“That’s the problem? That’s it?” From his flinch, I’ve said exactly the wrong thing. “Fuck. Q, I didn’t mean it like that.”
The distance between us is even greater now than it was an hour ago, and he tries to shake me off, but he’s so obviously in pain, I stay close as he shuffles into the kitchen. The position lets me study his uneven gait. And appreciate his ass. Q’s left leg is weaker than his right, and his foot drags a bit.
Digging into his pocket, he comes up with a handful of batteries, then nods towards the counter where a small sensor sits next to a folded set of instructions. “If the batteries don’t fix the problem, that’s a brand new sensor. The wires are color coded.”
His fingers brush mine, but before I can even try to hold on, he jerks his hand away, his shoulders hunched.
Fuck. All I want to do is be close to him. To tell him it’ll all be okay. But he’s so worked up, he’s shaking. “Do you have a stool?”
“I…left it outside. When I touched the old one, it shocked me. That’s when I…when I fell.” Staring down at his phone in his hands, he fiddles with the screen. “I can reboot the system once the new sensor’s in place.”
From the brief glance I caught, I think his system is the same one Cam designed for business-grade personal security. But the sensor he gave me is definitelynotpart of her system. A former army bomb disposal specialist and West’s wife, she’s a computer genius, but unlike Wren, who does most of her work on the dark web, Cam’s job is completely above board and out in the open.
Q’s about to come out of his skin, so I save the questions for later. “I’ll take care of it. Sit down. Please. Do you need help?”
“No.” His voice is no more than a whisper, and he limps back into the living room and sinks into his computer chair.
The step stool is right next to the door, and once I climb up, I can see the frayed wires sticking out of the back of the tiny sensor. They’re covered by a fine layer of dust, and I frown.
This is why I carry a multi-tool everywhere I go. The pilers are shielded, and when I pull the sensor off the door and it lands in my palm, I hiss out a sharp breath. It’s hot to the touch. Something isdefinitelywrong with it.
I duck back into the house for the replacement. “I don’t trust this old sensor. Give me another minute or two.” In the bright kitchen lights, I pause for a second to examine the wires. One is frayed, the yellow insulation almost melted away. Could be insect damage or an electrical fault, but working for Hidden Agenda has taught me to be suspicious ofeverything.
Installing the replacement only takes two minutes, and I make sure all three deadbolts are locked before I head into the living room and crouch next to Q’s chair. “Try rebooting. That sensor was definitely worn out. Your batteries were practically smoking.”
His muscles tense even more. “Smoking? That’s not right. It’s not even a year old…”
“Probably just some bug eating away at the insulation.” I try to keep my voice light, because he’s about five seconds away from losing his shit. His brown eyes are bloodshot and red-rimmed, and his chest stutters as he tries to click the button to reboot the system.
Draping my fingers over his, I guide the mouse where it needs to be. “Deep breath, Q. You’re okay.”
“N-no. I mean… Yes. I’m fine. Just need to lie down. Assuming this works.”
“I won’t leave until everything’s fixed. I promise. I’m good at this shit. You’re using a modified Emerald City Security system, right?” Now that I’m staring at the admin screen, I don’t have to ask, but I also know he’s spooked, big time, and I’m not ready to explain what Ireallydo for a living.
He turns, his brow furrowed and his voice equal parts desperate and hopeful. “You know about this stuff? How?”
“The owner’s a friend.” It’s close enough to the truth. Cam’s family, through West, and we’ve worked together enough to call each other friends, despite her discomfort with people in general. If she could hide behind her computer all day, every day, I think she would.
“Oh.” Q’s cheeks and the back of his neck take on a reddish tinge, and he watches the screen. The system comes back online without any faults, and it’s like all the tension melts from his body at once. “I…” He shakes his head and then scrubs his hands over his face. “I didn’t have anyone else to call.”
“Technically, you didn’tcallme.” It’s supposed to be a joke, a way to ease the mood and maybe get him to loosen up. But it has the opposite effect, and he forces his back straight, pushing the chair away from the desk—and away from me.
“Fine. I don’t haveanyoneto call. Happy now?” Lurching to his feet, he steadies himself with one hand on the wall while he points to the front door. “Thanks for your help. I’ll try not to need it again.”
“For fuck’s sake, Q.” A pen and notepad lie next to his mouse, and I write down a second phone number along with a five-digit code. Holding up my cell phone, I meet his gaze. “There are two SIM cards in here. The first...that’s the number I gave you last week. The number you texted tonight. I was at the bar, and I couldn’t just walk out until I had someone to cover for me. But the second SIM? The number I just wrote down?” I jab the paper for emphasis. “Anyone who calls it needs to enter this code when the exchange picks up. You do that, and no matter where I am—no matter what I’m doing—I’ll answer immediately. Youalwayshave someone to call.”
I should go. Walk out of his life and never look back. But I’ve already decided that’s not going to happen. He’s scared. Long-term fear and distrust. Someone hurt him in his past, and I know what that feels like.
Stopping right in front of him, I keep my arms at my sides, trying to appear as non-threatening as I can. It’s no use. I’m two inches shorter than he is, but probably outweigh him by fifty pounds of muscle. When I started at Hidden Agenda, I couldn’t do half the shit I can now—physically. But between West’s Krav Maga training and Ryker’s insane drills, I’ve bulked up a lot, and Q shies away from my gaze.
“I’m not the enemy here,” I say softly. “You asked for my help first—with the groceries, remember?”
“I didn’t have a choice.” The words escape on a whisper, and there’s that shame again, creeping up his neck, flushing his cheeks, causing him to stare down at the floor. At a pair of black Keds with orange laces peeking out from under the loose gray fleece pants. “I needed…”
“Meds. I get it.” Fishing the plastic box out of my pocket, I show it to him. “Clonazepam, Hydroxyzine, and Xanax. You think you cornered the market on anxiety disorders or something?”
Finally, he meets my gaze, his brows pinched, confusion churning in his eyes. “You can’t need those. You’re…built.”
