Keats’s eyebrows raised. “I was just—”
“Raleigh fucking died. Tyson died. Because of me. And here I am like some damn mouse hiding in the basement.” She paced across the floor, then turned to face both of them. “This isn’t what my sister would’ve done. She would be on the steps of the courthouse, shouting into the microphones and demanding justice. She would be fighting.”
“You are fighting,” Colby said. “Every damn day. Sometimes our bodies and brains don’t cooperate like we want, but I don’t see a woman giving up.”
She shook her head, her eyes wet again, but not in defeat—in frustration and anger. “No. I’m not fighting. I’m only surviving. That’s not good enough. I broke a mug in my kitchen today and freaked out. That—something as stupid and simple as that—should not control me.”
She stalked over to the coffee table and lifted the glass of water she’d been drinking.
“George—”
But her arm was already in motion. She tossed the glass against the wall, where it shattered into glittering wet shards. She bent over, hands to her knees, breathing hard.
Colby went to her side, and Keats jumped up from the couch. Keats disappeared into the kitchen, probably to get something to clean up the mess, and Colby wrapped his arms around her.
“Ready to call the men in white coats yet?” she quipped.
The comment brought a little smile with it, and relief coursed through him. She was upset but not panicking.
Keats was back in a flash, but instead of a rag, he had a tray full of coffee cups. “Come on, George. Let’s not do this halfway.”
She lifted her head. “What?”
He set down the tray and handed her two mugs. “Fuck these mugs. They’re nothing but colored sand. They don’t mean anything. They can’t hurt you.”
Colby stared at Keats as Keats lifted one of the mugs and launched it against the same wall Georgia had used for target practice. It hit with a thud, then broke when it hit the wood floor.
Georgia blinked, glanced between the two of them.
“See?” Keats said. “Nothing. Take that sound back. Breaking glass isn’t about the past. It’s about right now when you and your insane, but devastatingly handsome, neighbors completely demolished your coffee cup collection for shits and giggles.”
“You’re nuts,” she said, but there was light in her eyes.
“Yeah, he is,” Colby agreed, taking a cup from Keats. “And a genius.” Colby sent a cup flying. It shattered on impact, the simple act of destruction sending an odd zing of satisfaction through him. “Ahh, that’s definitely what I wanted to do when the principal put me on leave.”
Keats threw another. “And that’s what I wanted to do to Hank when he broke into my place.”
Georgia tossed one of her cups with more strength than Colby would’ve suspected she had in her. “And that’s for every time this damn fear has kept me in the house.”
Keats cheered and handed her another. Before long, they’d gone through most of Georgia’s set, Georgia doing most of the tosses. And she wasn’t crying anymore; she was laughing. They all were.
As Georgia launched the last mug, Colby reached out and grabbed the back of Keats’s neck, giving it a squeeze. He looked over at Colby, his gaze questioning. Colby leaned close to his ear. “Good job, Adam.”
Keats’s eyes warmed in a way that Colby knew he’d never get tired of. Hell, he’d still been shocked to wake up this morning and find that the former straight guy he’d sent to bed sticky and used had woken up without regrets. Keats had shuffled into the kitchen, looking fucking edible with his mussed hair and loose pajama bottoms, and had walked straight up to Colby and said, “I woke up smelling like you.”
“And?” Colby had asked, expecting the ax to come down.
“And it took everything I had not to jerk off.” Then Keats had kissed him.
Colby’s chest had filled with some feeling he couldn’t pin down, and he hadn’t been able to stanch his need to touch Keats again. He’d pushed Keats’s pants down and off, then used them to bind his wrists to the handle of the fridge. He’d then sat down and eaten his breakfast while he watched Keats stand there naked and hard. After Colby had eaten his last bite, he’d stripped, grabbed a bottle of olive oil, and jerked them both off, cock against cock. They’d both been weak-kneed and recovering when the texts had come through from Georgia.
Colby had read them aloud, and Keats had switched from obedient, willing submissive to man on a mission in two seconds flat. He’d pulled off the bindings and yanked up his pants. “Get in the shower and be quick. We’re going over there.”
Colby hadn’t corrected him on the sudden order. He’d wanted to get to Georgia as soon as possible, too. So they’d jumped in their respective showers and gotten ready in record time. Colby had at first insisted he go over alone so that they didn’t overwhelm her. But Keats had refused outright. Now Colby was glad he hadn’t wasted any time fighting that battle. Because Georgia had needed them. Both of them.
Colby knew he was good at being a calming force. With hysterical teenagers. With subs bottoming out. With his not-always-stable family. He’d learned how to be a steady and soothing presence amongst chaos. And Georgia had needed some of that this morning. But that hadn’t been all she needed. She’d also needed a little wildness, a way to fight the bad crazy with good crazy. To find her own fire again. And Keats knew how to jump outside the lines and act on pure emotion. He knew how to light matches.
So seeing Georgia laughing and visibly relieved as she walked over to the pile of broken glass felt like a victory for all of them.