Page 61 of Keeping Kasey
“We’re staying in today,” Damon says, and I faintly hear the back door close behind him.
“I don’t want to.”
“I don’t care.”
I turn midway down the hall and find him with his arms crossed over his broad chest—bracing for my argument.
These Consolis are quick learners.
“I want to check on the security system and make sure everything is running as it should before I continue to install it in each base.”
“You’re not confident in your work?”
“Thoroughness is half of expertise,” I say with a shrug.
Damon’s eyes take on a taunting edge. “Why didn’t you tell Logan you needed to go in today?”
“Because I don’t talk to Logan.” I turn on my heels and go to my room without giving him another second of my attention.
Even as he mutters, “Sounds like you need to do more thantalkto him.”
The understanding that Damon and I have established since working together falls back into place by the time we pull into the base garage, and I’m glad for it. I don’t do the wholefriendthing, but I could see myself considering the concept with someone like Damon.
He’s a light-hearted smartass and someone I find myself relaxing around.
We stop at the base’s kitchen to have one of the soldiers prepare two cups of coffee before making our way to Ford’s office.
When Damon takes his to-go cup, he doesn’t bother blowing on it or taking small sips—he chugs half the cup in one swig.
“You realize you’re not at a frat house, right? You can drink it like a normal person.”
“Self-medication,” he says. “It’s my go-to when I can’t have the drinks I actually want—which is often, since I spend most of my time with you. Plus, the caffeine is a nice kick that takes the edge off.”
“That doesn’t sound like the kind of mindset someone in recovery should have.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “Until you’ve spent half your life as an addict, you don’t get to judge my guilty pleasures.”
“Fair enough,” I grant as we walk toward Ford’s office.
I bring the cup to my lips, but when the smell hits my nose, I lower it again. I’ve never been a coffee drinker—it’s always either too bitter or too sweet. I only took one because I’m so tired, but I doubt I’ll drink it.
“Besides, I have a theory that Logan instructed the kitchen to only give me decaf anyway. My brain just prefers to believe it’s caffeinated.”
“Would it bother you if he did?” I ask.
He doesn’t even think about it before shaking his head, but he doesn’t say anything.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think Logan was the oldest.”
Damon’s expression doesn’t change to reveal any particular reaction, but his lack of reaction is telling in itself. Whether it’s indicative of frustration or gratitude for his brother, I can’t decipher.
I get the feeling he’s not in the mood to share.
We round the corner, and I run into a broad body.
The crash sends me back a few feet, but not before covering me and the other person in coffee. It must not have come straight from a fresh pot because—thankfully—it’s only warm and not hot enough to burn.
I curse under my breath, my clothes soiled and clinging uncomfortably to my skin.
