Page 86 of Painted Scars
“You look like shit,” I say by way of greeting and lock the door after me. “Have you slept?”
“You smell like attachment,” he fires back.
He’s not wrong and hearing it out loud puts a name to something I haven’t admitted to myself. Part of me revoltsat the idea of emotional entanglement when it encourages unpredictability and peril. The other half leans into it, and I’m fighting a war on two fronts.
“Give me the news before I strangle you,” I grunt, taking a seat.
Grayson pours himself a coffee from the pot on the cradle. “I sent Huntington an anonymous message to yank the chain on Blackthorn.”
“Why the fuck would you do that?”
“Save the gratitude.” He stirs sugar into his coffee masquerading as a milkshake. “Huntington called the Ares head, and Blackthorn’s been pulled back into line by his daddy.”
“For now.” I scrub my jaw, which needs a shave. “Blackthorn’s licking his wounds and calculating his next move. We bought time, not safety. And the rest?” I’m itching to get back to Kate and the sofa.
“Progress on the Pluto tip.” Grayson tips the milk into his mug, screws the cap on, and puts the carton in the fridge. “Our mole tells me the Pluto underboss is marrying the eldest daughter of the Sterling City mob to avoid war.”
I need the war to continue to lower the Romans’ numbers and get the story out.
I put that aside for now. “Kate’s agreed to write for us. I need you to set up advertisements for her book-related products and spread them far and wide. She needs to get away from her boss and get writing for us.”
She’s in this, and I put her here. Least I can do is give something back to ensure her safety and earn a smile while I’m at it.
“On it.” Grayson types in a few commands on his keyboard. “I’ll set up conversion-tested landing pages and A/B ad campaigns.”
I clap his shoulder to shut him up before the nerd-speak drags me into a coma. “How long has it been since you left the bunker?”
“Days,” he admits without looking up from his screen, fingers flying across his keyboard like the fate of Spartacus depends on a firewall staying intact.
“Days?” I repeat. That statistic is probably generous.
I grab his upper arm and jerk him out of his chair, making the wheels squeak, and his body jolts like I’ve unplugged him from life support wires. “Come shoot some hoops. Get some fresh air. Fresher than in here, at least.”
He scrambles to catch his glasses, already trying to backpedal. “You loaded me up with extra tasks. Ads. Blackthorn’s offshore shell trails.”
“Nice try,” I cut in, squeezing him. “You’re avoiding the world.”
His jaw tightens, eyes flicking to his glowing safety net of screens. A tell that he’s not ready to talk about whatever’s eating him.
“You’re becoming codependent on this place.” I gesture to the labyrinth of servers, cables, and energy drinks crowding his sanctuary. “It smells like coffee and insomnia in here. You’ve got LED tan lines.”
He shrugs half-heartedly and rolls up his sleeves. “You’re just jealous of the gamer glow.”
I wrap my arm over his shoulder and steer him to the stairs. He resists just enough to make me consider tossing him over my back. “Don’t make me carry you, princess. I’ll enjoy it. Might even dip you.” I blow him a kiss.
“You’re a nightmare,” he mutters, taking the first step, cautious and slow, like the concrete might bite.
“I need you functional and alert. Muscles without atrophy, flexible spine, and healthy Vitamin D levels.” I pat his back.“And don’t forget, you’re supposed to be tailing the quiet friend.”
“Charlie,” he corrects.
I don’t call him out that I’ve caught him looking at her profile more than appropriate for professional curiosity. He needs this, and I suspect, whether he admits it or not, he needs her too. Maybe she’ll hold him like he’s not broken. Look at him like he’s not a monster. Throw herself into the fire for him.
Our worlds went to hell, and vengeance was the only thing that sustained us. The real danger is curling around our jagged edges. Softness. Warmth. Light. The more the three of us have to lose, the harder it will be to keep it.
I thump him between the shoulder blades when we reach the top stair. “First to ten hoops wins. Winner gets a juice box and a genuine compliment.”
He snorts. “You don’t give compliments.”
