The view of the lake, illuminated by the moonlight, is so captivating I don’t realize I stopped walking until Trace clears his throat.
“Take a seat.” He removes the blanket from my shoulders and pats the back of the chair. Then he slides off his coat and sits on the couch across from me.
As I lower onto the seat, Cole returns with an inch-thick folder of papers.
“Look through this.” He sets it on the coffee table before me and opens the flap. “They’re congressional documents that have been made public.”
He sits beside Trace on the couch, leaving a cushion of space between them. They don’t acknowledge each other, but they share the same single focus. Neither appear to be troubled or on edge. I assume that means whatever I’m about to read is safe for consumption.
Rather than jumping in, I take a moment to absorb their reclined postures and soft expressions.
While Trace looks insanely handsome in dark denim and a white t-shirt, his casual attire does nothing to detract from the formidable aura that surrounds him. It’s the way he watches me, those alluring pale eyes sharp with promise and commitment. He hasn’t washed his hands of me. Not even close.
Cole rests an elbow on the arm of the couch and props an ankle on a knee. The leather jacket came off when he stepped inside, leaving a black Henley that drapes across his wide shoulders. The thin material clings to the ridges of muscle he packed on since the last time I saw him.
“It’s unclassified information.” Cole lifts his chin toward the folder. “Go ahead.”
With a deep breath, I pull the stack of papers onto my lap. The document on top has a United States seal stamped in the header with a line scratched through the words TOP SECRET and NOFORN. There’s other text stringed with it, but it’s blocked out by a black box of ink. Unclassified is typed above it.
“What does NOFORN mean?” I meet Cole’s eyes.
“No foreign nationals.”
On the front page, there are references to Senate and Intelligence, as well as a list of declassification dates that are four years old. I flip to the next page and scan what appears to be an executive summary about nuclear, chemical, and biological security.
The language is vague and confusing. Every other word is an acronym, and it redundantly discusses things like exercising the authorities and carrying out the responsibilities of the activity in sections 443 through blah, blah, blah of Reference (a) and (c), etcetera and whatever. I turn the pages and find more of the same.
“Am I supposed to understand this?” I rub my forehead, squinting at the meaningless text.
“Keep reading.” Cole strokes a thumb across his bottom lip, his posture laid back and gaze steady.
As I page through dozens of documents, the verbiage doesn’t become any clearer. More acronyms. More section references. I know the words—negotiations, funding, allocations, resources, initiatives—but I feel like I need a secret decoder to understand the context.
“You’re going to explain this, right?” I hold up a letter with bullet points from A to R, each citing other alphabetized sections. “The only part I understand is the signature at the bottom.”
This one is signed by the Secretary of Defense.
Trace removes an ink pen from the drawer in the coffee table and hands it to Cole.
“Bring the documents here.” Cole shifts, making room for me to slide by.
He wants me to sit between him and Trace. I’m not excited about that, mostly because my body is excited about it. My skin remembers the warm pressure of their hands. My lips crave their unique tastes. My inhales are starved for their addictive musky scents.
I miss the feel of Trace’s fingers stroking my hair and collaring my throat. I long to hear Cole’s dirty talk as he stretches and fills me. I want to kiss Trace’s scowl and rub my face against Cole’s whiskers. I need them with a yearning that can only end in more heartache.
What if this conversation exonerates their secrets and lies? That possibility scares me. I need a reason to be angry with them. I need them to not be perfect, to make irredeemable mistakes that will drive me away.
Because if all is forgiven, I’m back to square one, facing an impossible decision.
Gathering the documents, I slide around Cole and lower onto the couch between them. Cole bends over my lap, using my legs as a table while scribbling marks on the pages.
My gaze falls on the back of his head, the tousled strands of thick brown hair, and the clean-shaved hairline on his nape. I want to press my nose against the base of his neck and breathe in deeply. I want to run my fingers over his scalp, wrap my arms around his bulky biceps, and hug him with the ferocity of my longing.
A flush of heat spreads across my cheeks, and I look away, colliding with crystal blue eyes.
“What’s he doing?” I swallow, knowing full well Trace was watching me fantasize about Cole.
“Your trust is broken, and we’re going to fix that.” Trace’s scowl twitches into a thoughtful expression. “He’ll show you as much as he can without breaking too many laws.”
I pick at a seam on the leather cushion, both excited and nervous.
Trace scans my face and lingers on a lock of hair that partially obstructs my view. He lifts a hand to brush it back, but I beat him to it, tucking it behind my ear. If he touches me, I’m doomed.
This would be so much easier if I didn’t remember the rush of pleasure those hands have given me. Every second I spent with him is a thread sewed through my heart, holding it together. Seeing him, being near him, stretches those seams, swelling, expanding, aching. If I crumble and beg for reconciliation, I’ll only hurt him again. Both of them.
I shouldn’t be here.
Leaving them was agonizing. I don’t know how I’ll walk away again.
“All right.” Cole lifts his head and re-stacks the papers. “Take another look.”
When he leans back, I parse through the documents. Every paper has the same two words circled in blue ink.
The activity.
Page after page, I reread the statements around every circle he made, struggling to make sense of them.
…financing the activity installation
…appointing a distinguished panel to examine the activity during this period
…testimony of members of the activity
…articulate the activity’s strategy to Congress
…requested information from the activity and other federal departments
The activity…the activity…the activity… Those are the only two words he marked.
“I don’t understand.” I reach the bottom of the stack and return to the first page. “What’s the activity?”
“Me.” Cole tilts his head toward Trace. “Him.”
“That’s what you were called?” A sense of relief settles over me. I can finally put a label on the entity that caused me years of pain.
“Trace and I were part of a special unit that goes by many names. OGA, ISA, Optimized Talent, Gray Fox… Every time there’s a classified spill, they change the designator. But in congressional documents, we’re simply referred to as the activity.”
“Will you get in trouble for telling me this?”