“What trouble are you thinking up?” Darius asked, though by all appearances his attention was fixed on the campus parking lot. He looked luminous, the afternoon light bringing out the gold beneath his brown skin.
Kit wanted to lick that perfect jawline.
“Nothing,” Kit said, in a sing-song voice that only highlighted the lie. God, he could use a fuck right now. If only they were slightly less public.
They were parked at the far end of the parking lot, waiting for Holden to get out of his last final before winter break. Like a couple picking a kid up from school. Dementedly domestic. They were even on their way to a weekend trip together, to the same remote house where Darius took fake dead photos of Kit.
Bishop and James would join them after abducting Melissa Vespers.
Kit couldn’t quite get comfortable, even when he unbuckled his seatbelt. Which meant he was nervous, probably. Noticing his physical state was easier than identifying the emotions behind the fidgeting.
“You seem tense,” Kit said, scooting around to lean back against the door. He swung his feet over the console, careful of the gear stick, and rested his heels on the firm pillow of Darius’s thigh. “What are you thinking about?”
Kit sucked at emotions. But he was great at deflection.
And that wasn’t a lie. Darius did seem tense—and surprised to be called on it.
“I’m not used to this,” Darius admitted, settling a broad hand on Kit’s ankle. “Waiting on the sidelines, while somebody else does the dirty work.”
Kit relaxed as Darius rubbed the patch of bare skin between jeans and sock. “Bishop and James have done jobs without you before. That’s how I met them.”
Darius paused, as if ordering his thoughts. “I didn’t know about those jobs, unless they told me later. We never used to check in with each other, the way we do now.”
“What do you mean?” Kit asked.
Tension bled away with each movement of Darius’s warm hand. Darius was large and strong enough to pin Kit down without a thought. Kit liked that, but this tenderness was nice too.
“We weren’t a group before you came into the picture,” Darius explained. “We knew each other, sure. We were friends. We worked with and around each other. But six months ago, I would have laughed my head off at the idea of texting James every day.”
“You text James every day? What about?”
Darius’s grin was wicked. His hand slid up Kit’s shin. “Mostly you, which I assume is the answer you’re fishing for.”
Kit feigned a pout. “Only mostly me?”
“Shameless,” Darius said fondly. He released Kit’s ankle. “I have a present for you. Open the glove box.”
“What’s the occasion?” Kit asked, drawing his feet back over to his side of the car. He tapped the glove box. Savoring theanticipation, he wondered what was inside. Maybe a slutty outfit, if James or Holden were involved. “It’s not my birthday.”
Darius raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know your birthday, Trouble. I have to give you presents every once in a while, just to hedge my bets.”
Kit liked the sound of that. “Actually, you’re right. Today’s my birthday. So’s tomorrow, and the day after. And the day after that.”
He cracked open the glove box—and exhaled with the gut-punch of dread, excitement, gratitude, resignation.
The handgun was small, with a dark matte finish. Kit withdrew it carefully, keeping the muzzle pointed towards the dashboard. “Is it loaded?”
“No. We can practice with it at the safehouse, while we wait for James and Bishop.” Darius rested his wrist against the steering wheel. He seemed to be looking out at the parking lot, but his attention warmed Kit’s skin like sunlight. “You don’t like it.”
Kit almost protested. When people received gifts, they were supposed to appreciate them. To smile and say thank you.
But Christ. Maybe not everything had to be a secret.
“I know I literally asked for this,” Kit said, instead of pretending. “I don’t dislike it. I just feel complicated.”
He turned his wrist slowly, adjusting to the weight. The gun fit his palm perfectly. Kit wanted to protect himself, instead of just running. Instead of just relying on other people. Instead of risking other people getting hurt. A weapon had seemed like a good idea, but now that he had a gun, Kit couldn’t help feeling inadequate.
The gun didn’t make him any less afraid.
