Sworn Enemy: An MM Enemies-To-Lovers Book (Wild Heart Ranch 1)
Sworn Enemy: Chapter 22

I don’t think I’ll ever get over how innocent and sweet Justin looks in the morning. Not just because of our shared history, but because of how…not innocent he is in our more intimate moments.

He blinks his eyes open, smiling up at me.

“I got a text from Erik. He’s going to grab some breakfast sandwiches from that little shop down the way, but it might take a while. There’s usually a line.”

He grins. “That sounds delicious. Is he getting coffee too?”

I nod, and he snakes his hands above his head. “Oh goody.” Scrunching his nose, he asks, “Wait, aren’t you the one who owes us coffee this morning since the kid went to me?”

I snort. “Yeah, but Erik knows we could use a little alone time this morning, and he doesn’t mind. Besides, that means I’ll owe him lunch when we get back.”

“Mm. Sounds good. Count me in.”

Justin pushes me to my back and hugs my side, and I’m filled with every warm-cozy-good feeling I never thought I’d have.

He nuzzles my cheek. “Did I tell you I set up Anders and Omar’s automatic gate the other day?”

“Oh yeah, right. You spent the day there, right? Georg and Anja are something else.”

Justin’s smile makes me think of a sunny day. “It was amazing, and the guy living with them—Ant?—he’s so sweet.”

Ah. The conversation we never had.

“That so?” I ask, keeping my voice steady.

“Oh yeah. I guess he’d been driving them crazy by trying to be helpful, so Anja asked him to work with me, and we had a great time. Looks like all he needed was some physical labor and a project to focus on.”

“And he did well with all of that?”

Justin’s eyes sparkle with the memory. “Really well. I talked to him about the volunteer work we do around town, and he jumped right on it. Even the early-morning stuff, which is impressive for a twenty-year-old.”

“Sounds great.” I kiss his temple.

“Anja said the funniest thing. She said that you rescued him. I don’t think Ant was super comfortable sharing details at the dinner table, but is that a story you can share with me? Is there a reason you rescued him and didn’t take him back to his family?”

I search his expression, trying to gauge where he’s at. He’s in a good mood, and there’s still a bit of a brow raise going on…like maybe he knows I’ve not been entirely forthcoming with him, but that it’s okay.

“Um. Yeah. I help people in a bunch of different ways, but…just being honest with you, a lot of the why of what I do involves you and our history. I think you’re okay with that, but…there are other aspects to it as well.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

I blow out a raspberry. “Well…for example, I always try to work within the law and with law enforcement, but I don’t let that limit me if it means helping someone.”

He hums, wrapping himself tighter around me. “I still want to hear it.” He pauses to kiss my hairline. “I know there’s a risk to me if I learn something and don’t report it, and a risk to you if I learn something and do report it. But, uh, as we very energetically established last night, we trust each other.”

He’s right. Here in this slightly antiseptic motel room, with the scratchy sheets and the sun striping across his face in a golden beam, I trust him with everything.

Even the truth about what his bullying and abuse did to me. Because it’s all intertwined, much like we are right now.

“I do trust you. And you’re right—I don’t just do search and rescue. After my suicide attempt, I had to stay at a facility for a long time. Several months, in fact.”

I watch the truth of it wash over his features. Sorrow and acceptance war across his face. He takes a few breaths and looks me in the eyes.

“I’m so sorry, Charlie. I’m so, so sorry.”

I kiss his temple. “You’re forgiven. But let me finish.”

“Okay.”

“You know how you said that going to treatment when needed wasn’t indicative of a failing on your part? How it was just recognition that you needed the help?”

He nods, his eyes avoiding mine. I wait until he looks back up at me. “It’s the same with my mental health. You made me feel awful for such a sustained amount of time that I lost parts of myself to it. My recovery was and is about calling those lost parts of me home, getting to the point where I no longer let people make me feel bad about myself.”

I pause, remembering my equine therapist, an older woman with long white hair. She was funny in a take-no-prisoners way, and I’m not convinced she wasn’t some kind of earth witch.

Kissing him to reassure him of my genuine affection, I continue, “Another part of my therapy was service. Having felt so awful about myself for so long, I decided that I refused to let people stay in terrible situations, simply because someone decided to monetize their existence.”

Kissing away his saddened expression, I remind him of a basic truth. “Hurt people hurt people. As I learned compassion for myself, it allowed me to learn compassion for others. It wasn’t a stretch to understand that the reverse of that is also true. You cannot give to others what you do not give yourself. If you hated me, you hated yourself, and that thought made me incredibly sad.”

He presses his face into my neck. “I did. I hated myself so bad.”

“Because you were raised to hate yourself, and you were rewarded with praise when you showed that to others.”

He nods, his eyes shiny.

“And that’s why I don’t just rescue people,” I repeat. “Now, like yesterday, Erik and I do a fair amount of replaceing lost kids, hikers, etc. We make our money, however, by replaceing people who’d rather stay gone—corporate spies, Ponzi schemers, etc. But the thing Erik and I do for ourselves…we extract people from human-trafficking situations.”

Startled, he draws back. “How the hell do you do that?”

“The short answer? With planning and, where necessary, devastating violence,” I say with a half-grin.

“And the long answer?”

“Erik and I have friends in various corners of the world that keep us abreast of the people slipping through the justice systems. Sometimes it makes sense to do the detective work, replace the evidence, and bring it to local authorities. More often than not, however, we are sneaking actual people out of the situation. It’s hard because there’s usually a business model or system in place that needs to be stopped at the source to prevent them from simply dipping back into the human-trafficking pool and enslaving more people.”

“And do you? Do you stop it?”

“Depends,” I say, thinking back through the failures and successes over the last few years. “Stopping it usually means ending a life, and I try to leave the wet work for the professionals. But sometimes, I’m put into a position where I don’t have a choice. In those moments, I am fully capable of taking care of the situation.”

My muscles flex in response to the memories that brings up.

He rubs my chest, worry marking his features. “So you’ve killed people?”

I look at him. There is no statute of limitations on murder, of course. As he pointed out, admitting what I do is a leap of faith. Maybe a foolish one, I don’t know, but his eyes beg for the truth.

“Yes,” I say resolutely. “And I don’t feel bad about it. Because every time I save a person, every time I take out a rapist or an enslaving asshole, I take care of that part of me who felt alone and bullied and hated. Every time I take out somebody like that, it’s a checkmark in the column for the good guys.”

Justin opens his mouth to say something but doesn’t quite get there.

“Say it.” I know I’ve probably overwhelmed him, even as he’s listening to and processing everything I’ve already said.

Wiping a rogue tear, he pulls away to sit up and cross his legs. I do the same, facing him. “You can tell me.”

He lets out a breath and a wry chuckle. Shaking his head, he finally answers, “This may be way too unserious an answer in response to what you’ve said, but…you really do remind me of a comic-book hero.”

Reaching out, I caress his knee. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. You’re like every avenging angel character out there. And like every hero, your origin story has a villain.” He points at himself.

I don’t like the way he’s trying to shrug off his pain.

“Sure, but—plot twist—you really suck at being a villain. It was always an ill-fitting pair of underwear on you.”

He snorts. “What?”

I smile and grab him around the back of his head, pulling him in for a brief kiss. “If you were a real villain, me trying to kill myself would have spurred you on. It would’ve made you want to terrorize other vulnerable people. It would’ve made you want to up your numbers, maybe try on an active shooter-type situation for size. But instead, it froze you solid, didn’t it? For years, you were trapped by the weight of what you’d done.”

He bobs his chin, looking down. I tap under his jaw, waiting for his eyes before I continue.

“The thing they don’t tell you is that every hero has crossed a line, and in crossing that line, realizes they would rather choose good. Heroes aren’t heroes because they are just innately good people.”

“Did you cross a line?”

I nod. “Trying to kill myself hurt my parents in ways I can’t ever heal for them. Worse, I let them see exactly how much I hated living, and I sometimes have a hard time forgiving myself for that.”

God, even saying that out loud hurts.

“But that’s not crossing a line. You were in pain.”

“You’re right.” I take a deep breath and try to convey what I understand about myself. “I don’t blame myself for the pain I felt or the way my mind bent it into self-harm. But the part I can’t totally forgive myself for is how long it took me to be grateful for surviving the attempt and how much I hurt my parents in those days after.”

Before I can react, Justin drags me into his lap, pulling me into an awkward, long-limbed hug. “I’ve seen how much your parents love and defend you. They’re not holding a grudge.”

“Which is why I can’t hold a grudge either.” I push my nose into the join of his neck and shoulder, inhaling his sleepy scent.

We lie back down into our original stuck-together position, and I continue, “Here’s the thing. When you saw the real gravity of what your words did, you stopped hurting other people immediately.” He nods into my chest. “Well, that’s not exactly true. Rumor has it that you were still an asshole. But mostly, you started hurting yourself with drugs and alcohol. Didn’t you?”

Another nod.

“But then, when you got the help you needed, you shifted gears, and now you try to be a net positive, right?”

“It’s not that I’m super successful at it, but I am trying.”

I gently cuff the side of his head.

His disgruntled face is awfully cute. “Why did you do that?”

“Two reasons. First, stop downplaying how much you give back to the community. Second, I’d forgotten how much it annoyed me that I could never hate you. Despite how much I wanted to.”

“I could tell,” he chuckles, kissing my jaw. “Poor Charlie Wills. Dude can’t even hate right.”

“Meanwhile, you’ve completely lost your touch at bullying. I mean, you really had some zingers. Hell, they stayed with me, even after years of therapy.”

His smile falls. “Do they still?”

I shake my head, then kiss his forehead. “Something about this ass of yours has bully-neutralizing powers.”

Justin cracks up, returning the kiss. “Leave it to the closeted bully to have superpowers in his ass.”

I snort and roll on top of him, caging him in my arms as I touch my nose to his. “Seriously, though. You were the one person I could hate with impunity. That I have to be part of your hero origin story is annoying as fuck.”

“I was pretty badass yesterday with little Scottie. Definitely want to help with that side of things again if I can.”

“Of course.”

“And,” he says, taking a moment to move my hair out of my face, “I really appreciate that you trusted me with the truth. Both what you do and why you do it. Telling the person who hurt you how they hurt you is an act of faith. Yes, it’s hard to hear, but it also makes me feel closer to you.”

“Same.”

We start to kiss when Erik bangs on the door.

“Food’s here. Time to stop fucking each other and get on the road.”

Justin laughs and rolls me off him, jumping into his jeans as he crosses the room. Opening the door with a flourish, he teases, “I thought you were supposed to be the quiet one.”

Erik pushes his way in, uncaring of the fact that I’m naked beneath the sheets. “Common misconception. I’m not quiet. I just don’t talk unless there’s something useful to say.” Setting the bags of food and coffee carrier on the tiny Formica-covered table, he looks out of scale as he slumps onto the chair. “For example, I wasn’t going to say anything about how much it smells like sex in here.”

“Fucker,” I say, chucking a pillow at his head. “By the way, Justin met Ant at Anja and Georg’s place. He knows about some of our more unsavory projects.”

Erik, unwrapping an enormous breakfast sandwich, nods. “Good. It was bothering you that he didn’t know.” Turning to Justin, he asks through a mouthful of egg and English muffin, “And you? How do you feel about all of that?”

Justin grabs a wrapped sandwich. “Well, as the villain at the center of Charlie’s hero origin story, I’m excited I played such a pivotal role.”

“He still frustrated that he couldn’t even hate you properly?”

“Hey!” I say, chucking another pillow in his direction.

Erik catches it midair and chucks the pillow right back at me, grinning affectionately. “I’m glad. What we do is really tough sometimes, and it’s good that he’s got someone at his back.”

Justin and I exchange glances, and I feel his warmth and love down to my toes.