Troup never let me find out.
One second, I was walking at his side, and the next I was behind him, Troup was swinging his fist, and shit hit the fan.
Troup went… berserk.
He hit drunk guy so fucking hard that the ricochet of his fist hitting drunk guy’s face cracked through the now silent bar.
Hell, even the music had turned off.
I watched dispassionately, knowing that Trouper wouldn’t appreciate it if I intervened.
I’d tried that once and only once and had nearly been hit for my efforts. He’d ripped me a new one after he’d pounded the guy a little extra hard for nearly hitting me in the face.
“Maybe he just didn’t have the right trigger,” I heard Cannel whisper from behind me. “That guy who started the brawl? He kept attacking Trouper’s mother. His father. His heritage. Nothing. But that guy takes one fuckin’ swing at her, and State hits the fan.”
I couldn’t help it.
I turned and laughed at them.
“This is the Trouper that I know,” I admitted. “He’s always been hot-headed.”
“Wait,” Traci said. “You’re telling me that State is a fighter?”
I all but bent in half when the laughter started.
When I finally stood up and wiped the tears of hilarity from my eyes, it was to find them both looking at me with surprise.
“Trouper fought so much when we were in high school, he didn’t even bust his knuckles anymore when he threw a punch,” I said.
“No shit?” Toot asked. “I have never seen him lose it like that, and I’ve been with him for four years now.”
I looked over at Toot.
“Trouper once beat the absolute hell out of an asshole bully for shoving me into a locker,” I said. “And then he got into another fight later that night when we were walking home because another bully was beating up on his brother. That was a daily thing—him getting into fights.”
“Hey,” Trouper called. “You’re supposed to not tell them my secrets.”
I turned to see him walking back to us, his face a mask of indifference.
“These are your friends, Troup,” I shrugged. “They need to know the real you.”
He rolled his eyes. “This is the real me, Beck. The old me was hot-headed.”
I felt a pang of sadness hit me at the mention of ‘new and old.’
Was the old Trouper mine, and the new one not?
I went quiet after that, listening as he said his goodbyes to his friends.
CHAPTER 11
It’s too hot for bras, lotion, make up, hair down, lies, men and all that.
-Text from Beckham to Troup
TROUP
“You’re quiet,” I murmured as we made our way out to my car.
I used the key to open the door and held it open for her.
She didn’t reply or say a thing as she dropped inside, and it wasn’t until I was in my seat and starting the car up that I asked, “What’s wrong?”
“I…” she paused. “I’m just realizing that maybe you’re not the same person that you used to be, and all of our promises might not be promises anymore.”
I felt my heart seize in my chest.
I put the car back into park, then turned to survey her.
“You’re telling me that you’re not mine anymore?” I asked carefully.
Her head came up, and her eyes met mine. “I’m telling you that I’m yours, but maybe you’re not mine. Your friends don’t know the same man that I know… knew.”
I reached for her seatbelt, thankful that I had bench seats, and then pulled her into my arms.
She came willingly.
“My friends don’t get that person, because I’m only that person when I’m with you. And you’ve never been around when they are.”
She sighed. “I feel like I should’ve tried harder to see you over the last couple of years.”
Last ‘couple’ meaning eight.
“Me, too,” I admitted. “But we’re back now.”
She shivered. “We both have very established careers now.”
We did.
“Yeah.”
“The FBI isn’t all it’s cracked up to be,” she muttered.
I licked my lips nervously.
“I love my job.”
She ran her hand up my arm. “I’m tired of lying to my parents.”
“So then tell them,” I urged.
“I’d rather just quit,” she admitted. “I’ve been thinking about it for a long time anyway. I’m tired of… I’m tired of being away from you. I just didn’t realize how ‘fake’ I tried to act until tonight. This was the first time in a very long time that I’ve been able to breathe.”
That was fucking music to my ears.
“I have about six months, and then I need to think about whether I want to re-up my contract,” I said.
She pressed a kiss to my throat.
“Do it.”
Those two words were exactly what I needed to hear.
I didn’t want to quit what I was doing. I loved it.
I loved everything about being a fighter pilot, and I only had a few more years left. Soon they would promote me, and I wouldn’t be able to do what I loved. Which would fuckin’ suck.
“It’s not that easy,” I admitted.
“Why not?” she asked.
“Because there’s no telling where I’ll be shipped off to next,” I admitted. “And even if I go there, you won’t be able to follow me. Not unless we were married, and even then, you might not be able to.”
Her hand stilled on my chest.
“How about we figure it out as we go?” she urged. “I have a degree that I can utilize anywhere.”
I swallowed as I eased the car back into drive, heading toward my house.
“Are you telling me that you’re willing to stay here? After everything, you want to just… be here? Did something happen?” I asked, almost afraid of the answer.
“I’ve…” she sighed. “I’ve burned out. I’m tired of all the ugly in the world. I guess that I thought this would be a more glamorous job. I mean, when I heard ‘I’m FBI’ I thought ‘what a badass.’ But I don’t feel like a badass. Half the time I feel like I’m struggling to breathe from one
