Page 87 of Painted Scars
I guide him down the haunted halls of the abandoned high school to the gym, where we blacked out the windows to play a game at any time of night. I’d rather my men release pent-up frustration on the court or the punching bag in the corner than kill the wrong person and start the wrong questions. Or in the case of Katar, turn stab wound scars into tattoos.
I grab a ball from the bleacher seats, dribble once, twice, and toss it to my friend. He catches it one-handed, but his movements are cautious. He used to play in high school and college. Lost interest after everything went to shit.
“Forget how to shoot?” I wind him up. “Do I need to get Charlie to cheerlead?”
He goes pink all the way to his ears. Brushing it off, he glides across the court, dribbling, and he takes the shot with a clean arc that drops through the rim.
“Showoff,” I mutter.
“That’s not a compliment.” He grabs the ball and shoves it at me. “And I’m proving to you that I’m not a lost cause.”
We fall into an easy rhythm. Pass, dribble, dodge, basket. Squeaking shoes and thumping ball. Smack talk when we catch our breath. He’s moving less robotically now.
“She’s been helping, huh?” I ask when he fakes left and misses a shot.
He jogs after the rebound and cradles the ball like a confession. “It’s easier… when I watch her. Her routines, weird flourishes, how she hides her panic under a quiet smile.”
Ah. And there it is. He relates to her.
“That sounds like your type.” I’ve got no idea anymore. He’s changed from the man I knew.
He grins, boyish and a little bruised. “Maybe. I know that when I watch her, I want to be better.”
He takes another shot and nails it. I let him kick my ass. He needs it.
I circle him and whistle. “My boy’s got a crush.”
He sinks the next shot. “She deserves someone who’s not afraid of his own shadow.”
I catch his shoulder. “She’s not asking you to be perfect, and neither am I. We want someone who will meet us halfway.”
He falls quiet and lets that sit.
“Does she know you’re watching?” I ask.
We cleared her as a threat early on, but Grayson kept circling back, unable to move on to the next target. Now he’s running background checks with his heart.
“Yes.” He tucks the ball under his shoe, removes his glasses, and polishes them with his shirt. “I got her out of the club when she panicked after the unicorn was drugged. We talk online. She seems calmer when I check in on her. Smiles and laughs more. Doesn’t flinch when a customer gets angry with her.”
By the sound of it, he hasn’t left the bunker much since then. I haven’t checked in much since my time’s been consumed by Kate.
I walk over and ruffle his hair. “You like her?”
He bats me away like an annoyed little brother. “Depends on what your answer is.”
Fuck. I’ve had worse thrown at me. I’ve ridden him too hard. Treated him like a machine instead of a man. Pushed him to the brink to keep us all safe. Now he’s asking me if he’s allowed to feel something again besides the plastic of his keyboard or cables.
I take the back of his neck and squeeze. “I’ve been so focused on the Romans, being a grumpy asshole barking orders, that I forgot my team’s made of people, not pawns. You’ve held this all together. Held me together. Spartacus wouldn’t be what it is without you and Katar.” I pat his chest with my other hand. “You’re my brother, always.”
His hand comes to my chest. “It’s beating again.”
“Fuck off.” I laugh and release him. “What I’m trying to say is, thank you. And if Charlie is what you want, I won’t stand in your way. Just be careful, okay?” I sound like a broken record but fuck it.
He nods and picks up the ball. “When are you gonna tell the unicorn, August?”
August. Not Mace. Man, not weapon. Friend, not leader.
I walk with him to the bleachers. “Tell her what?”
