Page 124 of Painted Scars
Our boots echo down the empty hall. Old lockers doors, dented by age and obnoxious teens, hang open. Motivational posters peel from the wall, slogans half-readable.Your future is bright. Sure, if you like squatting in ruin.
When we reach the reinforced steel door, I palm the scanner.
“Pretty high tech,” Kate comments.
“We need it with who we’re dealing with.” I shove the heavy door open.
I don’t bring anyone here. Spartacus’ bunker isn’t just hidden behind four feet of steel and concrete, it’s the last inch of space I haven’t let anyone breach besides my two soldiers. I’m not the kind of man to give anyone the key to all my secrets. I’ll hand her the damn last key in my possession and pray she doesn’t regret walking through the door.
Inside smells of coffee, manufactured heat from the servers, and stale air from being underground. The heavy door seals behind us.
Her shoulder brushes mine on the way down the stairs, warmth bleeding through her jacket into me. Residual concussion makes her unsteady, and she grips the railing tightly. My gut tightens with worry that she’ll tumble into theconcrete wall at the bottom. I imagine closing the gap, sliding my hand to the curve of her back, holding her steady. I need permission first.
“Take my hand, baby.” I hold mine out for her if she wants it.
Her eyes flick to mine like I’ve said the wrong thing. She wants space. Protection without pushing. I drop my hand. She lifts hers and closes it over mine. Her light grip almost undoes me. It’s full of trust, but her sharp squeeze warns me not to break it. She’s telling me she doesn’t need saving. It’s her choice to let me in. Damn if it doesn’t make me want to earn it.
We take the steps slowly, one step at a time, hitting the bottom, and I pause, letting her stabilize.
Servers hum, computers ping with security notifications, and the coffee boils in the basic kitchenette we set up to service a bar fridge, sink, and counter. One wall is lined with server racks, lights blinking, throwing a soft glow over our work benches, cluttered with weapons, some left mid-maintenance, thanks to Katar’s handiwork. Crowded shelves house files. A heavily pinned corkboard is a graveyard of evidence, photos, and arrows pointing to targets. Half-drunk mugs of coffee rest on the table, and I snatch them up and dump them in the sink.
“Clean up after yourself, would you?” I bark at Grayson, oblivious as he types like the god of code.
“Busy. Later,” he grunts.
I go up and smack him on the ear. ‘We have guests.”
Grayson spins in his seat.
Kate’s eyes scan the small space, cataloging everything the way a reporter does. “Where are we?” She lingers on the photos on the corkboard.
I catch her reflection in the server’s glass displays, wide-eyed and curious. I look away before she notices me staring. The tug in my heart is her pulling threads I’ve kept tangled for years, and I can’t decide if I want to stop her or hand her the scissors.
“This is Spartacus, my headquarters.” My voice is made of the smoke of a dying fire after the compacted stress of last night. “My world. Our war.”
Grayson finally glances up from his monitors, glasses reflecting the scrolling code.
Kate tilts her head, studying my second-in-command. He’s the well-dressed college kid in a crisp slate blue button-down shirt, sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows, dark chinos without a wrinkle, and white sneakers that have never met mud. Hair combed like he’s about to conduct an interview. The only thing out of place are the coffee stains where he’s sloshed it over the edge of his mug, something he does often when he’s in the zone.
“Who’s this?” she asks, giving me the hint to introduce her.
“Our tech lead, Grayson.” I gesture at him. “The only person I trust in this world beside you.”
Grayson salutes me with two fingers. “Childhood friend stupid enough to stick around.”
“Officer Grumpy has friends?” she says, playing along.
Grayson smirks. “Nah, I’m more like his unpaid and tormented therapist. Benefits include free coffee, frequent death threats, and undelivered promises of juice boxes and compliments.”
The sheen in her eyes spells that her reporter falls away for her romance fiend sizing him up like a character from her books. “Hmm. You’re definitely the nerdy with a side of Dom trope.”
He chokes on his coffee and fumbles to clean his screen with a spare shirt he left hanging on the arm of his chair. “Have you been stalking me?”
Kate giggles behind her hand, and I can tell she’s already building him a romance plot in her head. “Trust me, I’m never wrong about tropes. And you’re the one who set up the bugs in my room.”
Grayson pauses his mug halfway to his mouth as if she’s just recited his search history out loud. For a guy who can hack the city blindfolded, he doesn’t like being read easily. He prefers back-door access rather than front-facing conversation. Eyes narrowed, he tips the mug slowly, takes a sip, and peers over the rim, assessing his new opponent.
“Can’t wait to find out if I survive my own love story,” he mutters.
