Chapter 7
SEVEN
Orson
After being left alone at the table for a while, I caught sight of them heading back from an alley. Max came inside, smelling of Asha and sex, while Braxton and Asha remained outside. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what they’d been doing, but I didn’t really care. These three seemed to be in desperate need of some happiness.
Asha looks radiant beside the truck. Her platinum blonde hair captures the sun, like a crown of light. Her lithe figure draws one’s attention to its subtle and sultry curves, while the honey-brown eyes bewitch. At a distance, through the diner’s dirty window, these traits unite in the portrait of a beautiful young woman. Crass and casual, a smokescreen for a deeper emotional intelligence.
It takes all my willpower to drag my gaze away from her, but I have a rare moment alone with Max I don’t want to squander. As the controller of my fate, it behooves me to learn the way his mind thinks. He sits square-shouldered in the booth, alert, despite little hints of exhaustion peeking through. For example, the way he blinks with such intention, refusing his eyelids the opportunity to remind him how splendid a moment’s rest would feel.
“Where are we headed?” I ask.
His eyes snap to mine, and in them I find my answer. Confidential. Need-to-know basis. Shut up and do what I tell you.
It was evident the moment we met: I didn’t have his trust. Which I suppose is understandable, given the culture of distrust fostered by his agency. The Enforcers aren’t keen on confiding more than the bare minimum, even amongst each other, as far as I can tell. An air of secrecy attends every Enforcer I’ve come across. Max is no exception in that regard.
In others, however, I suspect deviation from the Enforcer norm. His eyes wander back to the window, where they find Asha. Though I’m unaware of any Enforcer code of conduct, I imagine there’s an implicit prohibition on romance. Especially on a mission. Doubly so, when the object of an Enforcer’s affection happens to also be a member of a group classified as highly dangerous.
And yet, both brothers have allowed themselves to become involved with the so-called asset, as Michael called her — whatever that means. I smelled her on them like a pungent cologne. By the strength of the scent, I can only imagine what the three of them got up to in the past forty-eight hours. And without showering since.
Not smart for people who seem to like their secrets.
As though intuiting my train of thought, Max speaks up and derails it. “You did hard time?”
I try to keep my answer simple and respectful. “You read my file, I presume. You know the details.”
He looks back at me, leaning forward on the table. “For murder?”
I steel myself against physical response, which I know he’s fishing for. Cracks in my facade. “That’s correct.” I smile softly, but behind this genial mask play memories of my crime. Flashes, tiny soundbites, clipped recollections flitter across the stage of my mind. My mother’s shriek. The fury in my father’s eyes fading into eternal darkness. The blood staining my coat, dripping from my wolf’s teeth, bared in an open maw. The flight, endless running, days on end, switching between forms whenever my legs tired. “Would you like me to talk about it?”
He inspects me with wary curiosity. Another flash. Dad’s open throat. Tears on Mom’s cheeks catching moonlight, glittering like diamonds. Snapshots imprinted on my brain like photos in a grim family album. “You seem to be at peace with it.”
The smell of blood mixed into the crisp night air. “Does the subject interest you, Max?”
I notice a slight constriction in the muscles around his left eye, though I don’t know how to interpret it. Disgust? Anger? Incredulity? Max holds his cards close to the chest. Living that way must be exhausting. Keeps the muscles all tight, makes you aggravated. Always a background anger rumbling within. I suppose men like Max use that to their advantage, as well, but at what cost?
“Remarkable shift,” he says.
I raise my eyebrows. “What’s that?”
“Killer to MIT.”
I smile, this subject far easier than the last. “Well, I was always more of a nerd than a murderer. After all, it was only the one.” I hear Dad gurgling, but the sound transitions into the clacking of fingertips on a keyboard. Soothing. The noise I would hear at three in the morning after everyone else had gone to bed, nothing but the light of my computer screen illuminating the room. “I’ve always had a predilection for tech. While the other young shifters of our pack were outside playing sports, I stayed in and monkeyed on motherboards, learned to hack.”
Max nods. “Uh, huh. So prison must’ve been a difficult experience for someone of your more …sensitive nature?”
The server appears, unfazed by the mention of prison. She wears a stained apron over a teal dress and a cloak of nonchalance that must buffer her against the riffraff that filters through this diner. “Hello,” I greet cheerily.
It’s my affability that gives her pause. Her eyes lift from the notepad on which she scribbles her customers’ orders. A smile tugs up the corners of her mouth when she sees me. “Hi.”
“We’re waiting on two more,” says Max, shooing her.
“I’ll come back in five,” she says, passing me one more glance before receding behind the counter again.
“Smooth operator,” says Max. “I hope you don’t intend on trying any moves while under my supervision.”
I turn and look at Asha through the window. She kicks a tennis ball high into the air, an impressive show of leg strength. I imagine how firm her thighs are, which I suppose is exactly the sort of thing I’m being warned against.
“Tell me about prison,” says Max.
More snippets of memory chase away thoughts of Asha’s physique. Rubbery dinner meats. Omnipresent musk. The sting of a baton against my back.
“Prison was rough,” I answer honestly.
As I gaze into Max’s eyes, I return to the place. My world shrunk to the size of the maximum-security cell block that housed me, shared with two dozen others deemed too violent for the privileges afforded less threatening inmates. That was a place of despair masked with brute strength. I watched men hurl themselves at one another in violent collisions to keep from hurting themselves. We were rats in a bucket.
“It’s a place that wears away at the soul.”
Another twitch at the corner of his eye. This time I think it’s bemusement. “How is it you emerged the way you have, then?” he asks.
I sigh. The way I have. Cheery and excited for the free world, he means. “I was in for only a few years.”
He leans closer, scrutinizing me. “Weathered the time, huh? Held out hope?” He reads deception in my answer. I can tell.
I could tell him that I hung on by a thread. That what got me through was helping out my fellow inmates. Or I could tell him all the lurid details people want to hear about prison, all the violence, drugs, murder, and so on. I experienced it all and I can still feel the impacts from some of the hits I absorbed, the echoes of bruises not easily forgotten.
That conversation would be pointless, though.
I can and would tell Max all of these things, if I thought he was truly interested, but I can tell he's not. I’m an open book, but you have to flip the pages. This man only wants me to bare enough of my soul to know whether I'm dangerous to him and his team.
So no pointless conversations for him.
Max changes gears. “Well, don’t hold out hope for Asha. She’s off limits.”
His eyes bore into me, waiting for my response. I simply nod. As stunning and intriguing as I find Asha, I’m not looking for trouble.
Sure, I weathered my time in prison, but I’m not looking to do any more. This is my one shot to stay out. Freedom. Something I never really tasted in my life, not even during those years on the lam, at school, under a false identity. Watching over your shoulder isn’t freedom. It’s just another form of imprisonment.
So, despite a history of mistakes, I don’t intend to make one here. I’ll abide by Max’s rules, serve the Enforcers, and keep myself out of that godforsaken Hell I left behind. No matter how intriguing the pretty asset is.
"I'm only here to help," I offer simply.
"I hope so," Max says, and there's a hint of a threat in his voice.
The little bell above the entrance rings as the door swings open. Braxton holds it for Asha, who strolls into the diner and joins us in the booth. She slides in beside Max and catches my eye.
Over the table, we share a smile, but it’s slightly more than a smile. It lingers a microsecond too long, accompanied by a twinkle in her eye. It’s a bit of furtive flirtation. Not so much we arouse either brother’s suspicion, but enough that I know the attraction is mutual — even if she has yet to admit it to herself. Good lord, you’re beautiful.
It's at this moment I realize she’s going to be trouble.