Page 12 of Painted Scars
Under the grunted insults lies twenty years of loyalty. He’s the nerd with bite, two steps ahead in class. I’m the stoic brute that knocks his bullies out cold. Together, we’re a mismatched duo who cover each other’s blind spots, our humor the buffer that keeps us close.
We lean on that bond as we push through the outer door and into open air. He stiffens, breath hitching, checking every shadow twice. Old instincts fire under strain, and he catalogues escape routes, exits, and threats.
“Are you still brooding about the unicorn?” Code for Kate Williams. “You saw someone in trouble and your cop reflexes kicked in.” Staying focused on the mission staves off the worst of his anxiety.
“Ex cop,” I mutter. “And helping a Roman isn’t in the textbooks.”
Grayson shrugs. “Is she really a villain?”
I raise a hand. “She’s compromised. Period.”
What the fuck was I thinking? I blew protocol and let her see me. If I were still on the force, this would’ve earned me a reprimand, possibly a suspension. But something reckless and dangerous overrode orders.
Spartacus depends on me not screwing up. One mistake and years of digging into Roman corruption goes up in flames.Grayson. Katar. A web of informants and allies. I don’t get to feel. Don’t get to risk it all for a girl who’s just an assignment. I’m not a grizzled white knight with a death wish.
“Right. She’s definitely a threat, the way she faked a panic attack in a crowd,” he quips, posture straighter.
I unlock the doors of the Drama Department’s storage facility. “You held it together. That’s something.”
I remember what it took to face daylight again. It took me a year before I stopped waking up, expecting a knock on the door. To stop hating the face in the mirror.
“They teach you how to compliment someone at Police Sensitivity School?” Deflection 1-0-1.
Having my closest friend in the whole wide world snark at me like we’re sixteen again is one of the few things that brings me peace.
“You’ve earned your bagel and your juice box,” I say, sliding into the driver’s seat of my black Camaro.
“Can’t wait,” he mutters, getting in beside me. “Let’s wire the unicorn’s castle.” That one line is the closest he’s sounded like his old self in months. Not fixed. Not whole. But present.
I manuver the car out past plywood castle walls and fake trees into the empty parking lot, and then onto the road.
Thirty minutes later, we drive into her neighborhood. Too quaint and unsuspecting for an undercover Roman. We park two blocks out, and put our gloves on. Grayson shoulders his equipment bag with a tight exhale. Moving like a tactical unit, we duck behind fences and hedges like the shadows we’ve become. If she’s got security, we won’t be on it. And if we are, my friend can delete any trace.
The moment we’re inside, he shifts, burying his nerves under work. Wires, mics, cameras disguised as plugs. He cases the room for potential camera locations like he’s done this a hundred times.
I’m here to keep watch and snoop in her files. I grab the hard drive cloner from to copy her computer for any communications that will tie her to the Romans.
A dog bounds out of nowhere. Small, loud, and convinced he’s Cerberus. His banshee bark echoes off the walls. Fuck, I didn’t see the mutt during my reconnaissance after the festival.
“Jesus, August, I can’t wire with this noise.” Grayson shuffles around the gremlin attacking his shoe. “People plot revolutions over coffee and cookies in the kitchen!”
I distract the fiend, and he goes for my jeans’ hem. “Want to trade jobs?”
“Charming demons isn’t in my skillset.” The tremble in Grayson’s fingers fades by the time he slides the first bug in the light pendant. Once I deal with the banshee, I can give him space and conduct my own recon.
“You hungry?” I ask the gremlin, and relocate to the pantry, cracking open jars and tins, hunting for dog kibble.
Kate and her housemate stock enough chocolate for a fallout bunker. Crumbs litter the floor as I break up the beef jerky. Guard dog duty abruptly ends as the mutt hoovers up the snacks, sits at my feet, and stares up at me as if deciding whether to spare me.
“Keep doing whatever you’re doing to shut up His Holiness,” Grayson grunts as he loads a cam onto a fridge magnet for the best vantage point.
I give the fuzzball a few more morsels. “Does this mean we’re on a temporary no-kill truce, Pipsqueak John III?”
I’ll probably regret it, but I lean down and scratch behind its ears. PJ3 (for short) responds with a groan and nuzzles into me.
“Careful there, August,” Grayson calls out, now at the lounge’s bookcase. “Talking to and feeding dogs leads to collecting strays and knitting them blankets.”
“I’ll knit blankets out of your cables.” I tuck the snacks under one arm and scoop PJ3 into the crook of my arm. Babysitting was the last thing I expected this morning. “Be quiet while we poke around, and you’ll get more jerky.”
