Page 17 of Isaac

"Come here, you sexy animal," Jessica says jokingly and hands Caleb his present.

He accepts it with a grin and then a small bow in the direction of Thoreau.

Interesting.

"Don’t spend it all in one place, buddy," Seven shouts drunkenly. I hope he’s off today. He’s too fucked up to be working. Wait! Why should I care? These people aren’t good people. If something happens to them because of their stupidity or the dumb choices they make, it’s their own damn fault.

"Next up," Jessica announces, holding a small gift-wrapped box in her hand. "For the most badass bouncer!" She makes a pause for effect while Ricky drums out a beat with his fingers on the table. "Marco!"

The room erupts in applause while Marco makes his way over to Jessica. He’s grinning while accepting the token. Then he tears into the wrapping in front of everyone to reveal a sleek pocketknife. "You've proved your worth again and again, man," Jeremy says proudly.

For the next thirty minutes, the room is filled with excited chatter, rustling of wrapping paper, and Jessica’s tipsy nomination announcements. And I almost feel this giddy anticipation each time a new present comes out from that box Jeremy’s guarding.

"Is this a regular thing?" I ask Seven as the team continues to receive their gifts.

"Absolutely. Boss does this every month," he replies, nodding toward Isaac who’s still propped against the wall and away from the commotion. It’s like he doesn’t want the spotlight. He just wants to watch. And I understand it. Understand more than I care actually.

"Never had anything like this at my other gigs," I tell Seven quietly.

"We're family here at Purgatory. Many of us couldn't find a job anywhere else." He leans in closer and adds in a hushed tone, "Some guys have records and most places won't give them a chance. But Isaac trusts us to do our best. He can be a hardass sometimes, but if you stick around long enough, you’ll see that he’s fucking great."

Right.

He’s also a convicted murderer, who killed his own father.

The laughter of the back room fades into a distant hum as I sneak away into the privacy of the back alley for a pre-shift smoke.

Dallas doesn’t smoke: it's never been his vice. But Hawk does. And while Dallas isn’t particularly keen on developing unhealthy habits, all rules blur when you're desperate for results. Sometimes you have to waltz through fire to score your victory. But what I noticed a long time ago is that people have this strange affinity for spilling their beans with a fellow smoker.

My mind is churning as I retrieve a pack of Newports from the back pocket of my jeans. The gritty pavement beneath myboots feels like a tether to reality, anchoring me in my mission as I lean against the brick wall and light a cigarette.

Smoke curls into the hot evening air, momentarily obscuring the neon signs that cast an eerie glow on my shadowy surroundings.

I try not to get used to the icy sting of menthol on my tongue as the smoke caresses my lungs like an unwanted guest while I prepare myself for another round of silent warfare waiting for me inside Purgatory.

The blurry edges of sobriety begin to take a crisp, acute form—a brain on high alert, a goal etched in crystal. Clear.

The door creaks open and I fully expect to see Seven or Ricky.

Instead, I’m blindsided by Thoreau’s silhouette as he slips out from the inside, quiet and stealthy like a cat. He turns toward me, standing against the wall of light streaming into the alley from one of those ego-filled buildings on the Strip that need to shine brighter than all.

His face is a dark blob. His features are drowning in the playful blend of light and dark.

Then a whisper-veiled challenge echoes through the stuffy air. "Mind if I join you?"

Grammatically, it’s a question but I realize he’s not asking. He’s telling me.

For some reason—and it rarely happens during missions when I work the target—my heartbeat quickens and an alien sensation grips at my pulse.

I maintain a stoic, unimpressed façade that’s supposed to scream 'barely interested.' I nod subtly to acknowledge his presence.

Thoreau continues to stand in his spot for a moment between us that stretches, both hands in the pockets of his slacks, lean body framed by neon. He’s long-legged, with a thin waist, and broad—but not bulky—shoulders and I realize I’m staring athim for too long—longer than rules permit in our volatile social survival game.

"How’s the job treating you so far?" Isaac finally asks, taking a slow step in my direction, hands never leaving his pockets.

As he draws closer, his face becomes clear, his features embedding themselves into my brain over and over. He’s almost… delicate in some places. Like his veined wrists. Elegant. Thin. I have no explanation for why this particular observation flashes through the forefront of my mind but in this moment I don’t question it because Isaac Thoreau is in front of me. It’s just the two of us and it’s a perfect opportunity.

"The job is great," I tell him, holding his gaze.

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