As he passes by me, Lyle’s gaze locks onto me speculatively. “You know, if a situation arises where one of the Mountainettes needs to back out ...”
“She’s not interested,” Harmony interjects quickly, before I’ve even had a chance to process the implied offer. And with that, she tugs Lyle out the door, his assistant scrambling after them.
Harmony’s right. I wouldn’t be interested in becoming a Mountainette. I know she’s only trying to protect me and make sure I’m not forced into a situation where I wouldn’t be comfortable.
But sometimes ... sometimes, I think it might be nice to get to speak up for myself.
Chapter 4
Wes
Idon’t hear Morrie as he approaches. The sound of a lone car traveling up a long, secluded gravel driveway is usually noticeable, but I have my noise-canceling headphones on, and I’m focusing on notching my arrow and aiming it toward my homemade target. I’m also blasting John Powell’s instrumental score toHow to Train Your Dragon, getting swept up in the vaulting strings and epic drums that carry me far, far away from my property in rural Michigan and into a land of fantasy.
Movie scores have always been my favorite thing to listen to. They make me feel like I’m living in a different world, one that’s full of action and adventure and honor and sweeping, epic love stories. When I listen tothisscore, I feel like I’ve stepped into a different time, like I’m a Viking who gets to ride dragons. With nothing but open, rolling green fields around me, I almost feel like it could be true.
How badass is that?
The moment is ruined as soon as Morrie taps me on the shoulder. Like any dignified man of the law who daydreams about being a dragon-riding Viking, I shout in terror over the rousing beats of “This Is Berk” and swing my notched bow and arrow around so that it’s level with Morrie’s trim, regulated chest.
I know that’s a weird way to describe someone’s torso, but everything about Morrie is orderly and well maintained, from his Caesar cut to his pressed slacksto his fitted black tee. The only personality showing in his outfit are his Nike Undefeated Jordans, which he keeps impeccably clean, there’s not so much as even a smudge of dirt on them. He seriously loves the sneakers in his collection; I’ve heard him talking to them before. It’s ... unsettling.
Morrie just glares at me through his glasses. Me brandishing an antique weapon at him has happened one too many times for him to be as terrified as he probably should be when someone points an arrow at his vital organs. The look on his face would better be described as exasperated.
He doesn’t even try talking to me, just motions impatiently to my headphones. Sheepishly, I lower my bow with one hand and use the other to push them off.
“Let me guess—Pirates of the Caribbeanor some of that other ‘film music’ you’re always listening to?” he asks, not bothering to hide his disapproval.
Glancing down at my bow, I scoff. “Don’t be ridiculous. The pirates in that movie don’t shoot arrows.” Lowering my equipment carefully to the ground, I move to take off my bracer. “It is a great score, though. Better for swordplay or rope climbing, I think.”
Morrie just shakes his head at me. “How could I have made such aridiculousmistake?”
I know he’s mocking my life choices to my face, but I don’t take it personally. Not everyone appreciates a good timpani like I do. A rousing string section. Ooh, or a bagpipe. Damn, I love me a good bagpipe. Name an instrument that gets your heart pounding faster. I’ll wait.
Morrie continues shaking his head at me. Again, I don’t take it personally. I know I’ve been a disappointment to him ever since we were assigned as partners, about six years ago now, right after I was recruited to the FBI at age twenty-three. He thought he’d be getting a cool wingman to drink beers and watch college football with in his downtime. Instead he got ... me. The guy more likely to invite him to my D&D campaign and gift him home-brewed mead for Christmas.
“Is this really the best use of your time?” he asks. I’m not sure why Morrie always feels the need to act like he’s my father instead of my peer when he’s a whopping four months older than me, but I’m half convinced the man was born with the personality of a forty-year-old insurance salesman. “You should be prepping, going over the case files, practicing thechallenges ...”
To be totally honest, I tune him out after that. Morrie can be a nice guy. Sometimes. Well, that one time, really, three years ago. He and I just have very different approaches to our FBI work. He’s made it his entire personality, living and breathing work twenty-four seven; and when I’m off the clock, I run as far away from it as I can possibly get.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m so grateful to be doing what I do. Getting to help people and make a difference is my life’s ambition. But the long, grueling hours, the seemingly endless travel, the mental gymnastics and pressure of dealing with life-and-death situations ... it can wear on a person. When I’m not working, I want to enjoy my life. Doing these so-called “nerdy” or “waste-of-time” activities helps me to re-center myself and feel like I’m not just a cog in the FBI machine.
Unfortunately, I can’t quite tune out the last part of what he says: “... unless you’re just planning to coast by on your looks again?”
Ah, yes, the usual sore point between us. I think my healthy work-life balance has made me a better FBI agent who has thus gotten lots of amazing career opportunities. But Morrie has decided the only reason I’m assigned so many missions is because of ... well, because of my face.
I’m pretty immune to Morrie’s digs, but that one always annoys me. Look, I’m not naive, and I’m not blind. I know I’m traditionally handsome, with my sandy blond hair, green eyes, and jawline that could double as a grindstone for my swords. When most people look at me, they probably imagine a certain personality that usually goes along with this particular set of facial features combined with an athletic build. But ... why? Why should the fact that I’m fit and handsome mean that I don’t like role-playing games? Or that I shouldn’t have a full Jon Snow costume in my closet that, yes, I’ve worn to plenty of conventions?
I know Morrie thinks I’m a dork, but frankly, if he knew the kind of attention even a moderately attractive man could get dressed like Jon Snow at a fantasy convention ... Well, I’m pretty sure he’d be singing a different tune.
For the record, that’s not why I do it. I just love fantasy. Not only because of the dragons or the dire wolves or the magical powers or whatnot—though, let’s be real, those parts are fucking awesome. What I love are the epic battles of good versus evil. I love the struggles to stay honorable in a corrupt world. And yeah, I’m not too manly to admit, I love the epic love stories that prove love can conquer all. When Arwen and Aragorn met again after the Battle of the Pelennor Fields? Come on—I cried, you cried, we all cried. We’re not animals.
I shrug off Morrie’s negativity, pulling my phone out of my back pocket and flipping to my saved videos. “Trust me, I’ve been putting my time to good use.”
I show him the most recent video I’ve completed, which is an edited compilation of me doing various events from the traditional Scottish Highland games, including shot put, hammer throw, and tossing the caber. The title to the video reads “Highland Gaming like Jamie Fraser” (aka, my man fromOutlander), and the music I’ve chosen to accompany the sequences is—you guessed it—a bagpipe jam from an awesome group called Tartanic that I first saw performing at a local Renaissance faire.
Is there any part of me who thinks Morrie will enjoy watching this video? Not really. But honestly, something about his persistent disappointment in me is endlessly entertaining.
Morrie scrunches up his face at what he’s seeing, as if he finds it physically distasteful to watch a man in his athletic prime throw a wooden beam that’s three times his height up into the air. (Come on, man. No one’s buying it. That shit’sawesome.) “What the hell is this?” he demands.
