Free A Lot Like Love by Julie James Page A

T-shirt, revealing several scars, electrical burns, and a bullet wound on his chest.
    Having worked on and off with Jack for several years, and given how they were both regulars at the gym, Nick had seen the other agent’s scars before—souvenirs of the two days Jack had been tortured by Roberto Martino’s men. Two days where he’d given them absolutely nothing in exchange. The scars were a quick reminder not only of the pride Nick felt in being a special agent in one of the toughest FBI field offices in the country, but also of the grudging respect he had for Jack. All trash talk aside, they understood each other’s commitment to the job.
    Davis wasn’t getting any younger, and when he retired as special agent in charge, either Nick or Jack likely would be asked to fill the position. Neither was entirely sure he wanted it, although the satisfaction that would be derived from beating out the other for the job provided strong motivation to at least consider the possibility.
    Nick ignored the scars on Jack’s chest, as was expected. He stripped off the rest of his clothes and slung a towel around his hips. “You know, it’s interesting what you said a moment ago about taking orders. From what I hear, you’ve been taking a lot of orders yourself these days. From the new U.S. attorney.” Actually, what he’d heard from several sources around the office was that Jack had been assigned to protect the new U.S. attorney as part of a murder investigation and had dived off a three-story stairwell to save her life. Also according to these sources—who had spoken only on condition of total anonymity—the two were now living together and Jack had subsequently “mellowed” a bit from his former days.
    “We all take orders from the U.S. attorney around here,” Jack said. “She is something.” The corners of his mouth turned up as he slid out of his running pants.
    Nick stared at him in astonishment. “Was that actually a smile? Shit, Pallas—all these years we’ve been working together, I wasn’t even sure you had teeth.”
    “It’s part of this whole softer side Jack is trying out,” said a voice from around the corner. A younger, well-built African American man strolled over from the showers. Like Jack and Nick, he was naked except for a towel knotted around his waist. “It’s kind of nice, actually—he barely ever threatens to kill people anymore.” The young agent reached over the bench in the center of the aisle and stuck out his hand to Nick. “I’m Jack’s partner, the inimitable Sam Wilkins,” he said by way of introduction. “I’ve seen you around the office the past few days.”
    Nick shook his hand. “Nick McCall. You’re the new guy from Yale, right? I’ve heard about you. People say you’ve got a wardrobe that rivals Huxley’s.”
    “Who’s got a wardrobe that rivals mine?” Huxley came around the corner in a towel and—big surprise—Polo shower shoes. He took his glasses out of his locker and put them on. He spotted Wilkins. “Oh. Hello . . . Wilkins.”
    “Hello, Huxley,” Wilkins replied coolly.
    Nick pointed between the two of them. “You boys have a problem?”
    “No problem,” Huxley said. “Just a little friendly school rivalry.”
    “Not so much a rivalry,” Wilkins corrected. “I’d call it more a mutual understanding between the two of us that Huxley here went to the other Ivy League law school; the one that follows behind Yale in the rankings.”
    “And also a mutual understanding that Wilkins here went to a law school that, while theoretically Ivy League like Harvard, teaches its students wholly impractical classes like Law and the Butterfly,” Huxley noted.
    With a chuckle, Jack mumbled under his breath to Nick. “It’s like watching the preppy, well-bred versions of you and me trash-talking.” He headed off to the showers.
    Huxley looked offended by this. “I’m not that preppy.” Naked except for his shower shoes, he took out a pair of neatly ironed