Graham
After eight fucking hours at Hidden Agenda running drill after drill after drill, all I want is a beer and a couple of slices of pizza from Big Mario’s. And to get my head on straight.
Quinton’s last email burned itself into my brain, and I can’t stop thinking about him.
“I gave up on friends a long time ago. And people in general.”
What the hell happened to this guy that he doesn’t have friends? Or…anyone in his life?
The line at Big Mario’s is out the door, so I pull out my phone and switch over to my email. I shouldn’t reply. He probably wants to be left alone. But the pain in his voice last night, the raw desperation, the need...I can’t ignore it. Or walk away. Not yet. Not without one more question. Or...three.
“Why? Why did you give up on people? On friends?”
Half an hour later, I code myself into my apartment. The security system is more sophisticated than anything on the market today—courtesy of West’s wife and computer genius, Cam Delgado.
Despite the tech, the building is old, which means large, spacious units. After my first couple of missions with Hidden Agenda, I moved into the top-floor east-facing space with almost fifteen hundred square feet and a view of the entire neighborhood.
Grabbing a bottle of Coke from the fridge, I sink down onto the couch with the pizza box. I ended up with a whole pie because…well…why the fuck not? After hours of grueling workouts this morning, I’ve earned it.
My phone dings with a new email, and when Quinton’s name flashes across the screen, I almost choke on a sip of soda.
“Because my friends gave up on me.”
Shit. I drop my second slice and thumb out a reply, then delete it. What do you say to a message like that?
I want to tell him that true friends don’t give up on people. But then I think about Ripper. Ry and Dax thought he was dead. For six fucking years. They never would have given up on him had they known the truth, and it haunts them. Hell, Rip gave up and stopped fighting when his captor made him believe Ry and Dax had been killed.
Giving up isn’t always a choice.
It takes me another full slice to decide what to say.
“Sometimes, people are complete dicks. But other times, they’re up against a wall with no escape. Either way, you need new friends. Ones who stick around.”
* * *
A little after10:00 p.m., I’m in bed with my laptop reviewing schematics for the new surveillance tech Cam, Royce, and Wren have been working on for the past few months. Wireless cameras smaller than a pack of gum and a receiver that can fit on any standard bookcase. Pretty sophisticated stuff. We sent the first batch of them to Second Sight last week, and from what I hear, Ronan and Clive are using them on some op with Austin Pritchard.
Never expected Austin to reach out after Venezuela. Despite what he did for Ripper—giving him the Congressional Medal of Valor even after what Abdul Amir Faruk made him do—Austin never gave any indication he understood the meaning of family. He and Ry got into it more than once in that miserable hovel just outside of Caracas. But by the time we rescued Trevor, I think they’d found some sort of peace.
For the twentieth time tonight, I tab over to my email, and my heart starts to beat faster when I see Quinton’s name.
“Are you offering?”
I can’t tell if he’s flirting or being sarcastic.
“To be your friend?”
The reply comes back almost immediately.
“Yes. Because I’m a shitshow, Graham. You seem like a nice guy. A really nice guy who should run away from me as fast as you can.”
Well, fuck.
* * *
Quinton
Now I’ve done it. It’s after midnight, and Graham hasn’t replied to my last message. Not that I’m surprised. Itriedto push him away after all. Guess I did a bang up job of it.
