Chapter 22

Dylan

Something's going on with Matt, and he won't talk to me about it. To be fair, I haven't asked outright, "Why are you being weird and suddenly don't want to touch me?" but I have asked him if he's okay. Multiple times. He always says he's fine, but it's a lie.

He's jumpy. Nervy. At first I thought it might be part of his PTSD—it really hasn't been that long, and it's not like he's getting therapy—but he's also being distant.

That's the part that scares me the most. Matt's a hugger. He's affectionate. All four brother-besties are—physical boundaries are for strangers. When they love people, they touch them. It's one of those things that fed my soul when we first hooked up—I hadn't realized how much I missed the casual touches and hugs of a loved one.

But this past week… barely anything. Ever since the disaster when we "broke in" the couch on Monday, it's like he's allergic to me. The other night when I went to bed, I snuggled up against him, and he woke up with a start and claimed to be "too hot" for cuddles. What the ever-loving fuck? When my air conditioning stopped working in ninety-five-degree heat last summer, he was still down to fuck, but he's too hot to be close to me in bed in December?

That's suspicious as hell. Plus, he suggested we drive down in separate cars. What the fuck for? If I need to go back home—which I will, eventually—I can fly, and if for some reason we both need cars at the same time on the same day, well, the compound has literally hundreds of people living in it. I'm sure someone can lend me one. Not that I'm planning on going off somewhere alone—why would I?

It might still be his PTSD, though. It has to be. When we get to San Diego, I'll find a way to suggest he talk to one of the Collective's counselors. Or Ian will suggest it, because if there's one thing I know for sure, it's that Matt will talk to Ian about whatever's bothering him. That's good. Ian can tell him that he needs to talk to someone about the trauma, and a counselor will help him.

It's PTSD. It has to be. Because the only other option I can think of for him pulling away is that he's… pulling away.

I made the mistake of doing some research last night. In cases like these, when one partner is avoiding the other without an obvious reason, like a fight, it usually means they're either cheating or planning to end the relationship.

Matt's not a cheater. If there's one thing I know, it's that. Even if he was, there's barely a window of time when he could be cheating—about four hours in the morning between when he gets up and I do. The math doesn't math.

Which means he wants to leave me. End us. His near-death experience has caused him to reassess his life and priorities, and I'm not one of them.

I think I'm going to be sick.

"I don't want to be a hater, but could we maybe listen to something else for a little while?" I ask. We're on hour five of Taylor Swift, and I need a break from relationship songs.

Matty laughs, and for a second I have the old him back. "I didn't think you'd last this long," he admits, handing over his phone so I can pick a different playlist. "I know you're not a hater—you're just not a Swiftie."

"Not really." I switch to his "Thinky Thoughts" playlist, which is mostly mellow songs that make great background music. "I mean, I like a lot of her songs, but not like you do."

Matt is definitely a Swiftie. I've heard him say "Tay-Tay forever," and he legitimately told the Collective's dispatcher that he wasn't available to go on an assignment a few years back because "Taylor tickets go on sale tomorrow." I've got no doubt he's going to do that again soon, since her upcoming tour dates were recently announced.

Despite my—and everybody's—jokes about her being his future wife, I don't think he sees her like that. Matt's bi, and I know he thinks she's a beautiful woman—I do too—but he genuinely loves her music and admires her talent and drive. It's kind of sweet.

"Meh," he says. "We don't have to like all the same things. You know you can't pay me to watch Westworld with you."

I keep my mouth shut, because the truth is, I don't like Westworld that much. I just made him watch the first few episodes with me because he's cute when he whines, and then he bribed me with a BJ to turn it off.

"True," I agree. "But since we're talking about things we like, I thought maybe we could spar for a bit tomorrow? I'm rusty, and it'll be a good way to work out the kinks after today's drive." It's also one-on-one time that will get adrenaline pumping, which I'm totally hoping to take advantage of afterward. I'm sure that if I can just reestablish intimacy between us, I can get him to talk to me.

I can't solve a problem I don't know about. And I really, really don't want to face the fact that this might be as simple as him not wanting to be with me anymore.

He hesitates. He goddamn hesitates . "Probably not," he says at last. "We don't want people getting suspicious about how well I am."

That would be a good reason, except… "That's why sparring with me is the perfect solution. Like I said, I'm rusty as fuck, so we can keep it basic and slow. Nobody will suspect a thing, especially since you're supposed to be reconditioning anyway." I'm pushing, but come on. He won't even spar with me in the training center, where there's always people around? I'm not asking to suck him off.

That'll come later. I hope.

Matt makes a noncommittal sound, the kind that means "no, but I don't want to say no yet," and says, "Let's see how tomorrow goes. I'm sure I'll have to have a debrief with someone—we've held them off until now, but our luck can't last forever."

I turn to look out the window at the passing scenery—what there is of it—and try not to panic. It's PTSD. It is. Sparring was probably the wrong choice—it might remind him of being beaten nearly to death. He probably needs time to work through that first before he's comfortable fighting other people.

My phone chimes before I'm forced to say something to break the awkward silence that's fallen. It's the tone for an email alert on my online shopping Gmail account, so it's probably not urgent, but it gives me a good excuse to do something else.

At first glance, the email looks like spam. There's nothing in the subject line, and the sender is a long string of numbers and letters. I'm distracted enough by my relationship issues that I nearly delete it.

Then the chat message pops up.

Hope my email is helpful

A chill goes down my spine. It's from the same Gmail address, a string of letters and numbers that are probably random—or if they're not, they mean something to the sender that I can't understand without more information. But run-of-the-mill spammers, or even scammers sending trojan horses, malware, and the like, don't usually follow up with a chat message. And anyway, my security, even on my phone, is exceptional. I designed the app that ensures nothing dangerous even gets delivered.

Which means either this isn't dangerous, or the sender is skilled enough to get it past my security. If they can do that, they don't need to smuggle it in via email—they have what it takes to burrow in and out without me noticing, at least not at first.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. What is this?

One thing's for sure, I'm not opening it on my phone. I'm not even willing to open it on my laptop. It's going to have to wait until we get to San Diego and I can hook up my computer to the monitor Ian assured me he has.

"What is it?" Matt asks, and I glance over to see him watching me alertly.

"I'm not sure." Do I reply to the chat message or not?

"Problem?" His voice is tense now.

"I'm not sure," I repeat, then decide to bite the bullet.

Helpful people identify themselves

I might have just given away that I haven't opened the email yet, but somehow I don't think this is someone who signed their name on it. Honestly, I'm not expecting a reply from them at all, which is why I suck in a breath when I see the notification that they're typing.

"Dyl, talk to me," Matt demands. "Do I need to pull over?"

"No," I say absently, my attention on the screen. "Just wait."

Safety first

Dammit, what does that mean ? That contacting me is unsafe for them? Why? Are they unsafe from me—which would make the email unsafe and them an enemy of the Collective. Maybe even Matt's attackers? Is this a distraction while they mess around on our servers again?

Or are they unsafe from others—from our enemies? Are they reaching out for help? In which case… can I really leave them hanging for the remaining three hours of this drive, plus however long it takes me to get set up?

I weigh the possibilities. My job is to protect. That's what I spent my life training to do. It's my goddamn family legacy. Maybe I'm not out there with my sword anymore, but that doesn't change my mandate. I have to take this risk.

Safeguards are in place

I practically hold my breath waiting, but there's no reply. Fuck.

"Dylan, I swear to god, tell me what's going on right now." Matt's grip on the steering wheel is white-knuckled, and I sigh.

Leaving the app open—just in case—I give him a quick rundown.

"So you have no idea who this person is or what they sent you?" he checks. "It could be a virus or something?"

I pull a face. "It's not out of the question, but if they have the know-how to get past all my security with a… virus"—I manage to say that with a straight face—"they don't need to email or message me."

"Unless they're taunting you," he points out, and I nod.

"Yeah, that's an option too. It's also why I haven't opened the email yet—my phone doesn't have the juice I need to do the checks I want." Not to mention, if the email is coded to self-delete within a certain timeframe after being opened, my phone doesn't have the capacity to make an automatic backup. I love my smartphone, but it's got limitations.

Matt presses his foot down on the accelerator, and the SUV picks up speed. "So we need to get to the compound for you to investigate it."

"Yeah," I agree, "but we also need not to die. Or be pulled over for a speeding ticket." Even though every fiber of my being wants to know what's in that email—so much, I gave a split second of thought to calling Marc and asking him to come and get me and my computer—I know that a few hours isn't likely to make a huge difference. If it will, then it doesn't matter if Matt speeds—we still won't get there on time.

There is one thing I can do, though, and that's send a message to my team asking them to do a security scan. If this person is good enough, it won't pick anything up, but at least it's something. We do this randomly every week or so anyway, so nobody will be suspicious that I'm asking.

Now all I can do is wait.