As if on cue, Rachel let out one of her giggles and right on the heels of it came a low purring growl. Which usually meant Eddie was going in for something. A kiss. A palm up. A sucking . . .

Jim’s stare narrowed. “Are you okay?”

Adrian stepped back and started to shut the door. He didn’t want Jim involved in his drama. It was one thing to be undone before Eddie—who he’d lived through hell with. Literally.

But not Jim. He liked the guy . . . trusted him . . . was willing work with him. That was it, though.

“Hold up a minute,” Heron demanded.

“I gotta go—”

“You can spare me a frickin’ minute. Something tells me they won’t go far without you.”

Adrian was having problems.

Jim could sense it clearly as the guy stood in the doorway with that faker smile on his puss and a body that was strung tight as a bridge cable. Sure, he’d appeared to be keeping shit together, but that wasn’t the truth under his Mr. Rough Guy routine, was it.

And battle fatigue was not a joke; it fractured your brain and presented a danger to yourself and others. After all, walking around with a noggin that wasn’t working right was like having a weapon in your holster that could misfire at any moment—and blow up in your hand.

“Adrian.”

“What.” The guy’s reply was not an opening for discussion. And neither was the hand with long red nails that snaked across his hip and began to drag up his shirt.

“Come in here for a sec,” Jim said, well aware he was pushing water uphill. No way the angel was going to turn away from Ms. Fancy Fingers over there.

“Little busy right now, buddy.” Adrian’s eyes were nothing but glass, like whatever lit up the inside of him had taken off for a vacation.

“This is more important.”

“FYI, I’m not a big talker. I’m a doer.”

This got yet another giggle and the shirt pushed up past the angel’s pecs . . . and then there was a pause, like the female was surprised with what she’d found. Made sense. Ad’s nipples were pierced with bars, and a gunmetal gray chain connected the set—and didn’t stop there. The links ran down his six-pack and beneath the waistband of the jeans.

Jim had pulled a hey-wait-a-minute when he’d first gotten a gander at the connect-the-dots, too.

“Look, Adrian,” he began, prepared to start in, even if it was with an audience.

Ad twisted around to the woman. “Go say ‘hi’ to Eddie for minute, honey.”