Chapter 16
Zeus
Moonlight slides through the room, highlighting the back of my hand and making it glow in an almost ethereal sort of way. I've stared at the damn thing for hours, wondering just when a simple gesture ever made me feel a little less alone in this world.
If I focus long enough, I can still feel the warmth of Zayne's hand over mine when he touched me at the overlook.
It wasn't a sexual touch, but one that spoke of friendship and care, something I know I don't deserve from him after the way I treated him all those years ago.
He mentioned women being expendable and tools, and disrespected, and it eats away at me, realizing that's exactly how selfish and hateful I was where he was concerned.
I hated that I ached to be around him. It was a weakness I always battled, and instead of self-reflection, I took that pain out on him.
I have no right to his care and concern. The man is more gracious than I ever deserve.
He forgave me over and over. There were times it felt like pity, as if he were like an abused dog that still licked the hand of the man who had beaten him with the hopes that maybe one gentle touch among hundreds of bad ones would be offered.
I yelled at him, cussed him out to no end, and yet he always opened his front door to me without hesitation.
I ignored him at school, and had it come to the risk of people finding out what was happening between the two of us, I'm sure that with my state of mind at the time, I could've resorted to violence to not be discovered.
My parents would've turned their backs on me long before they actually did if they ever got wind of what was happening behind closed doors at the Harmonds' house. I couldn't risk it.
At the time, they were the only people I felt cared about me, even though I knew they only did the bare minimum because it was expected of them, and they couldn't risk not looking like loving and devoted parents.
I was so starved for attention when I was younger that the crumbs of affection they offered on occasion felt like a four-course meal, and I devoured every speck of them.
I was terrified, as a younger child, that they would send me back in exchange for a kid they could stomach a little more easily, and that made me try with everything I had to be the best son they could find.
But the anger that it was never enough for them had to go somewhere, and I used Zayne as the outlet for all that pain and heartache.
I treated Zayne the same way they treated me.
They knew I'd be there until they decided I shouldn't show my face.
Zayne would always let me back in, no matter how much I hurt him.
The realization that I'm no better than the man and woman who raised me is lodged in my throat, threatening to suffocate me.
The imagined sound of my deceased father's throat clearing is enough to make me want to bolt from the bed. The noise spoke of his disappointment, something I learned early on as a child to avoid at all costs. The sound of others still doing it, all these years later, still makes my skin crawl.
Loud banging makes me spring from my bed, my gun in my palm, long before my brain even registers that I should be on the move. Grateful for the muscle memory, I'm across the room and slowly opening my bedroom door in a split second.
Movement catches my attention, and I feel a sense of relief to see Zayne just as ready as I am as he creeps out of his bedroom.
What doesn't have a place right now is the way my eyes drift down his chest. The curiosity about what he looks like without a shirt from days ago is solved as he steps closer to me.
He has a full chest of hair that fades as it works its way down his stomach, forming a tight line just below his belly button before disappearing into his boxers.
His muscles are leaner than mine but no less defined.
When my gaze drifts back up to his, I'm not at all shocked to see a wry look flattening his lips into a straight line.
"Right," I mutter and turn my attention back to the shadow at the front door just as another round of bangs hits the wood. "I got it."
A hand hotter than the one that covered mine on the tailgate of the truck presses to my chest as he takes a step in front of me.
"Really?" he growls, looking down. "And just how in the hell are you going to explain that to our new friends?"
I don't have to look south to know exactly what he's talking about. My cock had been threatening to go full nuclear for hours as I stared at the ceiling in my room, knowing he was only feet away in his.
The sight of his sleepy face and disheveled hair, and well, all missions are a go right this second.
"I've got it," he says, winking and patting my chest again. "Go grab some jeans and get that monster under control."
Instead of obeying, I hover just inside my bedroom door, encased in the shadows, my gun ready for action if shit goes sideways, as Zayne answers the door.
It's not the same guy from the night before, but I can tell by the way Zayne shifts on his feet that the man in front of him is from the same organization.
Unlike the man the night before, this guy doesn't feel the need to talk as loudly, so I can't hear every word spoken. Zayne doesn't look too happy when he closes the door and turns in my direction.
As if he can sense me even though I know I'm barely visible, he looks in my direction. "Get dressed. Work starts tonight."
I dress as quickly as I can, and from the bumps and curses from Zayne's room, he's doing the same.
Nothing deflates a man's cock like knowing we're going out to do God knows what with people we can't trust. By the time I step out of my room, tucking my gun into the back waistband of my jeans like a deviant, my mind is out of Zayne's gutter and right back on the task.
It doesn't hurt that he steps out of his room in dirty-looking jeans and a fucking flannel, making him look so redneck that I almost expect him to say he struck oil in the backyard like Jed Clampett.
"You look like you have body odor," I tease as he walks by.
The man pauses and wordlessly leans in another inch. Damn him for it because the scent coming off his skin is spicy and heavenly, cock-twitchingly so.
"Asshole," I mutter as I follow him to the front door.
His chuckle makes me smile, but our faces are schooled back to business before the door swings open.
I blow out a puff of air as Zayne locks the door, realizing what is about to happen.
Zayne looks all business, and for him and his character, that means he has an easy-going smile on his face as he pulls open the passenger door of a fucking cop car.
I feel a little easier when I open the back door and see that it's a decommissioned car that just hasn't had the stickers removed yet.
The standard equipment that would come with a car like this has already been removed.
It's a lot better than it being stolen, which was my first consideration when I saw it.
"I'm Bobby," the guy says as I settle into the back seat.
"Lyle," I mutter, growing even more concerned about tonight's adventure when I see the seatbelts back here have literally been cut out.
Instead of making a big deal about it, something I don't guess Lyle would have an issue with, I simply press my back against the seat and pray that whatever may be the plan for tonight, it doesn't include me getting ejected from this damn car in a wreck.
As Bobby pulls the car onto the road, the talking starts, and it doesn't stop.
Despite it being after three in the morning, the man is wired, or very likely on something.
The chatter doesn't amount to much. He isn't spilling state secrets or anything, and I'm half tempted to tell him to shut the fuck up or say something with even a hint of substance.
My annoyance isn't reflected in my partner, however.
Zayne is smiling and chatting right back, the conversation flowing with the stranger as if they'd known each other for years.
It makes me wonder whether many of the people in these types of groups are similar, making it much easier for Zayne to carry on a conversation with them.
After twenty minutes of riding, twenty minutes of Bobby taking the mountainous curves much too quickly, I find my limit of tolerance.
"What are we doing exactly?" I ask, my eyes locked on the side of Bobby's head, knowing I'm mere minutes from choking him out from the backseat.
Bobby's eyes meet mine in the rearview, and I see the slight twitch of agitation in the corner of his eyes, as if the man expected us to just hop in the car with him, no questions asked.
"Do I still get paid even though you're the one driving?" Zayne asks with a chuckle, and I know it's his way of trying to defuse the tension building in the car.
Bobby chuckles, and I watch Zayne's shoulders ease a little with the sound.
"We're all earning a living tonight," the man assures us.
Within five minutes of his promise, he turns into a very secluded area, and I know we're seconds away from bullets in our heads when the headlights flash on a small cabin.
The area is secluded, the cabin small and rustic.
I immediately recognize it as a hunter's cabin.
There are thousands of them in the mountains, and their simple buildings have very little luxury.
The basic amenities are all these places have, like an area to sleep, a small bathroom, more often without a shower or a way to bathe, and a small kitchen, usually using a hot plate to cook rather than a stove.
They're simple places meant really for sleeping during hunting season.
I have an idea of what we're about to do, but I keep my mouth shut.
Asking questions isn't expected of a criminal, and doing so could compromise our brand-new place in the organization.
Hell, we haven't even made it into the organization yet.
Although I don't want to compromise that situation, I can't be morally involved in anything that would cause serious harm to others.
There's a fine line between sacrifice, victimization, and the greater good.
"You boys ready?" Bobby asks, looking first to Zayne before lifting his to meet mine in the rearview mirror.
I manage an easy shrug before responding. "Just another fucking day."
Bobby dips his head, a slow smile spreading across his face. "I got these for you."
I glance at his lifted hand, my pulse speeding up when I see the ski masks clutched in his grip.
My first instinct is to refuse, to demand to be taken back to the little house that smells of old furniture and despair, but instead, I reach out and take one.
The old beat-up truck parked in the small driveway of the cabin tells me it’s occupied.
Wearing a mask just makes sense, but this sort of shield tends to make people feel invisible.
As if their actions don't matter because they can't be identified or held accountable for what they do while wearing it.
"Perfect," Zayne says as he takes the other offered mask. "Procurement?"
"You got it," Bobby says. "Should be an easy one."
Stealing from others is so much easier than working hard for the money to buy the things you want or need.
The things of value this hunter would have in the cabin wouldn't be there if the house were robbed while they were out hunting, but I didn't have a home invasion on my list of things to do before sunrise.
I swallow, doing my best to force the lump of shame down my throat as I climb out of the car and follow Bobby to the trunk.
I pull my mask over my face, the eye holes struggling to line up properly, and my blood runs cold when I can see again, and the trunk of the old cop car is open.
The trunk area is filled with assault rifles and shotguns that would give Cerberus and their assets a run for their money.
I have no doubt every weapon in my line of sight has been stolen from someone else.
There are so many, it makes me wonder if he already hit several cabins tonight before stopping by to pick us up.
I look up, noticing Zanye looking my way.
The sincerity I can read in his eyes tells me that he understands the moral predicament that I'm in, but the slight dip of his head tells me that this is something that must happen for us to save the women we believe are being trafficked by this group of degenerates.
Bobby claps his hands, then rubs them together as if this is the highlight of his week. And like the perfect actor that he is, Zayne slides up right next to him, their shoulders touching as if these two have been best friends their entire lives.
"Fucking nice," Zayne says, a thrill in his voice I'd expect from a kid on Christmas morning, not a man about to potentially be involved in a murder, depending on how far Bobby is willing to take things.
They decide which weapon they want, and I'm a little in awe of how Zanye picks up several, handling each one like a seasoned pro before settling on an M-16.
Bobby steps back, an AK-47 held to his chest as if he's about to engage with someone right here on the fucking street.
"Hurry up and pick," he tells me.
I grab a weapon, uncaring of what I have because I have no intention of using it unless it's to beat the shit out of our new friend.
"I'll take the lead," Zayne says once the trunk is closed.
One quick glance in my direction tells me that he needs me to have his back and watch Bobby at the same time.
"Let's get this shit over with," I mutter. "I want to go back to fucking bed."