Page 63 of Breaking Free

By the third-floor landing, his legs felt like lead and he slowed to a walk. After ten days on the road with barely three hours of sleep per night, he was running on fumes.

He couldn’t blame the lack of sleep solely on the surprisingly elusive skip. Dreams had plagued him. Not the terrifying kind but the ones that left him drenched in sweat and shaken for a different reason. Every night, the sights, sounds, and sensations of his scene with Piper played out in vivid detail.

Afterward, he’d lie staring at the ceiling, waiting for his body to cool and his persistent hard-on to subside, often taking care of it when it wouldn’t. The few moments of physical release couldn’t mask the wounded look in her eyes from his deliberate indifference. She had offered to cook for him, dammit. Despite being tempted, like with everyone else, he pushed her away.

His solitary life suited him. With each passing year, he had a decreasing tolerance for other people. Working for Rossi, he couldn’t avoid them, but he liked and respected the men on his team, and the job allowed him to use his skills. The club was more social than he liked, but it offered an outlet for his creativity and allowed him to meet his physical needs. Only one thing brought him true peace since his time in Afghanistan—shibari. A calm came over him when working with the ropes. The smell of the natural fibers, the rough texture against his fingertips, and the intense focus required to the exclusion of everything else soothed his troubled mind and heart.

Piper had the potential to outshine Narissa. Blindfolded and restrained, she’d tuned into him in no time, displaying an unparalleled response for a beginner. He yearned to bind her in jute rather than metal, to fuck her while suspended, to test her limits and see where they could go together, but he had to resist. She’d want more than he could give, and she deserved so much better.

With a growl of frustration, he pushed through the steel door, walked down the short hall, and into the Rossi lobby. The receptionist looked up, a smile of greeting on her face, but she didn’t speak and returned to her typing. In his mood, it was understandable, really. Piper had a name for it—resting pissed face.

He huffed a little laugh, the seldom heard sound echoing through the empty hall as he walked to his rarely used office. The things she said sometimes made it hard to keep a straight face.

An hour later, after turning in his paperwork, clearing out his inbox, and reviewing the details of the new case assigned to him starting tomorrow, he shut down his computer and headed for the stairs.

He was almost to the door when he heard someone call, “Chief, is that you?”

With his hand on the door, Tristan turned, shocked to see Gary Mitchell, a teammate from his old unit, striding toward him.

He was a few years his junior. Nearly a decade ago, he’d seemed like a kid. Now he had a touch of silver at his temples.

“Mitch. It’s good to see you,” he said as he shook his outstretched hand.

“What are the odds of us crossing paths here?”

“Quite high,” Tristan replied, “since I work for Rossi.”

“No joke?” he asked in surprise. “I’m here for an interview. If things go well, we might end up on the same team again.”

Tristan nodded, genuinely pleased to see him doing well.

“I’m done here and have nothing planned for the rest of the day. Do you have time to grab a beer and catch up?”

“I would, under any other circumstances,” Tristan said, shocking himself by actually meaning it. Typically, he found reunions and reminiscing about the past about as appealing as having a root canal with no anesthesia. “I just returned from an out-of-state case. After ten days on the road, I’m completely out of steam.”

“Sure. We’ll do it next time,” Mitch suggested. “Maybe then we can have that beer as co-workers.”

“Should I put in a good word with the boss?”

“The interview went well, but that couldn’t hurt.” Mitch grinned his same old lopsided smile. “Thanks.”

They shook hands again, and Tristan opened the door. Then he remembered he’d taken a Rossi SUV to Santa Barbara and from there through five states after the skip.

“Where are you staying?” he asked.

“I live here now. I’ve got a place in Culver City.”

“That’s out my way. Could I trouble you for a ride? I don’t have my truck, and I’d hate to pass out behind the wheel of a company vehicle.”

“No problem. Glad to do my part in keeping you alive.” His response served as a solemn reminder he’d done his part once before.

The drive to his place at midday didn’t take long. He managed to stay awake mainly because Mitch was a talker. He thought he answered when asked a question, but he couldn’t be sure with memories triggered by seeing a teammate filling his head.

Afghanistan was hot, dusty, and dismal. In short, it was hell on Earth. Still, his team had been a cohesive group, and, in their downtime, or when on leave, they carved out a few good memories. But one event overshadowed everything.

Would he ever look at Mitchell or anyone from his unit and not see the horrors of that dark day eight years ago or the faces of the men they lost?

LATER THAT EVENING, needing to sleep but unable to, Tristan sat in the dark of his living room sipping a beer—his third—his mind on the failed mission.

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