Chapter 15
Zayne
Riding mostly in silence has become our thing, I guess.
I don't know if it's because the man just doesn't like to talk, or if it's because he has no desire to talk to me in particular.
I feel his eyes on me when I release a long sigh as we pull into the driveway of the house.
"Home sweet home," he mutters as he puts the truck in park and shoves open the driver's side door.
I have a million things about this house I can complain about.
But I learned long ago that, in situations like this, it only takes a few instances of unhappiness for annoyance to really set in.
Once that happens, then the job is no longer the focus.
Instead, it shifts to wanting out of the situation so badly that the job is no longer the objective, and in this line of work, that can literally be a life-or-death situation not only for the person working the case, but also for the victims who may end up overlooked.
It's not a situation I ever want to be in. Losing a sister to this type of organization's violence is the slap-in-the-face wake-up call needed to keep me focused.
"They could've at least paid for lunch," I say, following him to the front door.
"Hell, I didn't even want to pay for lunch," Zeus mutters as he unlocks the door and steps inside.
I cough into the crook of my elbow with the first breath I take once inside.
The house is stagnant, the air thick and congested with scents of all the used furniture bought for the job.
Stepping inside and getting slapped in the face with the stench of old smoke and mothballs makes it impossible to believe that we're on the side of a mountain in one of the most beautiful places in the United States.
"True," I agree quickly. "It's like the cooks have no idea what a vegetable is."
"Only if it's battered and deep-fried," Zeus agrees, his smile more of a lift in one corner of his mouth than a real smile.
It only gives me a hint that there may be some level of camaraderie between us.
"I could say it's a southern thing, but I've eaten some really great food in the south that doesn't have a drop of batter on it."
"Wait until you spend some time back at home base," he says as he leans against the kitchen counter. "Zara, Hemlock's woman, just started teaching herself how to cook, and the woman has mastered so many things."
"I'll take your word for it," I say, pressing a hand to my stomach as it growls.
I don't know if it's responding to the anticipation of decent food or if my fried lunch at the diner is going to turn into a gastric emergency.
I watch with a hint of mesmerization as he scrapes his huge hand over the top of his head, frustration clear in his actions and the sour look on his handsome face.
"I think it went better than I expected," he finally says. "We were both accepted into their little organization."
"A job offer of sorts doesn't exactly mean we'll have access to the shit we need to break this group up for good," I remind him.
"Better than nothing," he mutters. "Or at least better than them only taking one of us."
"True," I quickly agree, eyeing the couch but knowing I'd rather roll around in the mud than sit on that dirty thing again.
I always feel like I need to shower in scalding hot water and undiluted bleach after being around people like the ones at the diner, and today is no different.
I do my best not to read too much into his words.
It's not that he wants both of us on this job.
It's just that we can do so much better when there's more than one of us, and it's much safer to have someone close who knows what's truly going on.
Even if it's just so you're not fighting the same battle alone.
"Any idea when you think they'll reach out?" he asks.
I shrug. "No idea."
"The majority of the people in that place were high," he mutters. "They don't seem very organized."
"They might appear that way, but those folks in there are probably people they don't fully trust. Think of them as the outer circle," I explain.
"Those are the people they won't mind sacrificing if they have to.
The League wouldn't be on Cerberus' radar if they didn't have something substantial going on in their inner circle. "
He nods, contemplating. "I guess you're right."
"Just experience talking."
"Hard to feel safe around people who would rather get high than take care of business," he says after a long pause.
"That distraction can work in our favor.
They'll almost always circle back to their task, but it'll give us time to reevaluate when shit has the potential to go south for us," I say.
"And we're never safe around them. In my experience with these people, everyone below the top guy is expendable.
They always tend to wear out their usefulness.
I just hope we can become useful fast enough to make a difference. "
"Let's just hope the people we're working with aren't a shoot-first, ask-questions-later type," he says with another rough scrape of his hand over the top of his head. "And that they aren't expecting us to use drugs to show our loyalty."
"Our cover stories are good. They researched our aliases.
They know that Curtis is on parole for felony theft and manufacturing dope, and Lyle is pending charges for drugs.
It's not out of character for us to refuse to stay out of prison, and that backstory tells them that we're like them, just have to stay clean while on paper.
Just make sure to look extra envious if you're ever around and offered. "
"Got it," he says as he pushes off the counter and walks toward his room. "I guess we sit and wait."
"Yeah," I agree, talking to his back just before he closes himself into his room.
I eye the couch again, trying to figure out how I can spend the rest of my day, but the clutter in the house and the stench are driving me crazy. A horrible sign considering we just got started.
I'm still staring down at the couch as if it personally offended me when Zeus's bedroom door opens again.
"I'm going to go for a drive," he says, walking toward the front door.
The house is small enough that he almost brushes my shoulder as he walks past.
"Clear my head or some shit," he adds.
"Okay," I mumble, not liking the idea of being here alone with my thoughts.
I glance over at him to find him looking over his shoulder, staring at me expectantly.
"You coming?" he asks.
It takes every ounce of training I've accumulated over the years not to make a yipping noise and jump for joy at the offer.
Instead, I channel all the calmness I can muster, shrugging my shoulders. "What the hell else do I have to do today?"
As I walk out of the house, letting him lock it up behind us, I'm reminded that we can't have any real conversations in the vehicle without Cerberus overhearing them at minimum.
Where we were parked at the diner didn't give us the best viewpoint of what was going on with the vehicle while we were having our meeting, so we have to assume someone could've either put a tracker on it or wired it for audio.
The invite feels less inclusive now and more like a pity offering.
Instead of declining, I drop into the passenger seat, waiting for him to get behind the wheel.
He doesn't hesitate to slap on his seatbelt and back out of the driveway. When he uses the hand crank to roll his window all the way down, I do the same, letting the cool mountain air swirl around me in one of the most cleansing ways I've ever experienced.
"Wish I had my motorcycle," he mutters, breaking the silence after several minutes of driving.
"Same," I say wistfully.
The backstory is that I'm freshly out of prison, broke, and looking for work, and Zeus has lost everything after getting arrested and awaiting trial. We can’t look like we have a lot of money, so the bikes aren’t an option.
It also helps the storyline of why two grown men are living together.
But just to be safe, the familial link was added to prevent people from thinking there was any form of homosexuality, considering just how homophobic so many in these groups are.
"Want something?"
I snap my eyes open, unsure of exactly when I closed them, and turn to look at him.
He's rolling into the parking lot of a rundown gas station so old that I doubt the gas pumps still work.
"A Diet Coke would be great."
He slowly blinks in my direction.
"What?" I say, my voice playful. "After the meal I ate at lunch, I have to cut calories when I can. Why? What are you getting?"
"An energy drink," he says before climbing out of the truck.
I could preach the dangers of energy drinks to the man, but he's grown and can calculate his own risks and rewards.
It takes longer than it should to buy two drinks before he's walking outside with a black plastic bag dangling from his hand.
"Upset stomach?" I ask, thinking lunch might've hit him the same way it did me. Thankfully, my stomach is no longer threatening to revolt, and I attribute most of that to the fresh air.
"What?" he asks as he climbs inside. "Even if it was, I wouldn't risk the numerous diseases I'm sure are on a toilet seat in a place like that. I think Methuselah's grandmother was running the register. I was half tempted to just throw down twenty bucks and walk out."
"Why didn't you?" I counter with a grin and a gentle thanks on my lips when he pulls out a bottle of Diet Coke. Since he seems more agitated than when he walked in, I bite back the argument that a canned drink would've tasted crispier.
"I don't like being mean to people who don't deserve it. It's like bad karma or something."
"Makes sense," I say, wishing we were truly alone and not being monitored, so I could remind him just how mean he was to me at times when we were younger.