Page 73 of Gravity
Dave’s chest tightened at the honesty, sharper than any blade. For a heartbeat, he wanted to reach for him, wanted the world to fall away the way it did in this man’s arms.
But the mission pressed in, and all he could do was hold Stone’s stare, steady and silent.
“Tomorrow, stay close to me,” Stone said harshly.
“I will. I promise.”
The air between them cooled, but the promised words lingered—strong, unbreakable, as they waited for whatever came next.
Vegas warehouse.
The stink hit first.
The place reeked of old smoke and sweat, the walls steeped in both. A faint tang of gun oil lingered in the air—too many weapons hiding under too many coats.
Stone’s boots grated across bare concrete, every step loud in the quiet. The overhead lights buzzed—cheap fluorescents that washed the place sickly yellow.
Dave walked a half pace ahead, steady as granite. To anyone else, he looked untouched, calm as a man handling business.
But Stone knew him too well. He saw the tiny flex of Dave’s jaw, the shallow rhythm in his breath. Every inch of him screamed control—except the part Stone could feel, like a thread stretched tight through his own chest.
He shifted his stance to cover Dave’s flank, weight balanced, hand brushing the edge of his own jacket where steel rested.
Rip mirrored him on the other side of Dave—calm, silent, scanning. They didn’t need words; two men cut from the same cloth.
Boston’s sneakers squeaked on the floor. The eighteen-year-old looked loose, restless, the kind of twitch that would draw a predator’s eyes. Sage beside him was the opposite—still as a coiled trap, green eyes sharp beneath the halo of blond curls.The two of them were bait dressed up as a prize, and every instinct Stone had told him that was a dangerous game.
The guards at the far wall shifted, eyes sliding over the group. Stone tracked their movements without moving his head—fingers still, his weight rolling to the balls of his feet. The room smelled like gunpowder.
Franklin’s man stepped forward, all swagger and cheap cologne.
“Hands out,” one of Franklin’s men said, stepping forward, all swagger and cheap cologne.
“The fuck you say?” Stone’s voice was lethal, a wash of fury coating the words.
The man gaped and stumbled back a bit. The rest of Franklin’s men shifted nervously, dragging their eyes from Stone to Rip and then Dave.
Dave didn’t blink. He stood still, shoulders squared, gray hair catching the yellow light. Seller, not commander, but tough as nails.
The silence pressed in, heavy with oil and rust. Every instinct screamed wrong, wrong, wrong.
Stone squinted, scanning the exits again. One way in. One way out. And five heartbeats too slow if this blows.
The door creaked, and the stink of cigars rolled in first.
Then Franklin.
He wasn’t tall, but he carried himself like a man who thought he owned the room. Suit jacket stretched over a gut, hair slicked back, sweat shining at his temple. His eyes swept the group once, and then they stuck—glued to the two youngest.
Boston. Sage.
Stone felt the shift in the air, a rot settling heavy in his lungs. Franklin’s gaze crawled over them like grease, slow and unashamed, pupils widening the way a man might size up a cut of meat.
“Well, well.” His voice was syrupy, a slow drag that coated the ears. “Titus was right. So…This is what you’re selling?”
Boston squared his shoulders, chin lifting, but Stone caught the twitch in his jaw. Sage stayed still as glass, eyes locked forward, but Stone knew the young man was coiled like a blade ready to strike.
Franklin’s tongue wet his lip. He took a step closer, close enough for Stone to smell the sour whiskey rolling off his breath.
