Wren rolls their eyes. “Of course, you remember her outfit.” Their tone tells me they think I’m a sexist asshole. But my thoughts also drifted to the way Neo looked in that movie, so it wasn’t quite like Wren thinks.
“In fairness, I remember her body and the way she could kick ass in heels. My mom loved all those movies, would watch them at least once a month. They were the source of many an uncomfortable teenage boner.”
I don’t say anything about the adult boner I’m currently hiding.
Wren places their palm on their forehead. “I think you’ve forgotten this isn’t the clubhouse and I’m not one of your brothers.”
That makes me laugh, that they think who I am differs based on who I’m with. I am who I am. “What’re you going to do? Complain to HR?”
Wren’s eyes narrow in my direction.
I watch as they busy themself, their movements measured and meticulous, like when they type. “What you did yesterday, all that hacking into cameras and shit. Can you do that for any camera? Like, have an on-going feed of it?”
“I’m a magician, Catfish. The sooner you catch on that I can do just about anything, the better.”
Wren might be fucking pretty, but they’re a touch full of themself. And I’m not used to being talked to like I’m five yearsold. It rubs up against childhood patterns that sting. “You want to magic a new attitude? Dial down the ego, dial up the charm a little.”
Wren flips the bird at me. “Next thing we know, you’re gonna be telling me to smile more.”
That does make me laugh. “Wouldn’t hurt. Would make the scenery around here much more pleasant.”
“Now you’re just being an asshole.”
I shrug. “Been called worse.”
Wren grabs a croissant and rips a piece off before putting it into their mouth. The little flick of their tongue on their fingers makes me want to go over there and suck it. So, instead, I ask the question I’ve been burning to ask.
“How come you’re here, Wren?” I ask. “For real.”
2
WREN
Iwondered when he would ask, but I find myself no better prepared to answer.
Because the answer isn’t simple.
“Because King decided it was the safest place for me to be,” I say, in the hope that the mention of his national president’s name will stop the questions.
Catfish rolls his eyes at the obvious deflection. “No, whathappenedto you that King decided this was the safest place to be?”
From the outside, one might be mistaken for assuming the New Jersey Outlaws and the Colorado Outlaws are the same. Rough men in an overwhelming amount of denim and leather surrounded by the scent of motor oil, coffee, and whiskey. But that’s where the similarities end.
From the time I spent in the clubhouse when I arrived yesterday, where Grudge sounded a bit like a toddler who just learned a new word, over-pronouncing and over-emphasizing thethemandthey, I learned a few things.
The camaraderie and trust are different here. Even from the short interactions I’ve had since I arrived, I’ve felt it in the air.Like they have the fabric and thread but haven’t quite figured out how to make an outfit.
It does little to ease the crushing pressure welding my ribs together.
And tells me little about who I can trust.
My skills make me feel like a tradeable asset. Like I’m the prized pony who has to show off their mad tech skills in return for being kept safe in a location I never asked to be brought to.
Perhaps it’s a fantasy, but maybe one day, I’ll end up in the company of someone who needs absolutely nothing from me. Someone who doesn’t require anything in exchange, who doesn’t want me for what I can do.
Hell, I think my disbelief in that outcome is another reason I plan to live alone.
As I wrestle with my general distrust, I consider what to say. “There’s no answer I can give you beyond some trouble followed me to Jersey, and I needed to leave.”
