Cole’s POV
The pounding rattles my entire door at 7 AM, violent enough to knock dust from the frame and send my already pounding head into overdrive.
Half a bottle of whiskey last night was a mistake, but not as big as whatever's happening right now.
"Open up, you fucking bastard! I know you're in there!"
Marcus's voice. My landlord who lives three floors up, always seemed like a decent guy—fixes things within a day, doesn't raise rent every year like every other landlord in the city.
Through the haze of my hangover, I can't imagine what would have made him this worked up. Maybe someone parked in his spot again. Maybe the guys in 2B threw another party.
I approach the door cautiously, still wearing yesterday's clothes that reek of whiskey and bad decisions. My mouth tastes like something died in it.
Through the peephole, the sight makes my blood turn to ice water: Marcus grips a Louisville Slugger in both hands, his face purple with rage, veins bulging in his neck like they might burst.
"I know you're in there, Jensen! Serena told me everything! Every fucking detail!"
Serena. The name hits me like a physical blow, and suddenly the pieces click into place with sickening clarity. The brunette from O'Malley's three weeks ago.
Lonely eyes that reminded me of my mother's, tequila courage making her bold, spectacular tits in a black dress that left little to imagination.
She'd said she was separated, said her husband was out of the picture, said she needed someone to make her feel alive again.
"Marcus, listen, I can explain everything. She told me she was separated. I had no idea…"
The bat splinters through my door, sending me stumbling backward as wood explodes into my apartment.
Marcus kicks the rest open, the frame hanging useless on bent hinges, and that's when I see it—the gun tucked in his waistband, handle visible above his jeans. My heart stops for a full second before resuming at triple speed.
"Three weeks ago," he says, voice deadly calm now which is somehow worse than the shouting. "Three weeks ago, you fucked my wife. In our bed! In the bed where my children were conceived, you piece of shit!"
"I didn't know she was married, Marcus! She said she was single. She wasn't wearing a ring, there was no indication—"
The bat swings in a perfect arc, shattering my TV like it's made of paper. Glass explodes across the room in a thousand glittering pieces.
"In our bed! While I was in hospice visiting my dying mother! My mother was taking her last breaths while you were balls deep in my wife!"
Another swing destroys my laptop, the screen separating from the keyboard in a shower of sparks and plastic.
Then the coffee table becomes kindling under his rage. Each swing is precise, methodical, like he's been planning this destruction in his mind for days.
"She said she was single!"
I edge toward the window, hands raised in surrender, trying to keep my voice calm despite the panic clawing at my throat. "Marcus, I swear to God, if I'd known she was your wife, if I'd had any idea—"
"Liar! You seduced her at the bar, you convinced her to come back here, you talked her into bringing you to our place when she was drunk and vulnerable!"
That's not how it happened. She approached me, bought me drinks, practically dragged me out of the bar. But I can see in his eyes that the truth doesn't matter anymore.
His hand moves toward the gun, fingers brushing the handle, and I know with crystal clarity that I have about two seconds before this goes from property damage to murder.
"You destroyed my marriage," Marcus says, hand closing on the gun. "Twenty-two years. Three kids. You destroyed everything for one night of getting your dick wet."
I don't think—just pivot and dive through the window onto the fire escape. The glass shatters around me, my shoulder screaming on impact with the metal grating, but adrenaline is a hell of a drug.
I'm moving before my brain catches up, taking the ladder three rungs at a time, rust flaking off under my bare feet because of course I hadn't put on shoes yet.
"Get back here, you coward!" Marcus's shouts echo behind me, bouncing off the brick walls of the alley. "Face me like a man!"
A gunshot cracks through the morning air, and brick explodes near my head. Jesus Christ, he's actually shooting at me.
I drop the last eight feet to the alley, ankles protesting as I hit the concrete, but I'm running before the pain registers.
Barefoot on broken glass and whatever else decorates this alley, clutching nothing but my phone and wallet that were somehow in my pockets from last night.
My truck sits two blocks away, might as well be two miles. I sprint like I haven't since high school track, feet leaving bloody prints on the sidewalk, ignoring the stares from early morning joggers.
Behind me, Marcus's voice gets closer, then farther, then closer again. He's chasing me through the streets with a baseball bat at 7 AM on a Sunday, and this is definitely going to make the neighborhood Facebook page.
I make it to my truck somehow, hands shaking so bad it takes three tries to get the key in the ignition.
The engine roars to life just as Marcus emerges from between two buildings, bat raised, face twisted with rage that would be almost comical if it wasn't terrifying.
I peel out, tires screaming against asphalt, leaving him standing in the middle of the street shouting threats about finding me, about finishing this, about what happens to men who fuck other men's wives.
My hands don't stop shaking for the entire forty-minute drive. I pull over twice to make sure he's not following me, paranoid every pickup truck might be him.
The adrenaline crash hits hard, leaving me nauseated and exhausted.
Everything I own is in that apartment—clothes, furniture, the paintings I never show anyone, years of carefully constructed life destroyed because I couldn't keep it in my pants for one night.
Although that's not fair. I genuinely didn't know Serena was married. But that's the thing about being the other man—nobody cares about your intentions when the damage is done.
I drive without thinking, muscle memory taking over, and somehow end up on Ryan and Grace's porch.
The duffel bag from my truck with gym clothes that need washing, deodorant that's probably expired, a phone charger sits at my feet like the world's saddest refugee package.
This is my entire life now, one bag of sweaty clothes and nowhere to go except here, to the house where temptation lives in the form of my best friend's wife.
Grace opens the door, and her eyes widen as she takes in my state—bloody feet, yesterday's clothes, probably looking like I've been through a war. "Cole? We weren't expecting… What happened to you?"
"Is the offer still open?" The words come out rough, desperate, nothing like the confident player I'm supposed to be. "Ryan's offer. Is it still on the table?"
She glances behind her where Ryan appears, assessing my disheveled state with those analytical eyes that miss nothing.
Something flickers across his face—satisfaction maybe, or recognition that the universe just made his decision easier. A small smile plays at his lips, and he steps aside to let me in.
"Perfect timing," Ryan says, like finding me bloodied and homeless on his doorstep is exactly what he expected. "The guest room's ready. We've been waiting for you."