Cut & Run (Cut & Run #1)(82)
Author: Abigail Roux

“My dignity and common sense won’t allow it,” Ty answered as he nodded to the entrance of the garage. “Follow,” he said succinctly as he turned and began heading for the daylight.

Chuckling, Zane waited a moment and then coasted the bike behind him. A harrowing ride through DC traffic later and they were in Baltimore, bumping over cobblestone streets as they made their way through the warren of the old city toward Ty’s home. Zane parked in the walkway that led to the row house as Ty paid the hefty cab fare.

Ty stood back and watched the car drive off, then turned slowly to look back at Zane. He cocked his head and narrowed his eyes as Ty walked closer. “I know that jacket,” he murmured as he stopped right in front of Zane, hands in his pockets.

The leather was broken in and beaten up, well-lived in with a few scuffs here and there, a couple rips, and one gash across his upper arm.

Abused, but loved. “Do you, now?” Zane asked innocently.

“I would have taken better care of it,” Ty responded haughtily as he reached up to finger the gash in the arm that didn’t look near as worn as the other rips and tears. “This new?” he asked seriously.

Zane looked at his arm. “Last night. Didn’t move out of the way fast enough. Even I can’t dodge two bullets at once.”

Ty tutted and shook his head sadly. “Not the man I thought you were, then.” He sighed sorrowfully as he tugged at the slice in the leather and peered in at Zane’s arm. Zane shook his head and obligingly held his arm out.

The white bandage was still there, extending out from under the red T-shirt he wore under the black leather. What he didn’t know was that a few splotches of dark blood colored the gauze. He hadn’t checked it since he had stopped for breakfast about ten hours ago.

“You’re bleeding,” Ty told him matter-of-factly as he tilted his head toward the front door. “Come on. I’ll pour some rubbing alcohol in it and make me feel better,” he offered with a grin.

“You want your eardrums broken, too? You’ll finally get to hear me scream,” Zane muttered, closing his palm over his arm protectively and looking petulant.

“Bonus,” Ty crooned as he took Zane’s good arm and led him forcefully to the door. Zane grumbled under his breath but didn’t resist as Ty pulled him along. “You look like you’ve been somewhere rough,” Ty observed as he unlocked the door. “They put you undercover?”

“Yeah,” Zane said, just looking at the other man, soaking in his features. He’d thought about him so much the past four months, he still couldn’t quite believe he was here looking at him. “Inner Miami.”

“Explains the accent. It was a waste of your time,” Ty muttered as he pushed the door open and gestured for Zane to go in. “Only thing that’ll fix Miami is a f**king nuke.”

“True,” Zane agreed with a shrug. “Kept me busy and out of Burns’

nonexistent hair, I figure.” He walked into the house and paused a few steps inside the front room. The rooms were immaculate, completely at odds with the façade Ty showed to the world. The furnishings were comfortable and well-kept—not to mention actually matching—and not a single item seemed to be out of place. Framed pictures lined the walls of the little living room, each frame identical to the next. They were all black-and-white prints, and told the story of Ty’s life and career, showing him smiling and laughing with a variety of heavily armed, uniformed individuals in various exotic and not-so-exotic locations. There were several others that Zane felt certain were of Ty’s family.

Ty watched Zane from behind, letting him observe. Zane’s lips pressed together hard. “You sure you got the right house?” he finally asked.

Christ. This was nothing like what he would expect from the man he thought Ty was. The dichotomy of the man he had known had run deeper than he had ever suspected.

Ty frowned at him. “I’m a neat guy,” he pointed out softly.

Zane slanted him a grin. “I’ll have to check the hospital corners on the bed, Jarhead.” He unzipped the jacket and slid it from his shoulders, pinching the bandage.

“You can bounce a quarter off my bed,” Ty boasted as he led the way into the kitchen. He dug under the sink and brought out an antique metal First Aid cabinet. The red cross on the front was faded and scratched, and the metal was dented and scarred. When he opened the door the contents were all modern, though, and he pulled out some gauze, a tin of Rawleigh’s medicated salve, and some medical tape.

Zane tossed his jacket over the bar and pushed up his sleeve as he plopped himself onto a stool. He jerked the bandage off in one go with a grimace and poked at the oozing gouge. It was a good three inches long across his upper arm, and had taken out quite a chunk of flesh. He supposed now that a few stitches might not have been a bad idea.

Ty glanced over at it and immediately groaned softly. “What the hell?” he muttered. “I’m not stitching you up in my kitchen,” he insisted.

“That needs a doctor.”

“Just bandage it up,” Zane said stubbornly. “Another scar won’t matter.”

Ty frowned doubtfully, but he cut the tape into strips and stuck them to the side of the counter, then opened the tin and slathered a good deal of the salve inside the wound without waiting to see if Zane would allow him to touch it. He worked quickly and finally pulled the wound together, placed a thin piece of gauze over it, taped the damaged skin as close as he could, and wound it all up without a word. Zane sat there unmoving, gritting his teeth. It hurt. A lot.

“Glass of water?” he requested after Ty was done.

Ty simply nodded and went to a cabinet near the refrigerator to retrieve a glass. He filled it from a bottle that sat on the counter and handed it wordlessly to Zane. Reaching over to the jacket, Zane dug into the pocket and pulled out a battered bottle of Tylenol, got a couple pills, and swallowed them down.

“Tough guy, huh?” Ty asked sarcastically. “I bet you got all kinds of action with that routine in Miami,” he muttered as he watched with a frown.

Zane lowered the glass and looked at Ty appraisingly as he tucked the bottle away. “Depends on what kind of action you’re talking about,” he said, being deliberately vague. Ty could be talking about fighting “action.”

Possibly. If Ty were true to form … that wouldn’t be it.

Ty just raised one eyebrow and shrugged. “If you got called papi more than once, then I want blood tests before I touch you again,” he said as he turned to the sink behind him and began washing his hands.