it?” Maison asks, his voice louder and angrier than Carter expected. He flinches and keeps his focus on his laundry. “What, Carter, are we just not brothers anymore, then? Over 20 years of being together, up in smoke? I make one decision - a decision you fucking know I made with good intentions - and now I lost my brother forever?”
Carter shoves at the fabric in the washer, then grabs the jug of detergent and pours a generous amount. He slams the lid shut and switches the dial to the right setting.
“Fucking talk to me, Carter!” Maison yells, slamming a hand down against the washing machine.
He doesn’t know why he does it - he doesn’t know what goes through his mind or what about the moment reminds him of before or how his fucked up brain interprets an angry brother as dangerous - but Carter hits his knees and cowers without second thought.
The air goes quiet and heavy.
