Chapter 8
Finn's got one boot braced against the workbench, both hands wrapped around his coffee mug, pulling like he's trying to remove Excalibur from stone.
The mug doesn't budge. Neither does the torque wrench I glued it to last night.
"You beautiful monster," he mutters, still pulling. "You tiny, evil, beautiful monster."
"Not me," I say, which is a lie. Definitely me. I spent twenty minutes last night with a bottle of industrial adhesive and zero regrets.
Finn stops mid-yank to glare at me. "Your footprints are in the oil spill by the lift. Size five. Who else wears toddler shoes?"
"They're six and a half, and also you can't prove anything."
"I can prove you're about to die." But he's grinning when he says it, already plotting revenge in that brain of his.
Holt emerges from under the truck he's working on, sliding out on the creeper smooth and unhurried. There's grease up to his elbows and a smudge across his jaw that I absolutely do not want to lick off. He glances at Finn, still wrestling the mug, then at me trying very hard to look innocent.
"She glued it?" he asks Finn.
"Yep."
"How long you been pulling?"
"Ten minutes."
His mouth softens just slightly at the edges. "Might be easier to just buy a new mug."
"It's the principle," Finn says, giving one more dramatic yank before surrendering. He leaves the mug-wrench hybrid standing upright on the bench like some kind of modern art installation. "Fine. You win this round, Adler. But I'm coming for you."
"Looking forward to it, Weller."
Holt wipes his hands on a shop rag, smearing more grease than he removes. "I need parts from Mesa. Bearings and seals for the transmission. Be about two hours with the drive."
"I'll go," Finn says immediately, too fast, with that tone that means he's already planned something. "Scout can come. We'll make a day of it."
I raise an eyebrow. "A day out of a parts run?"
"It's the city, not the fucking moon. We'll get lunch.
" He's already grabbing his keys, herding me toward the door before Holt can object or I can think too hard about spending two hours alone in a truck with Finn's particular brand of chaos.
"Come on, Adler. Adventure awaits. Also I'm buying gummy worms."
"Sold," I say, because apparently my priorities are exactly that simple.
Holt's still standing there with the rag in his hands, watching us with that unreadable expression that probably means he knows Finn's up to something but hasn't figured out what yet. "The list is on my desk."
"Got it, boss." Finn salutes, grabs the paper, then pauses in the doorway. "Oh, and Holt? Might want to check your toolbox. I think something died in there."
We're in the truck and pulling out before Holt can respond, Finn cackling like he just pulled off the heist of the century.
"What did you do to his toolbox?"
"Sardines." He says it like it's obvious. Like sardines in toolboxes is standard operating procedure. "Taped one to the inside of the lid a few days ago. Should be getting ripe right about now."
"You're disgusting."
"I'm hilarious." He cranks the music up, some country song about trucks and heartbreak that's probably required by Arizona law.
The windows are down and the heat slams in immediately, dry and relentless, turning the truck cab into a convection oven.
"We're stopping at the gas station first. This mission requires supplies. "
The mission, apparently, requires sour gummy worms, blue raspberry slushies, a bag of beef jerky, and—I watch him toss it on the counter—a bottle of rubber cement.
"Do I want to know?"
"Probably not." He pays, hands me my slushie, then proceeds to dump a handful of gummy worms directly into his drink. "Try it. Revolutionary."
"That's revolting."
"That's innovation." He takes a long pull through the straw, vindicated. "Come on, Adler. Live a little."
I dump three gummy worms in my slushie because apparently I'm twelve now and Finn's a terrible influence. It's actually kind of good, which I refuse to admit out loud. He knows anyway, grinning at me like he just won something.
The highway stretches out flat and endless, heat shimmer making the asphalt look liquid in the distance.
Wind rips through the open windows, hot and relentless, whipping my hair everywhere until I give up and twist it into a knot.
The truck smells like old leather and motor oil and something distinctly Finn—sun-baked and lived-in.
My slushie's already sweating through the cup, condensation dripping onto my bare legs.
Finn drives with one hand, the other drumming on the wheel, and after about ten minutes of him humming off-key to some country song, he hits me with it.
"So you gonna tell me what happened at the canyon or do I have to waterboard it out of you?"
I nearly choke on a gummy worm. "Subtle."
"Subtlety's for people with patience. I have ADHD and a death wish. Spill."
"Nothing happened."
"Scout. You came back looking like someone rearranged your entire worldview and Holt's been acting like he touched a holy relic he wasn't supposed to. Something happened."
The blue slushie's turning my tongue numb but I take another long pull anyway, buying time, brain spinning. Here's the thing about Finn—he's chaos incarnate but he's also the safest person to tell because he already knows. He's been watching Holt and me orbit each other since day one.
"He told me about the blast. The real version. Not the headlines version."
Finn's drumming stops. "Shit."
"Yeah."
"That's... that's big. He doesn't talk about it. Like, ever. I've tried and he just—" He waves his hand in a motion that I think is supposed to represent Holt shutting down. "Nothing. So if he told you..."
"He told me about the field and the blood and thinking he was dying. About watching you pull him out. About the nightmares." The desert blurs past my window, all heat shimmer and endless beige. "About not knowing if he wanted to survive."
"Fuck." Finn says it quiet, jaw tight. "Did he tell you it was my fault?"
I look at him fast. "What?"
"The IED. I triggered it. We were clearing a building and I missed the tripwire.
" He says it like he's reading off a menu, but his knuckles are white on the steering wheel.
"Walked right over it like a fucking amateur.
Holt was feet behind me. He got the blast. I got—" He holds up his left hand, the one with the scars and the crooked finger.
"This. Barely a scratch. Doesn't exactly seem fair. "
"Finn—"
"Best part is I don't even remember it. Brain just deleted the file. Holt remembers everything and I got nothing." He drags a hand through his hair. "Anyway. Point is, he told you. That means something."
I don't know what to say so I just sit there, slushie sweating in my hands, watching him wrestle with guilt that's clearly been eating at him for years. And because I'm an idiot with no self-preservation, I open my mouth.
"We almost kissed."
Finn's head whips toward me so fast I'm worried about whiplash. "I'm sorry, what?"
"Eyes on the road!"
He corrects course, but he's grinning now, that manic Finn grin that means he's about to become everyone's problem.
"You almost kissed. At the canyon. After he trauma-dumped his entire soul on you.
Of course you did. That's the most Holt thing I've ever heard—drop the heavy shit then immediately blue-ball himself. "
"He said 'not yet.'" I'm staring at the highway stretching ahead, remembering the way Holt's voice went rough in the dark. "And that I deserve better. Someone not broken."
The grin drops off Finn's face. "Fuck. He said that?"
"Yeah."
"That idiot." Finn says it with so much affection it hurts. "That self-sacrificing, noble, absolutely idiotic—" He breaks off, jaw working. "He's not broken. He's just—he thinks he is. That's different."
"I know that."
"But he doesn't." Finn looks at me, serious in a way he almost never is.
"He thinks the leg, the nightmares, all of it—he thinks it makes him less.
Makes him not good enough. And now he's doing the whole 'I need to be sure you're sure' thing because god forbid Holt Ward take something for himself without checking every angle first."
"Please don't."
"Too late, already composing the speech." He takes another pull of his nightmare slushie. "But okay, real talk—how do you feel about him?"
And there it is. The actual question underneath all of Finn's chaos. I could deflect, could make a joke, but he just told me about triggering the IED that took Holt's leg so I figure I owe him honesty.
"I think I'm falling for him. Like actually falling, not just—I don't know, not just grateful he gave me a place to stay or attracted to the whole stoic mechanic thing.
I mean I am attracted to that, obviously, have you seen him?
But it's more. It's the way he listens when I ramble.
The way he doesn't need me to be anything except exactly this.
The way he looks at me like I'm not too much or too loud or too broken.
Like I'm just—" I stop, realizing I'm doing the thing where I word-vomit my feelings all over someone. "Right."
"Like you're just right," Finn finishes, soft. "Yeah. That's Holt. He's got this thing where he sees people exactly as they are and doesn't need them to be anything else. It's annoying as shit when you're trying to hide from yourself."
"Sounds like you're speaking from experience."
"Oh, I've got a decade of experience with Holt Ward seeing straight through my bullshit.
It's exhausting. Highly recommend." He grins, but it's gentler now.
"He's not an easy person to love. I say that with full authority as someone who's loved him since we were fifteen and stupid.
He's got walls made of concrete and trauma and he thinks he has to hold the whole world up by himself.
But if you can get past that—if he lets you past that—he's the best person I know. "