‘Christian’
“Olsen.” The new recruit offers his hand with a charming smile and I have to fight to keep the frown off my face.
“Christian.” I shake his hand professionally, but with a single, firm shake, I can tell it’d take him no amount of effort at all to break my wrist. It’s like he’s made of stone. Even now, up close, I’m having trouble seeing over his muscled shoulders and his frame towers over me, making me feel like a small child.
What the fuck do they feed you?
I pick up a new crate carrying supplies of canned foods and turn away, dismissing the encounter entirely to continue my job and he follows behind with his hands in his pockets.
It was only a matter of time until our paths crossed… I just didn’t exactly want it to be today.
Reuben was right, I'd pushed myself too hard and now I was back to aching in places I shouldn't be. So I’d obliged him for a few days and stayed inside the house. I even went out with Lucia like he suggested, and we tried to visit Camille... but it failed. She’s still closed in and refuses to come out.
And now it’s looking like I chose the wrong time to go back to work.
“You’re one hardworking guy, I hear,” Olsen follows behind as though he’s observing the site. “Any word out of the team’s mouth is that I should take a page out of your book and learn something from you. Looking at you now though—”
I hand the crate off to another one of the workers and he’s finally wiped the smile from his face to watch me with new disinterest, “It’s insulting. You look like you barely eat.”
And you look like you could consume the world.
I tilt my head as I get a good look at his face. He’s put away all the charm to show his real colours, his eyes are cold and I can see the obvious dislike betweenhis brows.
“Your real feelings look better on you,” I turn away indifferently. “It’s probably why Reuben’s giving you a hard time. He’s good at sifting out fakes.”
Though I guess I’m an exception?
“Reuben can’t deny that I’m the real deal.” Olsen follows behind me at a leisurely pace. “But even when faced with my experience he’s still deluded into thinking you can possibly beat me. Which leads me to my first question.”
I haul another crate into my arms and turn only to hit squarely into Olsen’s chest. There’s a malice in his eyes and an unpleasantness to his smirk that locks our gazes for one very tense heartbeat.
“Does the whole team get down on their knees to suck Reuben’s dick or just you?”
My gaze hardens.
“I saw you guys a few days ago, in the forest before sundown.” He steps forward but I hold my ground. Even with the crate between us he’s unpleasantly close and he leans over until he’s only a hair’s breadth from my nose. “Almost this close,” he says softly. “Then it started to make sense. If you get booted from the team, he’ll lose his pretty fuck.”
Why does everyone keep calling me pretty?
Right, I’m using Christian’s face.
Okay, that checks out, Christian was pretty.
And why does everyone always assume we’re fucking?
“Reuben’s a good judge of character.” My indifferent tone sparks an angry light in his eyes. “If he doesn’t like you, it might just mean you’re a higher grade of asshole.” Gabriel’s on the team just fine after all.
Ah, I forget he’s in my good books now… but if I try hard enough, I think I can convince myself that that little episode in the kitchens was just a dream.
I back up to put space between us, “And aren’t you supposed to wait until I recover before you start trying to piss me off? Or maybe it’s those veteran instincts.You know you can only talk back while my ribs are broken? Either way, I can’t say it’s a good look for you. With your… experience and all.”
I move to walk past him but his fist flies out to connect with my ribs on my left side. Even though I see it coming, I brace myself to take it, and pain shoots through my body like lightning, creating white spots in my vision. I stagger and fall to my knees, but I’m able to keep the crate off the ground, placing it on the floor lightly even amongst the pain.
“You know, I have to deal with a lot of shit attitudes on this stupid squad,” Olsen’s voice sounds closer to me than it should. He’s crouched down where I’m bent over to speak to me with a stormy expression.
“I’m a decorated soldier. I don’t want to be playing house with disrespectful kids like you. Stop wasting everyone’s time and go back to the dead you left behind.”
The pain is agonizing, like being shot by a cannon at close range instead of a bullet.
