Chapter Seven
CHAPTER SEVEN
Again and again, society expects monsters to do them the courtesy of looking like monsters. People want evil to be ugly; to judge on sight; to be spared the effort of thinking for themselves. They want to pick a team, and then fervently believe the bad guys are, of course, only on the other team.
They’re so woefully unprepared for REAL monsters.
—EXCERPT FROM UNTITLED BLOG
Director Traynor helped himself to another bite of the Wagyu beef tartare, gaze occasionally stealing to the sprawl of Seattle’s night lights far below. The restaurant’s lighting was dimmed to allow the view to take center stage, the white tablecloths softly glowing around the room as candlelight reflected off the cocktail glasses on most tables. Marist certainly never skimped when she invited him to join her.
Nichols was with them again as well, ignoring both his companions and the rotating view of Seattle at night as he tapped on his phone.
How many times had the three of them dined together now? Traynor had lost track. He’d made the requisite protests early on that it was unseemly for the head of the Empath Initiative to accept expensive trips and dinner from Stone Solutions, but Marist knew exactly the right responses, joking that Stone Solutions ought to be buying him plenty of drinks to make up for all the headaches they gave him. Traynor deserved these dinners, she would say, delivering the line with a laugh.
She was very good at the game. Forceful means would have been obvious, but couch it all in friendly smiles and bright tones of voice, and it was easy to give in to her gifts and entertain her every suggestion. Marist could have been a politician; her constituents buying into whatever lies she sold because she delivered the message so kindly.
Marist glanced at Nichols, then, who was still on his phone. “Victor, we have the director of the Empath Initiative right here ,” she said playfully. “We’re plying him with foie gras and cognac; this is the moment to ask EI for whatever you want.”
She winked at Traynor, making it a joke despite every word being stone-cold truth.
“Polaris needs more funding,” Nichols said, not looking up from the phone. “A lot more funding. Our new guest, Cora Falcon, was responsible for a senator’s murder, after all.”
“Yes, look how busy Victor is,” Marist said. “Poor man is working through dinner.”
Nichols glanced up. “Conducting stress tests,” he said. “Somehow I always end up being the one stuck doing the, shall we say, delicate work?”
All of them knew Traynor would never ask for details. Plausible deniability was a very important part of the balance. The actual mechanics of any tests were the domain of the scientists; the Empath Initiative director simply approved or denied whether they took place.
Traynor picked up his drink. “Tell me more about how much funding you need.”
Reece was overly familiar with places vegan insomniacs could haunt in Seattle, and went from the beach to a coffeehouse by Rainier University that was open late and did fair trade hot chocolates with house-made almond milk. He spent the evening hunched over a table at the back, scrolling through job postings on his phone with increasing hopelessness. He’d dropped out of college junior year—thanks, anxiety—and was inept at tech. What was he even qualified to do besides consult on nonviolent crime and nag about traffic laws? And Jamey had texted to say Liam was going with her to Port Angeles in the morning and she didn’t need Reece’s car; who was he supposed to nag now?
He of course had kept on his gloves inside the coffeehouse, trying to ignore the attention they drew. But there were only so many nervous, distrusting, sometimes flat-out hostile looks Reece could stand in one evening, and he left sooner than he’d planned, making it home a little after eleven.
He parked in his spot on the second floor of the high-rise’s garage, his beat-up Smart car flanked by a Mercedes on one side and a Lexus on the other. His side of the garage overlooked the same street as the studio, and as he climbed out of the car, he paused.
A white man in a camouflage coat and balaclava was across the street, leaning on the dark windows of the closed coffee shop. Despite his outwardly relaxed position, his shoulders were tensed.
He looked exactly like the man Reece had seen yesterday, the one who had been lingering and smoking outside the same coffee shop, watching Reece’s building in exactly the same manner.
Reece walked straight up to the edge of the garage. “Sir!” he shouted down, and the man startled. “Sir, are you all right? Are you here again because you have nowhere else to go?”
The man’s eyes widened and he hastily shoved off the building.
“Is your face all covered up because of the weather?” Reece asked loudly, as the man scrambled to pull his hat down to his brows. “Do you need to get off the street? Need somewhere to stay or a ride to a shelter?”
The man was already hustling down the street. “It’s very cold outside tonight,” Reece called after him. “I can help you find a place to get warm!”
The man increased his pace, disappearing around the corner without ever saying a word. Maybe he did have a place to go after all.
Reece shut the car door. He paused for a moment, staring at his rear taillight suspiciously. He took the covers off to replace the bulbs on a regular schedule, but now it was missing one of the screws. Had someone else taken it off—to put something inside, perhaps? His toolbox was still at Jamey’s; he’d have to make time to drive out to her place to check his car.
Up in the studio, he tossed his gloves on the kitchen counter and got a bowl of cereal with several extra teaspoons of sugar before curling up on the couch with his phone. He hadn’t texted Grayson since the beach and his last text was still on-screen.
Grayson: Failure? Care Bear,a pair of gloves isn’t what makes you an empath. Your compassion never got left in the glove box of your Micro Machine and towedto Tacoma.
Reece’s gaze lingered on the message. These days, the empath hunter had more faith in the empath than he did in himself.
He shook himself before he could have any feelings about that and sent a much grumpier text instead.
Reece: Do you and the Empath Initiative really think I won’t find a tracker in my rear taillight?
He had just finished his cereal and was contemplating his anti-anxiety arts and crafts stash when he got a response.
Grayson: If EI put a tracker on you, then I wasn’t made aware. I told them to leave you alone.
Reece blinked. He hadn’t been made aware that Grayson had told EI to leave him alone. But no, there would be no thinking about that, just like he wasn’t thinking about Grayson having faith in him. He settled a little deeper into the couch cushions, pushing the too-long sleeves of Grayson’s hoodie up his arms to keep his hands free so he could text back.
Reece: So did you visit the clubs you were asking about?
Oh, that had been a bad question to ask. What Grayson did with his nights wasn’t any of his business. Even if apparently some of those nights he was telling EI to fuck off and standing between Reece and his demons, promising Reece that he wasn’t a complete failure of an empath. None of his business. Absolutely none.
Reece’s phone beeped.
Grayson: In a sense.
So Grayson was out tonight. Maybe he was having drinks. Dancing. Deep in a throng of people who could all touch him without blacking out.
Reece: Bet your hair was excited to show off how pretty and perfect it always is.
Grayson: Oh look, you don’tguess everything right. It’s a mess right now.
Reece frowned.
Reece: Who messed up your hair?
Whoops. He hadn’t thought that text through. Did that sound territorial? Just because Reece couldn’t touch him didn’t mean other people had the same problem, and just because Grayson didn’t have emotions didn’t mean he was celibate. He could totally be having sex with those other people. The ones he could touch. Who weren’t Reece.
Grayson: Hotel gym.
Grayson at the gym.
Shit.
Muscles weren’t something Reece thought much about, but a post-workout high—he could drown in those endorphins until the world disappeared. He tried to push aside the fresh rush of interest that had suddenly unbalanced him. Even after a workout, Grayson probably didn’t get any kind of emotion Reece could pick up—and Reece couldn’t touch him in the first place. He needed to remember those things, just like he needed to respond like a normal person who had normal reactions to the thought of their platonic not-quite-friend at the gym.
Reece: Oh yeah? Why the gym?
Reece: Wait, are you still on East Coast time? It’s like two a.m. for you.
Grayson: I struck out everywhere I went tonight. Needed to think.
Another frown creased Reece’s face. So Grayson had been at a club trying to pick someone up? Who?
Reece took a breath through his nose. None of his damn business, that’s who. He wrote out an appropriately platonic text, the kind a normal frenemy might send. If there was such a thing.
Reece: How the hell did YOU strike out? I’ve seen the way people pant in your direction.
Grayson: Not people. LEADS. I don’t know why you keep thinking the Dead Man dates.
Oh. Well, then. Reece tried to wipe the smile off his face as he texted back.
Reece: So you’re on a case? An empath case?
Grayson: What else would I be on?
You could be on me —no no no, delete delete DELETE.
Texting Grayson late at night was a bad decision. Reece was an empath; he knew better, knew this was when his own inhibitions went down. He needed to plant himself firmly on Team A, the normies who were smart enough to be afraid of Grayson, and stay the hell off Team B, the fruit loops who’d add Grayson plus sex and come up with yes, please.
Reece: So you went to the gym to think? Why, do you think better when you’re lifting those things that weigh more than me?
Grayson: They’d have to weigh a lot more than you.
Reece paused, looking at the texts that echoed the conversation they’d had in November. At the time, he’d thought Grayson was exaggerating. But Grayson was like Jamey—which meant he might actually be downplaying his strength.
Might literally be able to toss Reece around without breaking a sweat.
Reece: If you’re really that strong it would make that second-date hate-sex interesting.
Reece stared at the text he’d just sent Grayson. Shit, he hadn’t thought that through either. Well...fine. This was fine. No big deal. Platonic frenemies joked about hate-fucking each other.
Probably.
Grayson: First of all, why do you keep saying IF? Second, the moment I touch you, it’s gonna knock you out again, and isn’t that the part that would make hate-sex interesting?
Grayson: And finally, we aren’t at a second date. When was the first? The dinner you ran off halfway through to commit a felony?
Reece let out his breath in a huffed half laugh. There. See? Grayson wasn’t making it weird. Just your casual everyday hypothetical hate-fuck between not-friends.
Reece: Maybe I was playing hard to get.
Grayson: Guess a lot of empaths play hard to get with me then.
Reece snorted.
Reece: I got used to your voice and it doesn’t bother me anymore. You never did tell me if the same thing would happen if we touched enough times.
Reece: Hypothetically.
Reece: Obviously.
Grayson: Nice try, sugar. But that is one of the Dead Man’s anti-empathy defenses and you don’t get the answer to that question.
Reece’s lips turned up, a tiny bit sly.
Reece: So there IS an answer, and you know what that answer is?
Grayson: I told you to be good and stop using those empath skills to guess national secrets.
Grayson: You’re not being very good.
Reece: Sure I am. Being bad would be completely ignoring all that stupid confidentiality crap around your location and asking for a picture of you lifting the weights that weigh a lot more than me.
Reece: Which you could send. Just saying.
Son of a bitch. Had Reece really just asked the Dead Man for a picture? Was he thinking any of these texts through or had his brain short-circuited somewhere back at the idea of getting tossed around in a friendly hypothetical hate-fuck?
Grayson: Pictures of me are classified.
Reece sat up, frowning.
Reece: What, seriously?
Grayson: The less people know about me, the better. I’m a weapon, remember?
Reece: No, you’re a person. You can’t take or share pictures? Not even with family?
Grayson: Haven’t you worked outthat there isn’t any family anymore?
Reece pressed his lips together.
Grayson: I know you’re an empath, but don’t get upset. It’s not a big deal. I don’t have family or friends. I don’t date. There’s no one to want pictures of me. I might as well be dead—and that’s the point of the Dead Man. It’s not like it bothers me.
It bothered Reece.
Reece: Send me a picture.
Grayson: I just told you I can’t.
Reece typed back so quickly his fingers stumbled on the letters.
Reece: I don’t care about some stupid policy or national security or whatever the bullshit reason is.
Reece: I want a picture of you, Evan.
He sent the text and then stuck his thumb between his teeth, chewing on the tip. The thought of Grayson being so isolated he couldn’t even share pictures of himself—
Grayson could say don’t get upset until his Texas cows came home. Didn’t matter; Reece was pissed.
He waited, but a couple minutes ticked by and there was no response. Maybe he’d pushed too hard—
His phone screen lit up, and there was the selfie of Grayson he’d asked for, of his reflection in the mirror in a small hotel gym. A water bottle and folded sweatshirt were set off to the side, and he was standing next to some cardio machine, maybe between reps or sets or the hell if Reece knew the lingo when the biggest weight he lifted was the spoon in the sugar bowl. Grayson had a towel draped over one of his shoulders, his sleeveless shirt damp and molded so closely to his torso that Reece could almost feel the contours of his body under his fingertips.
But his gaze was drawn to Grayson’s face. A picture couldn’t be read like a person anyway, so in a still image like this the lack of emotions could be mistaken for a blank expression. And without the distraction of the void of Grayson’s missing emotions, Reece could pick out little things he might not be able to notice in person—that Grayson’s hair still looked photo-ready, even mussed and damp with sweat. That his face was flushed, not red like Reece got but a tawny pink, and that he had a five-o’clock shadow a few shades deeper than his hair. That there were dark circles under his eyes, like most anyone would have when they hadn’t slept enough.
Reece’s gaze lingered on the dark circles, the reddish tint to the whites of hazel eyes. As far as he could tell, Grayson had been traveling since he left Seattle. Maybe he hadn’t had much time to rest. Did he ever go home? Where was his home these days? Still Texas?
Reece tightened his grip on his phone.
And then he hit Call.
It only rang once before Grayson picked up. “Hey, Care Bear.”
Jesus. Reece really liked that deep drawl.
He shook himself. Not the time to let his mind go down that road when his thoughts were already veering from Platonic Avenue. “Thought I should call and tell you that you’ve fallen right into my trap. I’m going to sell this picture to Eyes on Empaths and make enough money to retire young.”
“Please. If you suddenly came into a lot of money, you’d donate it all to charity.”
Reece huffed another half laugh. No one got him like Grayson. “I like the picture.”
“I’m a sweaty mess.”
“Shut up,” said Reece. “I know your looks are wasted on me since I barely notice that kind of thing, but even I can tell that Eyes on Empaths readers would lose their shit over you.” He shifted to lie flat on his back on the couch, the hood of Grayson’s sweatshirt bunched under his head. “So. Where did you send this hot classified selfie from?”
“You think that’s not classified too? Or are you about to call national security a bullshit reason again because that empath compassion got needlessly riled up on behalf of a man without feelings?”
Reece ignored that. “I know it’s a gym in a hotel.”
“That’s already more information than you should have.”
“And yesterday you texted about being across the continent and you didn’t deny still being on Eastern time. Can we play twenty questions? Do the people in your current state sound like you?”
“I don’t sound anything like someone from the Carolinas or Tennessee or Georgia.”
“That’s cute, that you think I would be able to tell the difference.” Reece closed his eyes. “You’ve got a water bottle but you’re not sentimental enough to keep a favorite one with you. You were getting on a plane last night, so I bet you bought it in an airport gift shop. I don’t know what that ‘W’ on it means, but from what I know about you, I bet it’s for sports, maybe football, and the only thing with a ‘W’ I can think of on the East Coast is Washington, DC.”
Reece opened his eyes, staring up at the ceiling. “Except you’re standing next to cardio equipment, not weights, which you said would have to weigh more than me to help you think. So maybe the weights are too basic for you, which makes me think basic hotel, which makes me think you flew somewhere from DC and now you’re in a smaller city. You brought a sweatshirt with you even though presumably you didn’t need to leave the hotel to get to the gym, so you probably flew north where the buildings aren’t warm enough for your Southern tastes. You keep harping on about national security, as if it’s top of your mind, as if whatever you’re up to is a little more inter national than usual, so maybe you’re up by the Canadian border. I’m bad at geography, so I’d have to look at a map, but maybe somewhere in Vermont or Maine?”
The other side of the phone was silent.
“Am I close?” Reece prodded.
He heard Grayson exhale. “You’re being careful, right?”
Reece frowned, stung. “What do you mean? I’m not using any extra abilities. I wouldn’t—”
“Nothing would work on me, but I know you’re not and I didn’t mean it like that,” Grayson said, which made Reece feel better. “I meant you’re not doing stupid things like running off by yourself or trusting strangers, are you? You gotta know there’s a lot of people who’d like to get their hands on an empath as intuitive as you. Tell me you can stay out of trouble until I can get back to Seattle.”
Reece broke into a smile. “You’re coming back to Seattle?”
“Did you hear any of the other words I just said?”
“When?”
“Are you being careful?”
“Soon?”
“Reece.”
“What?”
“Try to find even a thimble’s worth of the survival instinct everything else on this planet’s got,” said Grayson, “and promise me you’re gonna be careful.”
Reece rolled his eyes. “Fine, yes, I’ll be careful.”
Lie. Oops.
“Uh-huh.” Grayson sounded completely unconvinced. “Did you just lie to me?”
“No.” Lie. Reece winced.
“You’re still lying, aren’t you.”
“You know you have to come see me when you’re here,” Reece said, instead of admitting anything. “I’ll give you back your hoodie.” Lie. Oh, come on. He wasn’t actually keeping the hoodie. Was he?
“I kinda thought it fit you better.”
That made Reece smile again even while he scoffed. “You remember how big I am, right? Or not-big, in this case?”
“Fit isn’t just about size,” said Grayson.
“Pretty sure there’s a sex joke in there. A hate-sex joke, even.”
“What, like how no part of me would ever fit in any part of you?”
That startled a laugh out of Reece.
And sent a shiver up his spine.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” he said.
“I’m not,” Grayson said dryly. “You remember how big I am, don’t you?”
“Are you kidding?” said Reece. “That’s a feature, not a bug.”
“This, right here, is that empath lack of self-preservation we just talked about.”
“No, this is you threatening me with a good time again, like we talked about.”
This time Grayson scoffed. “I got close to a foot and a hundred pounds on you, and you know my strength is all jacked up.”
“Yeah, you really don’t know the difference between a threat and a good time,” said Reece, “because every word you say just makes it better.”
“I know how empaths work, Reece.” Grayson’s drawl was deep and gravelly in his ear. “Wouldn’t matter how good a time I wanted to give you— you get in bed with someone to lose yourself to their emotions. You make them feel the best they’ve ever felt because you get all those good feelings back tenfold. But I’m not like other people. You wouldn’t feel a thing from me.”
“Nice try, sugar,” Reece said, mimicking Grayson’s accent. “But you don’t guess everything right either, because that’s not how empaths work and I’m frankly surprised you didn’t already know.”
“Then how—”
“Yes, the ricochet is amazing but it’s making someone else feel good that really gets us going, and you’re goddamn right I could make you feel the best you’ve ever felt. And for the record, right now I’m not lying, and I’m still not lying when I say you don’t need emotions for me to have the time of my life wrecking you until we broke the fucking bed.”
There was a pause.
“Hypothetically,” Reece said quickly.
“Hypothetically,” Grayson said, almost at the same time. “We can’t touch.”
“We can’t touch,” Reece agreed, “and you’re an empath hunter.”
“I’m an empath specialist and you’re an empath.”
“I’m an empath and I’m supposed to run away from the Dead Man.”
“You’re supposed to run away from the Dead Man who’s supposed to be doing his job,” said Grayson.
“So obviously it’s a completely hypothetical hate-fuck.”
“Obviously.”
There was another pause.
“It’s getting late,” Reece said, right as Grayson said, “I should hit the shower.”
“Bye.”
“Bye.”
Reece quickly hung up. He set the phone on his chest, face down, and looked up at the ceiling.
Wouldn’t matter how good a time I wanted to give you.
Hypothetically. Grayson had been speaking hypothetically, just like Reece had been speaking hypothetically when he talked about making Grayson feel so amazing they broke the bed.
Because he had been. Speaking hypothetically. Obviously.
He snatched up his phone and lit the screen, which filled with the gym selfie Grayson had sent. No hint of the emotionless Dead Man in a picture, just Grayson, easy for Reece to take in every detail of his body, his eyes, his lips.
Reece took a breath through his nose. Grayson was attractive. Reece could admit that. And so obviously yes, the picture was hot; hot enough someone else might shamelessly save it as his background so he could enjoy the sight every time he picked up his phone.
Someone else might do that. But not Reece. Reece was an emotionally sophisticated empath who knew better than to pine after an empath hunter. He was Team A .
He stared at his picture of Grayson, flushed and sweaty, his hair mussed, probably exactly like he’d look if Reece spent a night wrecking him.
“Son of a bitch,” he muttered out loud.