Chapter 24
Zeus
I'm not in my head the way I expected I would be.
My body is calm and relaxed. I don't feel an ounce of guilt.
The shame that always threatens is even more silent as we get out of the shower. I head to my room to get dressed, and I presume that Zayne does the same.
What brings reality slamming back into our world is walking out of my room to find Scott standing in the middle of the living room.
I've been in countless situations where I have to think on the fly, come up with something believable, and not blow my cover.
But when I see Scott's eyes dart from the towel around Zayne's bare shoulders to the one in my hand as I continue to walk into the room, drying my hair, I almost freeze.
I know doing so would be more than a little suspicious, and I somehow manage to keep my cool.
"If you left water all over the floor in the kitchen after washing your hair in the sink, I'll kick your fucking ass," I mutter as I head in that direction, my back to the invader, allowing me to get my shit together.
Laughter follows me into the small kitchen, but it doesn't go unnoticed that the sound came from Zayne while Scott remains silent.
"Goddamnit," I mutter, dropping my towel to the floor, praying the other man can't see into the darkened room well enough to realize there actually isn't any water on the floor.
I use my bare foot to rub the towel around, as if cleaning up the mess I predicted.
"And I told you not to use up all the hot water. I can skip a fucking shower day, but greasy hair isn't going to cut it," Zayne responds, playing right along.
I turn to face the two of them, looking at Scott to see if he's buying what we're selling.
Zayne looks from me back to Scott before speaking again. "If I don't wash my hair at the same time he's in there, I'll have to wait a fucking hour for that old-ass water heater to replenish. I'm fucking beat and just want to go to bed."
I watch as Scott's mind works, relief easing a little of the tension in my shoulders when he smiles, fully accepting what we've told him.
"Well, you won't have to worry about that shit any longer," Scott says, and the tone of his voice makes me stiffen once again.
My pulse pounds in my ears as I attempt to calculate the time it would take to get back to my room to get my gun before he can pull one himself and kill us both.
"Pack your shit. Bobby wants you home before the sun comes up."
I tilt my head to the side. His words are not something I expect, and that's when the guilt I wasn't feeling earlier hits me in the chest.
As awful as this shitty house is, I somehow managed to see it as home, a safe place where I can be who I am without worry of fear or consequences.
The safety I let myself believe in here is fake, something I conjured in my mind, not something that ever really existed.
We're on a job, and our behavior has the potential to not only compromise our mission, but it also has the power to get us killed.
I should fucking know better, and yet I let my need for Zayne cloud my judgment and actions.
"Perfect," Zayne responds, with an almost believable excitement in his voice. "If you could—"
Scott holds his hands up before taking a step back. "Not a fucking chance."
In the next breath, the man is out the front door and gone, the silent room he left behind feeling half as small as it actually is.
"This is fucking perfect," Zayne says as he turns to face me.
I open my mouth to argue, but he points to the ceiling. I didn't need the reminder earlier tonight, but I'm grateful for it now.
I clamp my lips closed as I shake my head in irritation in his direction.
"Thankfully, we haven't had time to unpack all that shit in the closet," he says as he walks closer.
He reaches out and squeezes my shoulder, a frown on his handsome face when he sees me flinch, knowing full well it's his touch that’s causing the reaction and not the situation we're in.
He dips his head in understanding as if it's something he fully expected of me all along, but before I can grab his hand and drag him somewhere I can talk freely without fear of being overheard, he's already walking away.
Guilt from someplace deeper inside of me bubbles up, but we have a goal, and we can't let our emotions or our history get in the way of that. I guess I can only hope that he'll be open to listening when I have the chance to speak with him after all of this shit is over.
Sadly, it only takes me ten minutes to pack my room. I do my best not to let the knowledge that I could be ready to uproot my life back at the Cerberus cabin in just as little time get too deep into my head.
I've never even considered putting down roots.
I'm always too quick to run from any complication that may arise in my life.
I can't help but wonder if I've put myself in a position that I'm going to have to do exactly that when this case is over because of the choices I've made, and for the first time in my life, thinking about hitting the road and leaving Cerberus behind causes a twinge of pain right in the center of my chest. What I can't let get too deep in my head is knowing full well that it's walking away from Zayne again that makes me second-guess my next move.
Way to fucking complicate your life, asshole.
"This may cause problems for you," Zayne says when I walk out of the bedroom, duffel bag strap in my grip.
"How so?" I ask, not following where he's trying to lead me.
"What did your court case manager say about where you live?" he asks, playing his role of Curtis Allen perfectly.
"I can file for a change of address," I mutter, not wanting to play this game, but also knowing that if Casper is listening, this is our way of letting them know where we're going if the conversation with Scott earlier wasn't clear enough.
"And you think they're just going to be okay with you saying you're living at the wrecking yard?"
I pull in a deep breath, frustration over this entire fucking situation eating away at me.
We aren't supposed to be packing and getting ready to enter the lion's den.
We were supposed to come down from our respective orgasm highs with a bowl of cereal before climbing into bed, hopefully together, before getting some much-needed sleep.
At least that's how I thought the rest of the night would go.
"Do you really think they take the time to worry about that shit? Or would even do enough research to know exactly where it is?"
"May need to ask Bobby what you should do before contacting the court," Zayne suggests.
"Yeah," I mutter, dropping my duffel bag near the door. "That's a good idea."
I feel as if we're talking in riddles. Knowing why we're doing it doesn't make me feel any calmer.
Cerberus, knowing where we're going, is exactly what we need.
But the reminder that everything we've done or said in this house, especially in the living room, has been monitored not only by our group but also by the enemy we're facing.
It makes me think about every single word, every sigh, every sound we've made since we moved in.
Did either group hear something that made them suspicious? With Cerberus, it would be an explanation.
With The League, it could mean death.
Did Scott really buy our story?
Are we packing our things, thinking we've made progress on this case, only to have bullets put in our heads because they somehow guessed what we've been up to?
As if my questions have been spoken, Zayne steps closer to me, his eyes searching mine.
"This is perfect," he assures me. "Exactly what we wanted."
I nod, letting him know that I'm on board. A small dose of paranoia is good in any situation. But if I take an honest step back and evaluate the situation as a whole, I can see that there has been no hint that we're facing any immediate danger by going where we've always planned to end up.
"I can't fucking wait," I say, taking a step back because if he touches me right now, I don't know how I'd respond. "Maybe they'll have bigger and better water heaters, and we don't have to argue over the fucking shower."
He laughs, the sound genuine and exactly what I needed to calm my nerves enough to move forward with our plan.
We work for the next half hour, gathering everything they'd expect us to bring and leaving it near the front door, then make several trips to our beater of a truck to load it all up.
"Ready to go home?" he asks as we take one final look around the living room to make sure that we don't miss anything.
I look at the ceiling, knowing the Cerberus-issued computer is up there, but he shakes his head. The guys will come and clean the place out, retrieving anything we left behind.
"We can't forget to call the landlord," I say. "Let him know we're out."
"I'll do it," he says, walking toward the front door. "Let's go home."
"Home," I scoff after we're outside, where there's less risk of being heard.
He locks the door behind him, leaving the keys off the side of the porch, and it makes me wonder if that direction came from Casper once we were given access to the compound.
If it is, it's just one more thing I missed by not reading that fucking file I was given before the start of this fucking job.
"Home," he repeats as if trying to convince himself that we're heading exactly where he wants to be.
I know this is the perfect next step for the mission, but for both of us, it's the last place we actually want to be.
Home...
It's such a weird concept for me. I don't know that I've felt at home anywhere other than in the fucking sand pit with my guys, and five bullets killed that dream for me in the blink of an eye.
I blow out one final breath of freedom before climbing into the truck, and I can't help but feel as if I'm willingly heading toward a firing squad when Zayne backs the truck out of the narrow drive and heads toward the compound.
The concept of home, of belonging, of found family bounces around in my head as we silently drive.
I longed so much for something like that, a place where my beliefs were not only accepted but shared by others. A place where there was safety in numbers, and a line of people willing to stand up for what they believe in.
The compound doesn't even come close to aligning with my beliefs or my desires.
But I can see how attractive a place like that would be for lost souls, how easily they could form opinions to match the others, even when it's something they never considered before.
Mob mentality is so real, and for those people looking for love and acceptance, maybe accepting what others believe as real or true is very easy if, in return, they have people in their corner with them when their entire lives had been a struggle just to survive until that point.
Those thoughts take me back to my scattered memories of Dakota, wondering how different her views would have had to have been from those of her family to land her tangled up with the kind of people we're about to join.
I know she was loved, even if her parents ignored her more often than was acceptable. I know Zayne thought the world of her.
I also know that the idea of love can make you do some off-the-wall shit.
I saw it in Zayne's eyes all those years ago. I knew that leaving would break his heart less than what I would have to do had he let those words slip out.
Plus, how can someone I spent so little time with love me when my parents spent my lifetime wishing they'd picked a different kid?
I'm not so out of touch that I think I'm unlovable. I know there's value in my existence, but a romantic love? Not a chance.
I growl, shoving down the well of emotion those thoughts conjure. It's the last thing I should concern myself with, given our current situation.
"I'm going as fast as I can," Zayne snaps, clearly annoyed and no doubt a little lost in his own head.
He presses his palm to the horn, the noise it makes too low for the fury behind the driver.
I look over at him, but he keeps his eyes forward.
I have no way of knowing if he's angry at the slow ass driver in front of us, if my flinch earlier when he went to touch me is eating at him, or if he's pissed he decided to get into this line of work in the first place.
I can't ask, not without being overheard, and if I take a minute to be honest with myself, I don't know that I'd be prepared for his answer. I certainly wouldn't have any fucking wisdom to impart that might settle him a little.
Instead, I reach over, press my palm gently to his thigh, give it a little squeeze, then pull my hand away.
His eyes dart toward mine for a split second, his head dipping as if he understands all that I want to say, but I know that's impossible, because I have no idea which direction I would take given the opportunity to speak freely.