“You okay?” Walker finally asked, the question feeling foreign on his tongue.
Kota glanced in his direction, giving a tight smile. “I’m fine. How long until we get to Oregon?”
Walker tried to keep his face expressionless. “We have to stop at The Morgue tonight and deal with my…handler, but we should be there by tomorrow afternoon.”
“Oh,” he said, disappointment seeping into his tone.
Was he pouting…again? Did he want to be rid of Walker already?
Walker frowned. His skin felt too tight, this discomfort creeping in on him, making the back of his neck feel hot. Not a single other person on the planet had ever made Walker so aware of their feelings. No, not just aware, but concerned. He didn’t want Kota unhappy or upset in any way. The feeling was irritatingly inconvenient. Like an alarm going off somewhere inside him with no obvious way to turn it off.
He’d spent the whole way to the black site listening to podcasts on what being a good partner meant. What people wanted, what they needed to be content. He didn’t feel things like other people, but he was very good at mimicking that behavior. He could be that for Kota.
Hewantedto be that for Kota.
That was the part he still didn’t know what to do with.
Before he could ask the younger man what was on his mind, Kota sat up straighter, a tiny exhalation escaping from his lips. “Walker.”
The fear behind his name sent an icy finger up his spine. “What’s wrong?”
Kota’s voice was strained. “Are we getting pulled over?”
Walker glanced in the side mirror. “Shit.”
Behind him, a trooper had lights on. When Walker downshifted, the cop flipped on his siren.
The sound cut through the cab, sharp and ugly, making Cake lift her head with an offended chirp.
“Don’t panic,” Walker said. The look on Kota’s face said he was definitely panicking. “Let me do the talking. If he asks you anything, just answer honestly. You don’t have a record, do you?”
“Uh-uh,” Kota said, skin chalky and a thin sheen of sweat appearing at his hairline.
“It’s going to be okay.”
This was it. This would be the thing that determined whether Kota stayed or went. It might be the thing that determined whether the officer behind him got to keep breathing if this went sideways.
Walker’s mind went cold and clear, sorting possibilities with brutal efficiency. Pull over. Stay calm. Hands visible. Papers ready. Watch the officer. Watch Kota. Watch everything.
“You trust me, right?” Walker asked.
Kota gave a stilted nod. “Yeah. It’s me I don’t trust. I’m not good in high-pressure situations.”
Walker reached over, squeezing the back of Kota’s neck once, firm and grounding.
“Then look at me if you need to,” he said. “I’m calm enough for both of us.”
The truck came to a stop, Walker shifting into park but not shutting down the engine. The cop pulled up behind him, rolling to a stop and turning off that godforsaken siren. He took his time before he finally exited the vehicle.
Walker watched him in the mirror the entire time.
He was an older man with a paunch over his utility belt and buttons straining on his uniform shirt. He had a wide brim hat and a mustache that hadn’t been popular in fifty years.
Walker pulled his license from his wallet on the console and the necessary paperwork, rolling down the window as the officer approached.
“How’s it going?” Walker asked.
“Pretty good. I’m Officer Petty. May I see your license, registration, insurance and bill of lading.”
