Page 44 of Brass
The release, when it comes, is hollow—a momentary emptying of tension that does nothing to slake the thirst growing stronger with each passing day. The kind of thirst that won’t be satisfied by my hand, cold showers, or mental discipline. The kind that demands surrender—hers and mine.
I rinse away the evidence, disgusted with my lack of control. With my weakness. Years of operational discipline are unraveling over a woman I met a few days ago.
Back in the main room, Celeste is perched cross-legged on the bed, the news playing softly on the ancient television set.
I reach for my weapon. The habitual disassembly and cleaning helps center me.
Her eyes track my movements as I clean the Glock. “How long have you been doing this?”
“Cleaning weapons? Since I was twelve. My father was military.”
“No, I mean…This. Extracting people. Security work.”
My hands don’t pause in their routine. Field strip. Clean barrel. Check ejector. Reassemble. “Cerberus has been operational for seven years. I’ve been with them for five.”
“And before that?”
“Classified.”
She makes a sound of frustration. “Is everything about you classified?”
“The relevant parts.” I reassemble the slide, and the familiar click is a comforting sound in the quiet room. “The parts that keep people like you alive.”
“People like me,” she repeats, something in her tone making me look up. “And what exactly am I to you? An assignment? A complication? An inconvenience?”
The question catches me off guard. My hands go still on the weapon.
“You’re a civilian in danger,” I say finally. “My job is to get you safely to Seattle.”
“Your job,” she echoes. “Except this isn’t your job, is it? You weren’t assigned to protect me. You chose to help me on that platform. You chose to call your team. You chose to drive me across the country instead of putting me on a plane or handing me off to local authorities.”
Each statement lands like a precisely aimed bullet, finding the vulnerable spots in my professional armor.
“What’s your point?”
“My point is that this is personal for you. And I want to know why.”
I reassemble the weapon with more force than necessary, the sound sharp in the quiet room. “My reasons are irrelevant to your safety.”
“Bullshit.” She leans forward, eyes intent. “You’ve upended your life for me. Missed whatever mission you were headed back to Seattle for. Put yourself at risk. I think I deserve to know why.”
Because I couldn’t walk away, something about you arrested my attention from the first moment I saw you on that platform. Because watching you die wasn’t an option I could accept.
None of these are answers I can give her.
“Get some sleep,” I say instead, turning off the lamp nearest me. “We move at dawn.”
In the semi-darkness, her soft sigh of frustration fills the room. The sheets rustle as she settles into bed. The quiet that follows feels charged, heavy with unspoken words.
I close my eyes and implement another technique from my training days—sectioning off the mind into compartments. Placing problematic thoughts into secure containment. Focusing on the mission rather than the increasingly complicated emotions surrounding them.
It helps. Until it doesn’t.
Until her breathing deepens in sleep, and I listen to its rhythm. Until the memory of her scent overrides the mental barriers I’ve constructed. Until I’m back where I started—painfully aware of her presence just feet away, of the bed we could be sharing, of all the ways I want to touch her.
I exhale slowly. I’ve endured worse.
Though at the moment, I’m hard-pressed to remember when.
