Page 18 of Bring Me Back
“Let’s go inside. I’ll give you a tour,” he laughs lightly, threading his fingers through mine and taking my bag out of my hands. Slinging it over his shoulder, he leads me into the house.
I step through the door, still not entirely sure what I’m expecting. In all the years we’ve known each other, I don’t think I’ve ever pictured what Beck’s house looked like. Maybe a sleek bachelor pad? Something clean and minimal, just like the man himself. But this? This was something else entirely.
Dim light filters through towering arched windows in the living room, casting shadows over polished concrete floors. The entire space smells faintly of leather and Beckett, masculine and clean like the earth after a hard rain. It feels expensive, but not uncomfortable or stiff. It’s lived in, his keys sitting on the kitchen island next to his black motorcycle helmet. I take in the vaulted ceiling, intricate cedar beams, and modern lighting that somehow doesn’t take away from the house’s vintage soul.
Beckett leans against the back of the couch, just watching me take everything in. I love how open this space is, one room flowing into the next. It’s not lost on me that you could fit my entire house into this living room. But I don’t let myself dwell on the ways we’re different. Instead, I appreciate all the ways our styles are similar.
I turn to him, eyebrows raised. “This is really all yours?”
He nods so casually, like he doesn’t live in an episode of MTV Cribs or some crazy shit like that.
My eyes sweep across the rest of the room. Framed abstract art hangs beside heavy antique mirrors. A record player sits open next to a vintage wingback chair next to the fireplace. What the hell is this? A Sherlock Holmes novel?
I run my hand along the cool, dark wood of a side table, catching on a worn, rough edge. “You never mentioned…”
“I didn’t want to make it a big thing. The work I do is very valuable to the people I do it for,” he says, watching me carefully. “I’ve made good investments, built a good life here.”
“That doesn’t sound illegal at all,” I joke, smirking at him. He shrugs, answering one of my lingering questions.
I know the kind of work all the men in my life do. They walk a fine line between legal and not, neverhesitating to step over that line when it’s necessary. I know logically I should have a problem with a lifestyle like that, but I don’t. I’ve seen the way my friends love their wives. The fierce way they have protected each other against the ugliest parts of the world. I don’t see a single thing wrong with any of it.
And now here I am. In Beckett’s inner sanctum. It’s like walking through Wayne Manor with Bruce himself. This house is so beautiful, but more than that, it’s intimate. Personal. It feels like a part of him he his kept hidden for a long time shines through inside these walls.
“This place screamsBeckett,” I tell him softly. “And I think I love it. Maybe too much. I don’t know how you’ll ever get us out now.”
“You assume I’d ever let you leave,” he says, a devilish smile gracing his perfect face. “Come on, pretty girl. I’ll show you your room.”
Jaxon and I follow him upstairs, stopping at the first door to the left of the stairs.
Beck jerks his head towards the door. “Go ahead, Jax. This is you.”
Jaxon looks at him, skeptical and unsure. “Mine? I mean, I’m okay with the couch.”
Beckett just nodded. Jaxon pushes the door open, a gasp barely audible. His bag slides off his shoulder, hitting the floor with a loud thunk.
“No. No fucking way. This isn’t real,” he shakes his head. Tears stream freely down my cheeks. I couldn’tstop them even if I wanted to. This wasn’t a guest room for us to crash in for a few days. This room wasn’t even just a bedroom.
It was a studio.A sanctuary.
The walls were deep gray. Overhead, an industrial-style light fixture casts a soft glow like the sunrise around the space. In the corner stands a full-size drafting table, already stocked with charcoal pencils, paint, and new sketchpads. Not the cheap supplies that have always been all I could afford. These are the kinds of supplies the guys use at Grovewood Ink. The kind real artists use.
Jaxon takes a step forward. Then another. His hands brush the drafting table, dragging across the surface like he needs to feel it to believe its all real. I watch him from the doorway, my heart in my throat.
“No one’s ever done anything like this for me.” Jaxon’s voice cracks just a little bit. I know this is overwhelming for him. He looks at Beck, and his voice is thick with emotion, something he isn’t used to showing anyone but me. “You built this? For me?”
Beck nods. “Yeah. I figured every artist needs a good space to work. The guys helped a little with the supplies.”
There’s a stretch of silence. Jaxon stands with his back to us, his shoulders tense as he takes several deep breaths. Then the gives a single nod. It was a small gesture, but the kind that carried weight. A thank you.And something better. Recognition.Respect. It’s the kind of moment between men that says I see you.
“Thank you, Beckett. Thank you so much.” Jaxon says, and Beck smiles.
“Settle in, go back to sleep if you want to. We’ll figure out where to go from here later,” Beck says, snagging my hand and leaving Jax to continue exploring his room.
He pulls me further down the hall, and I float behind him on cloud nine. This man is a dream, I swear.
“You didn’t just build him a room, ya know.” I whisper. “You gave him something he’s never had from another man.”
“What’s that?” he asked, his hand brushing gently against mine.
