“And coffee and M & M’s,” he assures me. “Essentials matter.”
“Is this where you tell me a goofy joke about coffee?” I tease.
“No,” he says softly, a small tic in his jaw. “I don’t have a joke in me right now.”
I pull my knees to my chest and rotate to face him. “You got him, Adrian. If we can make Deleon talk—”
“He won’t talk,” he says, his expression unreadable and when I would push for answers, some sort of timer goes off. “That will be the hot water,” he announces, grabbing the pot and pouring water into two cups that must-have cocoa powder inside them.
He uses a wooden stir stick and swishes the contents of the cups and then hands me one. “Thank you,” I say, accepting the cup.
Our fingers brush, our eyes colliding with a jolt, the air thickening between us. “What do you call sad coffee?” he asks.
My lips curve. “I don’t know. What do you call sad coffee?”
“Depresso.”
I laugh, a genuine laugh that defies the hell of the past few hours. “That is so very cheesy.”
“But you laughed.”
“I did,” I say, and I don’t point out that just minutes ago he didn’t think he could tell a joke. I hope this means he’s relaxing back into our relationship. I sip the warm beverage that is both sweet and yummy. “How did you find this place?” I ask.
“I was involved in a shooting that fucked me up,” he surprises me by admitting. “I came up to the cabin and hiked to just clear my head. Ironically, it was raining that day and I took shelter here in the cave. The storm lasted for hours and I had gear with me and just started exploring the cave.”
“When was that?”
“Five years ago, but I didn’t turn it into a shelter until I agreed to go undercover with the Devils.”
“Why create it at all if you thought the cabin was secure?”
“My father always told me to do better than him, be better than him. And definitely be better than my enemies.”
“You were,” I say, absoluteness in my tone. “You are, Adrian.”
His lips tighten. “I told you—”
“You’re dirty and bad,” I supply, knowing this story already.
“Yes,” he agrees, sipping his hot chocolate. “I am.”
I could push him now, dive into the topic of Deleon, remind him he could have killed him, but the edge between us is only now fading. I decide Deleon’s a stiff topic better eased into when we too are not so, well, stiff. Instead, I ask, “What was the shooting that upset you enough to seclude yourself out here?”
“A teenager. He drew on me. I had no choice, but his parents were good people. It destroyed them.”
My gut twists just hearing the explanation and not because of the words. Because that’s big and he shared it freely despite the fact that five years later, demons dance in the shadows of his eyes. My God, what is it that he won’t tell me? Or at least dreads telling me? I don’t know. I don’t know if I want to know, but I have no doubt at this point that he looks in the mirror and sees a monster, not a hero. I choose to see a hero. He is a hero.
I sip the hot chocolate and set it aside, scooting across the mattress to sit next to him, leaning against the cavern wall. Mere inches separate us.
“Tell me about falling into a hole as a kid,” he urges.
I glance over at him and lift the glass. “I might need wine.”
“I have whiskey.”
“If we stay in here long enough, I might need it,” I joke, but then backtrack. “Actually, talking about my little incident doesn’t really bother me. Not at all. In fact, I always feel like I’m over it and then I’ll have some crazy reaction to something, like the tunnel. It sideswipes me and makes me angry at myself for having so little control.” I wave my hands around the cavern. “I mean, why doesn’t this bother me but the tunnel did?”
“It’s small and the exits aren’t easy to see and reach.”
“True,” I concede, “but I freaked out when I first got into the tunnel, and I could still see the exit.”
“The exit we couldn’t go through without ending up dead,” he reminds me. “I think your mind has logic working for you. What happened when you were a kid?”
“My father had a big client in Texas. We spent the weekend at his ranch and I fell down a well. I broke an arm and a leg. It took them six hours to find me. I went through physical therapy, the whole gambit.”
“Ouch,” he grimaces. “That’s wicked. How old?”
“Six. I honestly barely remember it, which is why it’s hard to fathom why I still randomly have a reaction.”