Page 58 of Volt
He purses his lips as his eyes take on a faraway gaze. I see sadness in his face as well as frustration and a healthy dose of fear. I tighten my grip on his hands, encouraging him to speak freely with me. Finally, he meets my gaze and frowns. The pain etched into his features is palpable.
“What is it?” I ask.
“He killed two more of our guys,” he says quietly. “Bastard murdered two more of our guys.”
“Jesus, Blake. I’m sorry. So sorry,” I gasp.
“Doc and some of the other guys wanted to go to war. They wanted to fight him straight up,” he says. “I managed to get them to back off enough by telling them my plan—gather intel and use it to make strategic and precise hits. I had to convince them that waging a war of attrition held better odds for our survival than going up against him in a straight-up fight.”
“Blake... I don’t know what to say to all of that.”
He shakes his head. “Don’t say anything. I’m only telling you because I promised you that I’d be honest with you,” he said. “I don’t like telling you these things because I know how much it scares you and how much you worry. But I care about you, Fallon. And I respect you. So, I’m not going to lie to you.”
“Thank you for that.”
We stand there, holding each other’s hands and staring into each other’s eyes. The air between us feels dense. And I don’t like it one bit. But I know I’m being selfish, and this isn’t about me. Blake lost two more friends to this evil son of a bitch. And yet, somehow, isn’t curled into a ball, locked in a dark room, crying his eyes out. No, he’s out here giving me the best day I’ve had in a long, long time.
“Hey,” he says with a smile on his face, obviously trying to snap us out of our funk. “I need to show you something.”
“What is it?”
He grins. “It wouldn’t be a surprise if I told you,” he says with faux exasperation.
Blake takes my hand and leads me out of Clarion Alley and back out onto the main street. The sidewalk is choked with people, but when they see Blake coming, they all step aside to let him pass, none of them daring to look at him for some reason. I just slipped in behind him and followed along in his wake.
“You murder somebody on the sidewalk or something?” I ask. “The way people are falling over themselves to get out of your way makes me think you killed somebody or something.”
He laughs. “Nothing so dramatic I’m afraid,” he says. “I suppose people are just skittish or something. Oh, here we are.”
When we stop walking, I find myself in front of a private art gallery called Smithson’s. I look over at Blake, my curiosity piqued. He gives me a smile.
“C’mon. Let’s go in,” he says.
I flash him a smile and let him lead me into the gallery. The air inside is cool but not too cold. Everything is done in a bleached oak and just screams high-class to me. The layout is modern and has an open floor plan, with different pieces of art standing on displays that were set up around the floor.
Blake and I stroll through the gallery, taking our time with the different pieces. We talk about our impressions of them, and I know I shouldn’t be, but I’m amazed by how in sync we seem to be. Our interpretations of different pieces match each other so often, it’s almost like we’re sharing a brain or something. I honestly didn’t think the day could get more perfect than it was already, but Blake proved me wrong.
A tall, thin man with a full head of salt-and-pepper colored hair, dark eyes, and a thick lumberjack style of beard steps in front of us. He’s staring at Blake so hard I’m expecting the man to try to kiss him.
“We don’t let your kind into this gallery,” the man said.
“I’ve seen better work by a five-year-old with a box of crayons who’s high on LSD,” Blake fires back.
They stare at each other again before the bearded man finally laughs out loud and pulls Blake into a tight embrace. They clap each other on the back and step back. Blake turns to me, his face glowing with that smile of his.
“Fallon, this is Danny Smithson, all-around douchebag,” Blake said. “He and I served together. Now, he paints and owns a gallery. Likes to think he’s some fancy-ass artist.”
“And this one likes to think he’s human,” the man, this Danny, said. “Really, what are you doing with the likes of him?”
I smile at them both. Boys. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Smithso—”
“Danny. Please,” he says. “And believe me, the pleasure is all mine. Blake’s told me a lot about you.”
I arch an eyebrow as I look at him. “Oh, has he now?”
“He has. And it’s more than clear to me that you either have poor judgment, low standards, or you are totally into charity.”
I burst into laughter as Blake gives us both the finger but can’t keep himself from smiling anyway. Slowly, the laughter subsides. But the ice has been broken.
