The dishwasher hums, unobtrusive and alien.
It gets under my skin, and so I make myselfstay, for no other reason than to stop me loitering in the hallway for a glimpse of Skylar. To stop me listening for him like the stalker he’s already accused me of being today.
I close my eyes to the sound of discordant waves and rowdy laughter from downstairs, but somehow my pulse is louder, andfuck, I just need it all to stop.
Logic deserts me. The table groans as I shove my way free of it, wooden legs scraping the floor, and I stride into the living room to kill the music.
I rip the speaker from the shelf, but whatever methodical search skills I possess…they’re gone too. The off switch eludes me, and anger far hotter than last night becomes a storm that’s so beyond a red mist a manic laugh rips from my chest with destructive intent.
This fucker. The speaker. It’s going out the window. Theclosedwindow. Bring me salty wind and shattered glass, I don’t give a shit, and my muscles bunch, ready to hurl the thing into another fucking realm, my breath, fast and wrong, but without the sickly rush of a broken heart.
No.
This is justrage, and I know what it is—where it’s come from. How tostopit, if I tap into the decades of training I’ve had on how to acclimate to life beyond constant war.
But those kinds of mechanisms feel out of reach.
Or maybe I’m not trying. Maybe Iwantto peel loose from my skin and smash up the sanctuary my brother and his friends have given me. Bleed their kindness and affection dry until there’s nothing left but the scratchy emptiness I save for my dad.
I flex my fingers. My hands are steady, but I feel like slamming my head against a brick wall. Or jumping from a plane without the fucking chute, and no training in the world could prepare me for how sudden that feeling is. Like God took a pick axe to my emotions and obliterated the good ones.
Dazed, I back up from the speaker, so fixated on my hand I don’t notice the music has stopped of its own accord.
A quiet beep rips my gaze to the coffee table.
It’s my phone. I put it there this morning when I was thinking about calling Moth back.
Thinking, not doing.
The phone beeps again, and it startles me into motion. I cross the small room and pick it up, frowning at the messages from a number I haven’t bothered to assign contact information to.
Unknown:Great to hear from you, man. Attaching job specs to the next message, be good to meet before we set up anything formal. Can you get to Madrid? I’m there with our primary client next week - Chris
Madrid.
That elusive rational brain knows the Spanish capital is a couple of hours away, but in this moment, it might as well be another fucking planet.
I open the next message and the convoluted PDF that comes with it, outlining the terms of employment. Most of it passes me by, especially the money stuff. I don’t need it—I don’t care, a position I know is a fucking privilege. Only a couple lines a few pages deep jump out at me.
Frequent international travel is a standard requirement of this role. While assigned to a client, you should not expect to spend significant time at your personal residence.
Chris has added a note.
Your CP experience shortens the onboarding. Could have you deployed within a couple of weeks if you pass eval.
Eval.
Evaluation.
CP.
Close protection.
“You really are leaving.”
The flat words are quiet, wrapped up in the rough northern brogue that haunts my best and worst daydreams. But that Skylar’s uttered them from less than a foot from me is deafening.
I didn’t hear him come up on me and read my fucking messages over my shoulder.