Page 65 of Gravity
Intimacy still clung to him like heat beneath his skin. He could still taste Dave on the back of his tongue—coffee and cream—and it steadied him more effectively than any breathing drill.
But now that warmth warred with the cold truth: Dave was going to put himself on the block as bait again. Not because he’d shut Stone out—Dave wouldn’t do that again—but because putting himself on the line was the only way he knew how to lead.
Stone admired the hell out of him, but he wasn’t about to be shoved into overwatch like a spectator.
Over the past six months, he’d fought his way back from a bullet tearing through his shoulder. He’d survived the pain, the surgeries, the slow grind of recovery—because of Dave. Becauseof the belief that when they stood together, they could face anything.
He reached for the next weapon in line, anything to ground himself. The room hummed faintly with climate controls, metal, leather, and oil thick in the air. It felt like a war shrine.
The door creaked open. Boots scuffed.
“Figures,” Rip muttered, ducking in with a half-grin, “you’d be down here brooding with the toys.”
Stone didn’t look up. “You ready for Vegas?”
“As ready as you ever are when the boss is playing merchant.” Rip leaned against a rack, arms crossed. His grin slipped into something harder. “Doesn’t sit right.”
“No shit,” Stone said. The words came out clipped, sharper than he intended. “But I can’t fight with him about it anymore.” Not when it could cost him their hard-won truce.
Winter followed in, silent at first. He ran a hand along the stock of an M4, eyes narrowing. “Dave is stubborn. Law is also older, he could go in as a handler.”
Stone’s jaw flexed. “Tell Dave that.”
“I tried,” Winter’s voice was dry. “He wasn’t having it.”
Rip blew out a breath, restless. “So, what now?”
Winter’s gaze flicked to him, cool and steady. “We send Stone in again. He’s the only one Dave listens to.”
Rip let out a short, humorless laugh. “He already tried. Weren’t you listening? Dave’s got his mind made up.”
Winter’s jaw tightened. “Then maybe he’ll listen when we get to Vegas.”
“Or maybe he won’t,” Rip shot back. “And then what? We carry him home in a box?”
The air sharpened between them.
“Enough,” Stone said quietly, but it landed heavily. “We do our jobs. Dave’s made his choice.”
Rip stared at him for a long beat, then looked away, the fight draining from his shoulders. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Guess we all have made choices.”
Winter’s voice came softer this time, but no less firm. “Then we make damn sure Dave’s choice doesn’t get him killed.”
The door creaked open again.
Boston stepped in, hands shoved in his pockets, green eyes flicking from Rip to Stone. “You all look thrilled,” he said, dry as dust.
Rip snorted. “Don’t you have a knife to polish somewhere?”
“Already did,” Boston shot back. “It didn’t argue with me.”
“Must be nice having something that listens,” Rip said, grin tugging at one corner.
“Yeah,” Boston said, deadpan. “It still cuts, too.”
Winter’s mouth twitched, just barely. Stone almost smiled. The tension in the room eased—just a fraction.
Even now, Boston had a way of cutting through the tension, keeping the air from breaking.
