Page 34 of Reaper
“Next time I drink antifreeze, remind me to bring protection.”
“There’s no way I’m touching that.”
“The comment, or…?”
“Both.”
“Not even the tip?”
“Shut up. I hate you. I can’t believe I’m saving your life.”
And just like that, we’re a team.
Kind of.
Maybe.
Fuck it — we drank antifreeze together, and that’s close enough.
Chapter Seventeen
Adriana
We have something like a plan — get to Sacramento and take care of Ruslan Volkov, whatever that means — and we have a clearly defined command structure, even if Reaper isn’t so willing to accept it: I’m in charge, because I know what the fuck I’m doing, and he’s not, because I won’t accept him being in charge of me since he was, not that long ago, willing to have his head bashed in with a rock in the middle of a forest clearing behind the world’s sketchiest truck stop, where ‘whiskey’ is code for ‘antifreeze.’
Clearly, a man with those goals and temperament can’t be allowed a command position.
There’s a deeper reason, too. I’m worried about what will happen to me if I let him get any closer. Everything I feel for him feels so wrong. This urge to save his life, this wanting something closer, something more, with him I tell myself is just coming from a desire to know more about the little sister that I lost, but is really, truly coming from a place that makes me feel so ashamed and angry at myself: I want Reaper because he’s Reaper; shattered, yet still willing to save my life when the Russians came after me; flawed, yet still capable of loving so deeply he’s willing to sacrifice everything just for the chance — however fucking slim and illogical and impossible it is — to be closer to the woman he loves. That woman is my sister, butthere’s a shameful part of me that hopes that someday, that name might change.
And that thought scares me.
When you live the life I do —or did, to be honest with myself— you can’t get close to someone. Getting close to someone means you risk losing them. Love isn’t something you carry with you through your day-to-day life, it’s something you keep at arm’s length because you don’t want to get hurt, you don’t want someone else to get hurt, and the best substitute you can find are on hurried, desperate Friday and Saturday nights, when you get yourself drunk enough that you can drop the fear — just a little — and let someone get close enough that you can fuck each other’s brains out until you forget the fear and empty ache that threatens to swallow you from the inside every other waking moment of the day.
“Are you lost?” He says.
I blink, bringing my attention back to the road in front of me. Drab warehouses, apartment buildings, and billboards have replaced the trees of the countryside.
“No. Why?”
“Because you’ve missed about four exits for Sacramento and, if you keep driving in this direction, we’ll wind up in Reno, and I don’t think either of us would willingly choose Reno over coming face to face with Volkov’s gang.”
“I’m not lost. I’m thinking. We need somewhere to crash while we figure out a plan on how to deal with your massive fucking problem of being indebted to, and on the hit list of, the Russian mob.”
“It’s not justmyproblem; it’syourproblem, too. You’re on their hit list too now. Or have you forgotten?”
“No, I haven’t. But thanks for the reminder of the shit consequences of getting close to you.”
“You’re in a pissy mood right now. There’s a gas station at the next exit. You want to pull over and get yourself some more antifreeze to take the edge off?”
“I hate you so much.”
“Same.”
“Same what? That you hate me or you hate yourself?”
He grins at me. “Por que no los dos?”
I hit the blinker and switch lanes. Maybe the antifreeze is a good idea.
