Page 45 of Volt
“Oh brother, I’m not obsessing. I’m just lookin’ out for you,” he says. “I worry about you and all that unresolved teenage angst you got going on.”
I laugh and shake my head. “Yes, Fallon and I have patched things up,” I say. “She was waiting for me at my house the night you got your ass kicked.”
He winces at the reminder, but his smile is quick to return. “So, she’s the one who manned up, huh. Guess we know who’s going to be wearing the pants in that relationship.”
“You know, in a successful relationship, there isn’t one person who wears the pants,” I tell him, quoting from an article in one of her women’s magazines she read me. “A successful partner is one who leads as well as follows.”
“Spoken like a dude whose girl is wearing the pants in their relationship.”
“Fuck off,” I say and laugh.
Adam upends a wooden crate and sits down next to me. “Seriously, man. I’m glad you got things worked out with her. Even if she did have to make the first move.”
A grin crosses my lips. “You’re never going to let that bit go, are you?”
“Oh God, no. Why would I do that?”
“Because you’re turning over a new leaf and instead of being a prick, you’re going to be a decent human being?”
“Now why would I dothat?”
We share a laugh then lapse into a companionable silence for a few minutes. I let the good feelings wash through me, savoring them for a moment. He’s right though. I’m not really the enjoy-the-sunshine kind of guy. Never have been. But there’s something about Fallon that’s making me stop and smell the proverbial roses. I’m enjoying the simpler things—like lying in bed talking. Things that never interested me before.
And overall, I feel good. I feel happy. That’s new for me. I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I walked around acting like a miserable wretch before. But I admit—I can be a bit prickly at times. I can be grumpy. I’m still those things, of course. Personalities don’t entirely change overnight. But now, that darkness that used to be a part of me is a little less gloomy. I feel like I’m genuinely happier now. Because of her.
“She’s an amazing woman,” I say. “She’s unlike anybody I’ve ever met before.”
“Yeah?”
I nod. “Yeah. She’s just... good, you know?” I ask. “You know those people who are just genuinely good? They’ve got good hearts, and they make you see things in yourself you hadn’t seen before? They make you feel like a better person?”
“No. I don’t know a single person like that,” he says, flashing me a grin.
“Yeah, well, that’s Fallon. She really makes me see things differently. She makes me see myself differently,” I say. “She’s got a pure soul.”
“That’s somebody you want to hang onto,” he says. “Somebody you don’t want to let go. People like that are rare, bro. You got yourself a unicorn.”
“Yeah, tell me about it.”
“I’m really happy for you, Blake. You deserve somebody good.”
“Thanks, man.”
“But even though you’re all wifed up now, you better not start bailin’ on me for game night,” he said with a grin. “Don’t use that as an excuse for dodgin’ your weekly Star Battle ass kicking.”
I roll my eyes. “Bitch, please. The next time you beat me is going to be the first.”
I finish up with my bike and give it a quick wipe down then toss the rag into the “to be washed” barrel. It’s getting pretty full so I’m going to need to check the duty roster to see whose week it is then climb on their ass about it. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s slackers. We all have duties around here, and when people try to skip out on their tasks, it falls to the rest of us to pick up their slack. Which is a total dick move. So, somebody’s going to be hearing from me here pretty damn quick.
Adam and I are halfway back to the clubhouse when I spot the two black SUVs coming through the gate. My heart lurches, and I feel the instant rush of adrenaline flowing through my veins. We don’t get uninvited guests very often, and when we do, it’s usually not in SUVs with blacked-out windows. Which tells me there’s only one person it could be—Emiliano Zavala.
“Fuck,” I grunt then turn to Adam. “Go get Doc and the rest of Leadership. Tell them Zavala’s here and to get themselves strapped. Now. Go.”
Adam turns and darts toward the clubhouse. I dash back into the garage and pull my Colt .45 out of my saddlebag and tuck it into the back of my pants. By the time I get back to the yard, the doors of the SUVs are opening and guys in slick three-piece suits and aviator shades are getting out. They have the look of Feds about them, but Feds don’t go packing MP69s. These guys are private security—likely the same outfit who is currently two men light.
I tense when I see Zavala getting out of the back seat on my side of the SUV. The temptation to pull my weapon and go to work is so strong, I almost reach for my piece. But the wannabe Feds are watching me closely. They don’t make any outwardly provocative moves, but I can see them shifting their body weight to put them in a better position to turn and fire.
A tall guy with a head full of white hair gets out on the other side of the SUV and joins Zavala. He’s dressed in a three-piece suit that just smells expensive from where I’m standing. I’m going to go out on a limb here and say he’s the head honcho of the private contracting firm that employs the eight men all bearing the same MP69s.
