Page 22 of The Pretenders of Copper County
“Yes,” he admitted.
“Then why’d you act like you didn’t know what to do when I handed you one?”
“Because I’ve never actually shot at a person. I couldn’t. I-I don’t even want to hold one.”
“You’re an ax thrower. You do martial arts. You’re a weapons expert?—”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. No. I’mnot.” Chris thunked his head back against the headrest. “Do you have any idea how frustrating it is to be told who and what you are by someone who thinks they know better than you, Reed? Because I’ve been dealing with that my whole life, from people who know me a whole lot better than you do, and I’m kind of over it. Okay?” He scraped his lip with his teeth before adding, “Sorry.”
I could feel the weight of his eyes on me, but I didn’t know how to respond,so I didn’t.
A moment later, he spoke again. “I really, really want to go home. Can weplease?—?”
“No. It’s not safe.”
His sigh came from the depths of his soul and made my heart turn over in my chest. Without consciously choosing to, I reached out and pushed a stray curl out of his eyes. “I’m sorry, too,” I said softly.
He squeezed his eyes closed and turned his face away, and I clenched my jaw to keep from murmuring more reassurances.
Once he was slumped in a little ball in the passenger seat, snoring softly, I pulled out my phone and called the Division. A sleepy-voiced Margot from Accounts finally got on, sounding about as confused as I felt. She promised she’d pass on my “concerns” and very helpfully suggested that I “hang in there, buddy, and, like, improvise or whatever” until she could get back to me in the morning. She disconnected without saying goodbye.
Fuck.
I clutched my phone until the edge of the case dented my palm. From the first day of training, the Division had taught us to live their motto, “Security Through Trust.” In order to succeed in a mission, protectees needed to trust us… andweneeded to trust our bosses and fellow agents because we were always stronger as part of a team. I used to scoff at the rah-rah bullshit… but a month ago, when I’d almost gotten myself fired, I’d started to realize how much Ihadcome to rely on it. If I wasn’t a Division agent, if I wasn’t part of that team, who the fuck was I?
I hadn’t wanted to find out. I still didn’t.
But now here I was, twisting in the wind with no support, effectively on my own, and?—
“John.” Chris’s voice was soclear I turned my head, sure he was awake, but I quickly realized he must be dreaming about that TV character he kept mentioning.
I snorted. Chris Winowski was a fucking terror. An adorable, utterly confusing menace. John Ruffian could have him with my best wishes.
But then Chris frowned in his sleep and sighed, “Reed,” and my stomach clenched.
Okay, so I wasn’t entirely alone. I had one distractingly adorable, horrifically misinformed, ridiculously talkative protectee with me.
And I’m going to protect him, I vowed.Whether he likes it or not.
It turned out he didn’t like it one bit.
CHAPTER FIVE
CHRIS
I usedto think living inside aJohn Ruffian: Pretenderepisode would be fun, but now that it was sort of happening to me, I realized it was only fun if you were John Ruffian.
When I came awake in Reed’s car, the first thing I felt was a kink in my neck from sleeping hunched against the passenger door. The second was an overfull bladder. The third was a sudden, bone-deep terror because I realized I was alone, and I couldn’t stop hearing the sound of my name being shouted while gunfire blasted through the air.
I glanced around to get my bearings and noticed we were stopped in the parking lot of an old-fashioned motel. Beside me, a flashing neon sign read Bed-Rock Inn… though with the last light burned out, it looked more like Bed-Rockin’, which made me burst into anxious giggles that did nothing to help my bladder situation.
Thankfully, Reed exited the lobby before full panic set in and sent me racing into the night. I popped open the car door as he approached.
“Hey. You hungry?” He shoved a big plastic key ring into his back pocket.
“Um. Not really?” I adjusted my glasses. “I suppose the whole going-home thing is still off the table?”
Reed didn’t answer, which kind ofwasan answer, but his face softened a bit. He tilted his head, gesturing across the narrow country road where a sprawling wood building was lit up and faint sounds of country music escaped from its cracks. A hand-painted “Trickster’s Roadhouse, Pittsfield, MA” sprawled across the front of the building in faded red paint.
