Chapter 12
The sliding doors parted with a mechanical sigh, and the three of them walked into the grocery store like Fly had declared it a mission and not a food run.
Than blinked once, adjusting to the shift in light. Too bright. Too sharp. The sheer scale of it hit first, the towering shelves, the polished floors, the endless rows of choices stacked high like someone had taken abundance and stretched it past reason.
He had been in stores before. Walmart, the gas station market, the tribal co-op—places that knew the shape of his life.
Everybody on the rez had. But not like this.
Not this clean, this loud, this…full. At home, the aisles were narrow, familiar, and predictable.
Here, everything gleamed like it had been built yesterday, humming with an energy that felt foreign against the quiet rhythm of his upbringing.
A sudden memory tightened his chest. His mother’s late-night grocery runs after work, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, the same few options on the same tired shelves. Nothing changed. Not really.
Here, everything changed. Every aisle. Every second. Every choice.
Fly leaned over. “I know, mate. It’s a lot at first, but you get used to it.”
Than nodded, swallowing. “Is it that obvious?”
“Yeah, but I was blown away when I got here from Australia. My grandad owns a ranch…in Texas.”
“That’s a whole new country, there,” Shamrock muttered.
Fly grinned. “Cowboy hats, boots, howdy this and y’all that. It was interesting.”
“We’ll get you through this,” Shamrock said, throwing an arm around Than’s shoulders. “We’ve got your six. That’s SEAL-speak for ‘You won’t die in a grocery store. Not today.’”
Fly pushed the cart like it was a battering ram, his pace clipped and expression focused. “Okay,” he muttered, focused. “Logical plan. Simple objective.” His mouth tightened as he glanced at Shamrock. “High likelihood of screwups. It’s just food.”
Than watched him, amused. Fly couldn’t turn off his inner mission commander even for tomatoes.
Behind them, Shamrock yawned, stretching his arms overhead with the unearned grace of someone who hadn’t taken anything seriously since birth.
“Define ‘screw up,’” he said, eyes already on the snack aisle like it was calling his name.
“I’m thinking this cart could fit, what, ten bags of chips? Maybe twelve if we stack vertically.”
“You’re not stacking anything,” Fly said, deadpan, not even glancing back. “We’re getting what’s on the list. Nothing else.”
“Should I salute you, Lieutenant of the List?”
“You can kiss my ass. How about that?”
Than followed, snorting. Damn, he loved the way Fly just took everything in stride and gave as good as he got. How could you not love the guy?
Shamrock was a wild card, but solid, and his humor was off the charts.
Hands in his hoodie pockets, scanning without making it obvious, he tried to play it cool instead of like a rez bumpkin.
The people. The exits. The exits’ exits.
Habits born from growing up between worlds, one rooted in land and silence, the other in survival.
They drew attention almost instantly.
Two women near the bakery counter went quiet mid-conversation, one of them nudging the other with her elbow as Fly passed. A clerk near the deli fumbled a price sticker. A trio of college-aged girls near the self-checkout zone tracked them with subtle but unmistakable interest.
Than didn’t respond. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t shift.
He just noticed.
Shamrock, however, noticed everything.
“Is it just me,” he murmured, sidling closer to Than as they reached the produce section, “or are we getting stared at like we’re Chippendale dancers?”
“What the fuck is a Chippendale dancer?” Than asked dryly.
“Wow, you do need schooling. Vegas, buff male strippers.”
“Male strippers. That’s a thing?” Than was floored. “Men take their clothes off…for money?”
“Yeah, are you asking yourself ‘Where do I sign up?’ Weighing the pros and cons of each job? Navy SEAL, badass warrior. Guns, bullets flying, mission focused. Half-naked object of female attention, all that weightlifting and protein shakes, and man, never skipping leg day. That’s a hard one.”
Fly’s shoulders shook. “Shamrock, shut the fuck up before Than decks you.”
“He wouldn’t deck me. I’m an encyclopedia of—”
“Useless facts,” Fly said.
Meanwhile, Fly grabbed bananas, apples, and a pre-packed salad with that baby-brain genius intensity he used for everything. He dropped them into the cart without looking, then turned just in time to catch Shamrock reaching for a tub of caramel dip. “Don’t even think about it.”
“Fruit needs a wingman,” Shamrock muttered.
Than caught sight of a young woman near the end of the aisle, maybe twenty, maybe younger, openly staring at Fly like she didn’t know if she wanted to flirt with him or sketch him in charcoal and keep the portrait under her pillow.
Fly was too busy wrangling Shamrock’s impulses, and he did have a girlfriend.
Smart, Than thought. He and Fly were technically jailbait.
But when her eyes flicked toward him, his body still responded.
Sex was always on his mind. Sometimes it hit so hard, he could barely think straight, but this wasn’t about pickups.
This was about Bailee, who needed them. Bear had put his trust in them.
Before they rolled on, Than reached out and added a package of strawberries to the cart. Nobody stopped him.
Fly’s jaw was tight. His knuckles were white where they gripped the cart, like this whole thing was personal. Than figured it kind of was. Fly had been the one who got the card, passed from Bear’s hand without ceremony, like it was just an errand.
But Than had seen his brother’s eyes.
Not just tired. Different. The kind of different that makes a man forget his usual silence and raise his voice in a room full of warriors. The kind of different that showed up in the angle of a mouth. The way a man walked when he wanted to be somewhere else.
Bailee.
Than didn’t know all the details. Didn’t need to.
He’d watched Bear on the beach that morning.
The tension under his skin. That strange, deliberate softness in his voice after the phone call.
When they’d been told to load into the truck, Bear’s tone had been gentler, but his eyes had been elsewhere.
Something had shifted. Something that had always been still at Bear’s core suddenly... moved. His rooted brother was sweet on that stunning woman.
Bailee respected his big brother. Than had seen it. Felt it.
Bear never moved like that for anyone, and he never raised his voice.
But Than had heard it. Plain as a thundercrack.
Sit. Down.
Sharp, capable, proud Bailee had folded into it like she trusted it more than her own strength.
Than filed that away. Quietly. Like he filed everything.
Shamrock whistled under his breath, running his hands reverently over an end cap display stacked high with a dizzying array of potato chips. “We’re quite a fucked-up society.”
“How so?” Fly asked, holding the two jars of tomato sauce like he was about to conduct a Gallagher Logic experiment.
Than clocked the setup immediately; he smelled a bait-and-switch coming on.
“There are countless varieties of potato chips,” Shamrock said solemnly. “Categorized by brand, cooking method, and flavor. Why? We don’t know what we want until we see it in comparison to something else.”
Fly made a choice, grabbing the sauce on the left.
Without missing a beat, Shamrock nudged the other jar at him. Fly took it automatically. Shamrock, cool as ever, slipped a family-size bag of BBQ chips into the cart.
“Then we’ve got to decide between cuts,” he muttered. “Wavy or flat.”
“What formed this fascinating hypothesis?” Fly asked, dry as the San Diego sun.
“A book I read. Predictably Irrational.”
Fly barked out a laugh. “You should get that on a T-shirt.”
Than snickered under his breath, shaking his head. “He’s not wrong.”
“Fuck you, Gallagher,” Shamrock muttered, grinning.
Fly sighed, dropped the jar of sauce into the cart, and, without ceremony, removed the bag of chips. “You light-fingered that bag of chips like a snack pirate. Way to go, Chips Ahoy.”
“List Nazi,” Shamrock fired back. “No chips for you.”
As they moved through the store, Than had to hand it to him. Shamrock was running a whole chip heist right under Fly’s nose.
It started small. Casual. A single bag of Sour Cream & Onion Lays dropped behind the kale when Fly turned to grab olive oil.
Then it escalated. Salt and vinegar slipped behind the bottled water. Nacho cheese cradled between two frozen lasagnas. a family-size kettle chip sack stuffed into a twelve-pack of paper towels like he was hiding contraband.
Fly remained oblivious. Or chose to be. Hard to tell with him.
Than just watched, impressed and trying to hold back his laughter and, occasionally, his disbelief.
By aisle six, Shamrock was talking about nutritional psychology while double-loading jalapeno chips into the basket like he was packing for the end times and chips were currency.
“You’re not even hiding them anymore,” Than murmured.
“Hiding implies shame,” Shamrock replied. “This is sleight of hand in a domestic combat zone. Legendary behavior in progress.”
Fly turned just in time to catch Shamrock holding a suspiciously puffy bag behind his back.
“What is that?”
“Uh…croutons.”
Fly gave him a look.
Than gave it ten more minutes before Fly brought down the hammer.
Before they hit the hygiene aisle, Fly halted the cart and pulled out every single bag of chips—twelve, by Than’s count—and stacked them in his arms like contraband. “Put these back,” Fly said, calm but clipped. “Then get back here ASAP. We’re done, and you’re so done.”
Than nodded, turning just enough to give Shamrock a look of sympathy. “It was a good run, man.”
Shamrock just shrugged, unfazed. “Fly forgets I find a four-leaf clover in a bed every single time.”
“Is that a warning?”
“Gentle reminder, oh, List Nazi.”