Thresholds Read online

  "And by interesting," Patrick said, "you mean likely to end in bloodshed."

  Ignoring them, I edged closer and wrapped my fingers around Shannon's elbow. "How does an angelic woman like yourself earn the title of number one naughty girl?"

  "I pray someone is recording this," Patrick muttered.

  Three things made themselves clear when the tray shifted from the redheaded whirlwind to the pretty dark-haired lady. One, the ring on Shannon's finger made it clear she was married. No mistaking the wedding band. Two, she was pregnant. Massively pregnant. Her skin-tight purple dress—the one that put her breasts out there like a damn headline—allowed no mysteries.

  "What the actual fuck is going on here?" a voice thundered from behind me. The voice belonged to a man who had—at a minimum—fifty pounds of muscle on me. His button-down shirt was stretched across his arms and chest, and his hands were opening and closing into fists.

  And three, I was going to get my ass handed to me at least once tonight. Then, Hartshorn and I were going to have a lengthy discussion about the right way to set expectations.

  Shannon gestured toward me, her eyes sparkling. Yeah, she'd take a bite out of me. "This is Sebastian."

  It sounded more like, This is the dead bird the cat left on the doorstep.

  "He's a peach," Patrick added.

  That sounded like, He's a fucking dickhead.

  They weren't wrong about any of it.

  "Step away from my wife," the husband said as he moved toward me. His hand landed on my wrist and yanked me away from Shannon's elbow. "You will not touch her again."

  I wasn't a weak guy. I could handle more than my share of pressure and pain. But the grip this man had on my wrist was testing all of that. And he hadn't blinked once.

  "Be nice, Commando," Shannon said to him.

  Acevedo stepped between us, his coat still zipped and hat pulled low over his ears, and he shot a warning glance in my direction. "I'll take it from here, Will."

  After a heavy pause, Will released my wrist. He, too, was busy thinking up ways to dismember me.

  "Let's head outside," Nick said, his palm flat on my chest. "We need to have a little chat."

  I followed him out of the apartment and down the hall. I should've grabbed my coat on the way because I was definitely getting the boot. From this party, these people, and probably this hospital. It was a good thing I hadn't unpacked yet.

  When we reached the far end of the hall, Acevedo turned to face me. His hands were braced on his hips and he didn't say anything. Not a goddamn word. He stared at me the way a parent stared at an out of line child while waiting for an admission of guilt.

  Since I wasn't one to admit a fucking thing even when surrounded by a literal shit-ton of evidence, I studied the old photographs on the walls. Apparently this building was home to a pasta factory back in the day—many, many days ago—and the residents wanted a daily reminder of that history.

  I didn't understand this city.

  "Let me give you some advice," Acevedo said, clapping my shoulder. "Turn it down. This isn't ladies' night at the bar, okay? Aside from the fact these women are married or otherwise unavailable, they're my friends. This isn't a meat market."

  "I asked Hartshorn if there'd be women here," I argued. "He said yes."

  "Yeah, well, Hartshorn is really fuckin' linear," Acevedo said with a shrug. "He's also in love with a woman he's never spoken to, so he doesn't think like a single guy."

  "That's complicated," I muttered.

  "Truly." He nodded, rolling his eyes a bit. As if I didn't know the half of it. I didn't. People never told me their stories or shared personal shit. I was too busy being unapproachable.

  I pointed toward the door. "Should I just go? Would that be better?"

  Acevedo shook his head as he dipped his hands into his pockets. "No, you're not doing that," he said. "Just do both of us a favor and leave the women alone if you can't mute the pick-up lines. Halsted will actually kill you if that doesn't stop."

  I laughed but the sharp glint in his eyes shut me right up.

  "He's a former Navy SEAL. He owns a private security firm now. The guy has connections," Acevedo said. "He's also extremely protective. Andy, Shannon, and his sister Lauren—you haven't smarmed all over her yet—went out to a club a few years ago. They wanted to go dancing and we all went along because what else would we do? A few drunk guys wouldn't leave them alone. Will dragged all five of these guys out of the club at once and whipped the tar out of them. By himself. He didn't have a drop of blood on him and I don't think he broke a sweat."

  I ran my hands through my hair. "Oh, shit."

  Acevedo pulled his pager from his pocket and studied it for a moment. "He has a crossbow in his basement. He let me shoot it once."

  "Oh, shit," I repeated. "He will actually kill me."

  "Yeah, he will," Acevedo replied. He tipped his head toward me, pausing. "You know, it shouldn't require the threat of a woman's husband gravely injuring you to leave her alone. If she's not interested, you could back off. It's a matter of basic respect."

  "Don't give me the respect lecture, man. I respect women plenty."

  "Seems debatable," he murmured.

  "It was a misunderstanding. I'm not one of those guys." I rubbed my temples and stared at the floor. It was old hardwood, scarred and battered. I felt that. Every dark mark in the glossy golden wood mirrored my roughly patched spots. "This is why I don't do things with people from work," I grumbled.

  "Because someone will call you on your bullshit?" Acevedo asked.

  "No," I said, finally meeting his eyes. "Because I fuck shit up. I'm not good with people or—you know—anything that isn't surgery. I didn't want to come here tonight, but Hartshorn dragged me by the ear. I was going to stay at home, or hang around the hospital and pick up procedures because I have no business at events like this."

  Acevedo regarded me for a long moment. "No, dude. You're in the right place."

  I had a salty response ready but it died as I turned his words over in my head. "What the hell does that mean?"

  He jerked a shoulder up. "It means you should come inside with me. You're in good company," he said. "I don't think many of them make a habit of hitting on married women, but they have their own quirks." I gave him a dubious stare and he laughed. "Come on. Andy made paella. Do you like paella?"

  "I—uh—I don't know," I replied. "I don't think I've ever had paella."

  "You'll like it," he said. "The rice on the bottom gets nice and crispy. It's the best part."

  "You want me to stay," I said, "and eat crispy rice."

  "Yes," he said, nodding.

  "After everything that just happened."

  "Yes," he repeated. Still nodding.

  "I don't understand this city," I murmured.

  "You don't have to," he replied. "We'll eat, we'll drink, we'll reminisce about the days when we were young and naïve and the world wasn't a dumpster fire. Just stop trying to pick up the ladies and they'll adopt you before the end of the night."

  My lip curled into a scowl. I was thirty-eight years old and I'd managed well enough without any form of family for nearly two decades. "That's the last thing I need."

  Acevedo scratched his chin as he stared off into the distance for a moment. "There was a time when I thought the same thing," he said. "I was wrong about that, and a lot of other things, too." He started back toward the apartment, glancing at me over his shoulder. "Come on. We'll get you one of Riley's drinks and you'll forget any of this ever happened."

  "He'll probably dip his balls in it," I grumbled.

  "I wouldn't doubt it," Acevedo replied. "But like I said, we'll feed you enough liquor to make you forget all of this."

  * * *

  Acevedo was right about the crispy rice. The drinks, too. And Hartshorn was right about sitting in the corner and sulking. I needed all of those things to keep myself from floating away on a river of resentment and bitterness tonight. It helped that I had an unobstru
cted view of Emmerling once she arrived, and plenty of time to admire her while the boyfriend snarled at me.

  My drinks were definitely garnished with a hint of testicle but it was too easy to fuck with that guy. Too damn easy.

  Acevedo was right about these people, too. They gave me my share of shit for hitting on a pregnant woman, and once I climbed out of my hole from those unfortunate choices, I could see some of the humor. Despite the rocky start and my tremendous desire to hate everything, they were welcoming. With the exceptions of Patrick and Will—they were still working on that death and dismemberment plan—I had easy conversations with everyone. Lauren and I talked about Southern California. Emmerling offered up hospital gossip and some taqueria recommendations. Matt invited me to join him for a run or bike ride. Sam and I debated college football. Erin promised to have me over for dinner after the holidays.

  I couldn't hate any of this, and I'd tried.

  They engaged in the most bizarre form of gift-giving I'd ever witnessed, something they called a Yankee Swap. It looked an awful lot like a Manifest Destiny land grab with liquor. There were numbers drawn from a mixing bowl, wrapped bottles lined on the coffee table, and an illogical system for selecting an unopened bottle or stealing one from someone else. They forced me to participate, and I was now the owner of every teenage girl's alcohol of choice, Goldschläger. I figured it would pair well with college cheerleaders and my left hand.

  Hartshorn scrolled through his phone, sighing and murmuring as he went. "Why don't we head out?" he asked, still scrolling. "I want to check on my post-ops."

  "Don't do that," Emmerling said. She looked like a fucking prize in those jeans. "You have residents for that."

  "She's right," Acevedo said from the sofa. He swung his arm around Shannon's shoulder and tugged her close. Evidently, he was permitted to snuggle the SEAL's wife. I had questions but I wasn't asking them. "Let us suggest a tavern where you two can drink your sorrows away."

  "I don't have any sorrows," Hartshorn replied, his expression stony. "I'm filled with joy."

  "Brimming," Emmerling said. I was staring at her thighs, imagining how they'd feel as earmuffs. "Overflowing, even. We can barely handle all your joy."

  "Head down to Sullivan's. Sit at the bar. Order whiskey. Be miserable and hate the world," Shannon said, wagging a finger between us. "You might feel terrible tomorrow but I can promise you that being miserable at Sullivan's on Christmas Eve is the path to good things."

  "I'm not miserable," I lied, blinking as I tore my gaze away from the GI hottie. Fuck, she was a dream. An especially unattainable dream.

  "You will feel like death tomorrow but you can hook each other up with IV lines and a few banana bags," Acevedo added.

  Hartshorn glanced up, frowning. His brow wrinkled as he studied Shannon and Acevedo. "Why the hell would we want to do that?"

  "I can't explain it but I know it will help," Shannon said simply.

  "It will," Acevedo agreed.

  "It's a good spot to feel all of your misery and then leave it behind," Shannon said.

  "I don't understand this at all," I said to Hartshorn. He shrugged.

  "Before you take your misery to the bar," Andy called from the kitchen, "take some of these leftovers with you."

  She was busying piling food into glass containers and then packing them into grocery totes. "No," I said, holding up my hands. "Thank you, but no."

  "It's no trouble," she continued as she filled a plastic bag with cookies. There was a big ass diamond on her ring finger now and it shouted 'unavailable' every time it hit the light.

  "I really can't," I protested. I glanced at Hartshorn for help but he was waiting on bated breath for his goody bag.

  Patrick secured the lid on one of the containers and speared me with a sharp look. "For reasons I cannot begin to comprehend, my fiancée wants to send you home with food. You're going to take it, you're going to be pleasant about it, and you're damn well going to enjoy it."

  He thrust the tote in my direction and I closed my hands around the handle. "Yes, of course," I said. "Thank you."

  Hartshorn and I headed toward the door, stopping for an endless series of goodbyes along the way. Once we were in the hall, he asked, "It wouldn't hurt to stop for one drink, right?"

  "As long as we don't have to talk about feelings or shit like that," I said, "then no, it wouldn't hurt a damn thing."

  He jerked a shoulder up. "One drink."

  "One drink," I agreed.

  I didn't remember much after that point, but I knew we shared many more than one drink.

  Chapter Eleven

  Riley

  "What is wrong with you tonight?" Alex asked when we rounded the landing after leaving Andy and Patrick's apartment.

  "Nothing is wrong with me," I said, sliding my arm around her waist. "But that douche salad has a few misconceptions I'd like to correct."

  "Who are you talking about?" she asked, throwing her hands up.

  "Stremmel," I cried. "Obviously."

  We reached the next landing and she shook her head. "You're insane."

  "And you are really good at ignoring all the men who leer at you."

  "No one leers at me except you," she chided.

  "Stremmel leers," I said hotly. The blast of cold winter air as we hit the sidewalk did nothing to cool me down. "He's a dirty old leerer."

  "Oh my god," she whispered, stomping ahead of me. "He's just trying to figure us all out."

  I jogged to catch up to Alex. She was a short stack but she was quick on her feet. "He wants to figure out how to get you into bed."

  "We have to agree to disagree on that point," she said. "No—wait. We're going to agree that it doesn't fucking matter because even if he's hitting on me, I'm not hitting back." She speared me with a fierce look. "I can resist manly charms, you know."

  We were silent for several long minutes while we walked back to her apartment. "I know all that," I said as we turned the corner onto Cambridge Street. "Doesn't mean I have to like it and it doesn't mean I shouldn't want to feed him his tongue."

  "Now that's some manly charm," she snapped.

  We trudged up the stairs to her apartment without another word. It felt wrong. This wasn't the way we rolled. We didn't take anything too seriously, and when it did get heavy, we redirected it into something easy. Song lyrics and movie quotes. Tacos and beer. Rough sex and dirty photos. That was how we rolled.

  We didn't do jealousy and we weren't that couple who yelled at each other on the sidewalk, and I wanted to keep it that way.

  "Hey," I said as she slid her key into the lock. "Come here, Honeybee."

  I pressed my lips to the sliver of skin visible between her scarf and hat, right behind her ear. My fingers fumbled with the front of her coat to find the zipper. It came down with a harsh whisper and her breath caught in her throat. As much as I wanted to, I didn't paw at her. I let my hands settle on her waist and held tight.

  "I have something for you," I said.

  "It better not be your dick in a box," she said with a laugh.

  "That invites paper cuts and other injuries which I'd rather not suffer," I replied. I pushed the door open and helped her out of her coat. She set her phone and pager on the kitchen counter. She wasn't on call but that guaranteed a whole lot of nothing. "My something, it's for you, in accordance with our agreement."

  "The agreement," she repeated, almost to herself. "Okay. Good. I have something for you, too." She pointed at me. "But you need to stay here for a minute."

  She vanished into the bedroom, and the filthy part of my brain—that was, the majority of it—had visions of sugar tits dancing in my head. Those were homemade.

  Minutes ticked by without a naked Honeybee emerging, and I decided I needed to stop standing in the middle of the room like a twat. I kicked my shoes off, turned the lights down low, and dug my gift out from its hiding place in my messenger bag.

  Then she emerged…fully clothed.

  "You go first," we s
aid in unison, and then laughed.

  "Ladies first," I said, the small package concealed behind my back.

  "The lady wants you to go first," she said, smiling.

  With a heavy sigh, I held out my gift. "Okay. I-I-I-I hope you don't hate it."

  "I won't hate it," she said, studying the package.

  It was wrapped in butcher paper and tied with twine, and I'd never doubted a piece of work so much in my life.

  I should've gone with the guys to find the right combination of jewels and silk. Shannon was off her damn rocker. Alex and I had strict rules about where and how we stored our photos, and none of those included line sketches.

  Fuck. Just…fuck. Christmas number one, up in flames. Down in shambles. Fucked right over.

  This could only be worse if I actually started a fire.

  She turned the package over, her brows knit together and her lips folded in concentration, and starting a fire sounded like a damn good idea right now.

  Her finger slipped under the twine and I darted across the room, snatching it from her hands without considering my next move.

  "I—uh—no," I stammered, holding the gift over my head. Alex couldn't reach it up there, and in this moment, a game of keep-away was the best, most mature solution available.

  She crossed her arms and dropped onto the sofa as if I ripped presents out of her hands every day and this was the pinnacle of normal behavior. "What are you doing?" she asked.

  "I don't know," I admitted. "I'm a li-li-li-li-little nervous."

  "Why? Did you weld a set of nipple clamps?"

  "No, I don't know anything about metallurgy, and I wasn't going to call up my college friends for a chat involving the specifications of your nippular regions, Alexandra."

  "It sounds like you've given it real thought," she replied.

  I scrubbed a hand down my face. The other hand was still in the goddamn air. "No," I said from behind my fingers. "I didn't consider welding nipple clamps. For fuck's sake."

  "Can we open them together?" she asked. "If it helps, I’m just as nervous as you are."

  I peeked at her through my fingers. "You don't look nervous. I look nervous. Real fuckin' nervous. You look like you're watching a rerun of Friends."