Page 107 of Loverboy
32
Scout
It’s beentwelve hours since Gunnar was shot in the basement on Prince Street. I can’t think too much about it. There’s no time for emotion. I have a mission to run.
This morning we’re sending Geoff into the nightclub for his bookkeeping gig. With Gunnar fighting for his life in the hospital, and Max crazed with worry, and the team short-staffed, the mission falls to me to direct.
Usually, I don’t run missions. I’m not a hacker or a techie. My specialty is human nature. If Max needs access to an office or a hotel room, I’m the one he sends inside. No matter how secure the location, a disarming smile from me does the trick. Bending the rules is my superpower.
In the wee hours of the night, though, I broke my own rule.
Max was out of his mind with worry, and raging at the hospital staff. He’s never lost a Company operative. And it’s breaking him that we might lose Gunnar—his college roommate and dear friend.
We’re all upset. But we don’t all show it the same way. Max shows his fear by snarling at everyone in his path, including his staff, his friends, and anyone wearing an NYU lab coat.
At the urging of Pieter and Duff, I drove his Triumph over to NYU Medical Center to pick him up from the hospital. Since he doesn’t like other people riding his bike, he came outside to give me a piece of his mind.
“What were you thinking?” he’d asked me, standing on the sidewalk looking shredded. “I didn’t ask for a lift. And I certainly didn’t ask you to ride my bike.”
“I was thinking that you’re going to be arrested for disturbing the peace in that waiting room if you don’t walk away for a few hours. Did you actuallykicka soda machine? What good is that going to do?”
“They weren’t giving me the information,” he’d barked.
“Max, get on the fucking bike and go home,” I’d begged. “It’s two a.m. Get a few hours of sleep and give Gunnar a few hours to recover before you get thrown out of this place.”
Gunnar was still in surgery then. The asshole who shot him managed to nick his femoral artery. In spite of Pieter’s tourniquet, and Duff’s NASCAR driving, Gunnar almost bled to death in the back of the sedan.
He’s still unconscious. And the doctors aren’t sure yet if they’ve managed to save his leg.
I’d forced Max’s helmet into his hands. “Go home.”
“How are you getting back?”
“We both fit on that bike. Or I’ll take a cab.”
“Get on,” he’d snapped.
I rode all the way back to West 18thStreet with my arms around Max’s angry, sturdy body.
There aren’t many people that I trust. But Max is one of them. If I’d been the unlucky person who got shot, I know he’d be kicking vending machines in my hospital waiting room, too.
Back at headquarters, I planned to nab a bunk in the off-duty room and crash. But Max growled at me to come upstairs with him for a drink.
At two a.m. Just the two of us.
That’s something we used to do a lot. But we don’t anymore. Not for a couple of years.
Max must have forgotten, though. Because he pressed me against the elevator wall and devoured me with angry kisses. I didn’t leave his apartment until five in the morning.
I could have said no.
Ishouldhave said no.
And not because Max is the boss, or because either of us gives a flying fuck about the optics.
The problem is that I give a lot of flying fucks about Max. And sex with him always leaves me feeling raw and vulnerable.
I don’t like feeling raw, and I reallyhatefeeling vulnerable.
