3. Two

I couldn’t sleep.

It was after two in the morning, and I’d been lying in my bed for more than an hour, unable to stop thinking about Xion. I was dumber than a coal bucket for wanting him, but I couldn’t help myself. When I met Xion, he was a wild thing full of rage and malice with no one to direct it at. He’d latched onto me like hating me was all he needed in the world to survive. Maybe it was. The world had chewed that kid up and spat him out meaner for it. I knew what that was like, to have everything taken from you because of one bad decision.

I rolled over in my bed and found myself staring at my brother’s smiling face. The photo on my bedstand had been taken just a few weeks after I’d gotten back from Yemen, so my skin was still sun-red and my face thin. Me and Mason hadn’t looked so alike since we were boys. We had the same red hair, the same hazel eyes, the same DNA, but Mason was the best version of us, always smiling, always kind. He’d have given anyone the shirt off his back if they needed it. The guy was a regular volunteer at food pantries and built homes for the homeless. That was the kind of guy he was.

Meanwhile, I was chasing ghosts at the bottom of every bottle, getting into fights at every bar that hadn’t blacklisted me, and sleeping it off on park benches. I was a walking disaster, but Mason was always there to pick me up. My twin brother loved me even when I couldn’t love myself. That’s what got him killed in the end.

With a sigh, I got up from the bed. On the way past my desk, I grabbed my cigarettes and my lighter and crept out of my room. Xion was fast asleep in my chair, his foot propped up on a throw pillow. Shit, I should’ve iced that for him. Not that he would’ve let me. Xion might be the one person left alive who could match me in stubbornness now that Mason was gone.

He whimpered and shifted when I adjusted the pillow under his foot but didn’t wake. I pulled the blanket down from the back of the sofa and laid it over him, pausing to run my thumb over his chapped lips.

I really needed to get my head on straight.

I stepped outside and lit a cigarette. The stars hung low in the sky against a tiny sliver of moon. A heartbreak moon, my gran used to call it. It was on nights like tonight that she’d cast her spells for the women of the holler who were afraid to go home to their men. She’d write their husband’s names on a little slip of paper and put it in an ice cube tray with a bundle of herbs. The women would sit and smoke at her table while the trays froze, and then they’d take the ice outside. Sometimes, they’d smash it with a hammer. Other times, they tossed it down into the little pond or buried it deep underground. I don’t know if any of grandma’s spells ever worked, but the women came back month after month, so there must’ve been something to it.

I wonder if Gran had a spell to calm that boy’s wild soul, I thought, looking up at the moon. Surely she would’ve had some herb to burn or a concoction to drink that’d help him. It made me wish I’d paid more attention when she tried to teach me. Now, those old ways were dying out. Nobody put much stock in magic anymore, especially in those parts.

Gravel crunched and another trailer door swung closed. I lowered my gaze from the stars to Church, who’d come out of his trailer and was walking toward me.

Church’s real name was Christian Pope, and he was a former RAF squad leader who’d seen combat in Afghanistan and flown a few missions down in Libya. After that, he was captured in Syria where he was held for almost two years before his release. The guy was a damn war hero. None of that mattered, of course, to his family. All they cared about when he came back was that he’d come out as gay, and that got him shunned from his family, so now he was part of my family.

I finished off my cigarette and dropped it, still smoking, into the old amber ashtray sitting on the picnic table before sinking into one of the nearby plastic lawn chairs.

“Bloody cold out here,” Church said when he was close enough.

“It’s winter,” I observed.

He gave me a deadpan look. “And I’m British. Complaining about the weather is practically patriotic.” He tossed a tiny black circle onto the patio table. It was the size of a watch battery but meant a lot of trouble. “We have a problem.”

I frowned and picked up the listening device, turning it over in the low light. “Where the fuck did you get that?”

“A Chevy Impala that’s been sitting outside the shop for two months.” He leaned back in his seat and steepled his fingers, watching me smoke.

That was the second device we’d found in as many months. The last one had been in the shop, wedged in a corner under the counter. It wasn’t unusual for someone to try to get a leg up on us, but for someone to be able to get into our place of business and plant not one, but two spy devices? It’d never happened, not once in the six years we’d been in business.

“Someone wants a word,” Church said when I was quiet.

“Someone wants a war,” I corrected. And when I find out who’s been spying on us, they’ll fucking get it.

“You’re distracted,” Church said and crossed his arms. “You have been ever since the professor dumped Xion in our laps.”

In my head, I snarled and barked at him to shut the fuck up. The pup was mine and I wasn’t sending him away. I’d gotten him fair and square and Church could pry Xion from my cold, dead arms if he wanted to send him somewhere else. Instead, I picked up my beer and finished it off. “I’m fine.”

Church shook his head. “Why are we still babysitting the little psycho anyway?”

“Don’t call him that,” I snapped.

“Why? It’s what he is, Boone. The kid hears voices. He’s dangerous. We should just turn him in, collect the money, and be done with him.”

I ignored him, tapping my fingers on the rotting wood surface of the old picnic table. He was right, of course, and had Xion been any other mark, I’d have done it already. I knew better than anyone how to cut my losses and go before the goods got hot. With the bounty placed on Xion’s head, he was as hot as they came.

And maybe I could’ve done it before, when I didn’t know all the shit Xion had been through, but now… Now I wasn’t so sure I could go through with it, at least not without knowing more about who I was handing him over to.

“We’ll make the exchange when the time is right,” I said.

Church snorted like an angry bull. “Bullshit. You know, a few weeks ago, I would’ve said you were just holding out to get your hands on the other two like the greedy wanker you are, but now? You’ve got a soft spot for him. You’re letting your feelings get in the way of doing your job.”

“I’m not soft for anybody,” I said, knowing full well it was a lie.

“That boy’s got you wrapped around his fucked-up little finger, Boone.”

“I got him handled,” I assured Church.

Church frowned. “Do you, Boone? Because from where I’m sitting, it’s hard to tell who’s handling who some days.”

I fixed my glare on my second-in-command. “I said I got him handled.”

I tried to sound confident, even though I wasn’t certain that was the case. When I took possession of Xion from his brothers, he was just another payday to me, but now he was something more. I looked forward to seeing him every day, even if that meant I had to deal with his wild behavior and verbal barbs. Those kept me on my toes.

Besides, he was only acting out because he didn’t know how to ask for what he really needed. A firm hand and a little affection would go a long way. I wondered if he’d ever had someone give him that, if anyone had ever held him and told him it was all right to be angry at the world. After all, the world had fucked him over. Why shouldn’t he be pissed? Anger was only natural. The kid just needed to find a way to harness that.

In a lot of ways, he reminded me of myself before the government came and scooped me up. I was barely out of basic before I found myself answering to the suits in the CIA and being shipped hallway across the globe to eliminate threats to American interests. The suits saw the potential in me, just like I saw it in him.

Of course, I didn’t hallucinate or suffer from delusions. Xion’s schizophrenia wasn’t what made him violent, though. He was violent because somewhere along the way he’d learned the only way to get that explosive feeling out of him and into the world was through his fists. I’d done it with a high-powered rifle.

We weren’t so different, Xion and me.

I tapped some ash off the end of my cigarette. “Did you have Leo do a sweep of all the trailers and the shop?”

“Of course I did,” Church said with an annoyed grunt, sitting back. “He didn’t find anything. He’s looking into where this one came from too. Said he’d never seen anything like it, that it might be military grade.”

“We have military grade spy equipment,” I reminded Church.

“Which means whoever is spying on us is as well-equipped as we are.” He drummed his fingers on the table briefly. “You don’t think it’s the Laskins, do you?”

“Course not,” I said. If it had been the Laskins, we never would’ve seen them coming. Hell, we’d probably be dead already. “What did Leo say?”

“That this is trouble. Sooner or later, whoever’s planting these devices is going to come knocking. And when they do, you’re going to have to decide if you’re willing to fight for him.” Church jerked his cleft chin toward my trailer. “Maybe even if you’re willing to die for him. Because the rest of us aren’t, Boone.”

I gave my second in command a hard glare. “You’d sell him out from under me?”

“There’s not much I wouldn’t do for the men who serve under me.” Church stood and pushed in his chair, leaning heavily on the back of it. “Don’t make me choose between you and the job, Boone.”

“You should get some sleep,” I said without looking at him. “Work in the morning.”

He sighed and hung his head briefly. “Night, Boone.”

I put my feet up while I smoked another cigarette, watching him walk away. Who the fuck would be planting listening devices around my shop? A rival merc group? One of the mobster families we’d done work for in the past? Fuck, I wouldn’t even put it past the Laskins to try it. That didn’t even take into account any of the various alphabet agencies who might want in on the action. The ATF, FBI, CIA… Although I would’ve thought the CIA would have more class. At least they’d hide the devices better.

It wasn’t like me and my mercenary company, the Junkyard Dogs, hadn’t made a lot of enemies over the years. We’d done a lot of jobs for a lot of people, not all of them strictly legal. That didn’t matter as much as the money. As long as the job paid well, and it meant doing bad things to bad people, we were in. Whoever was spying on us probably wasn’t the type of person we wanted to be friends with.

But that was future Boone’s problem.

I crushed my cigarette out in the ashtray before calling it a night. The girls stirred in their kennels as I opened the front door, but they didn’t bark. They knew better than to bark at me. A glance at the clock told me it was three-thirty. Fuck. I had to be up to work in four hours, but I was still too wound up to sleep. I thought about having another drink, but one more might tip me over from buzzed to drunk, and the last thing I needed was a hangover.

Instead, I went to the sink to run some water into a cloudy glass, and then I stood at the kitchen window, looking out at nothing.

I’m going to find the people who fucked me over and kill them.

And he wanted my help. It wasn’t the first time he’d proposed it, and it wouldn’t be the last, but he’d been subtle about it until earlier tonight.

What the fuck had happened to that kid to twist him into the monster he’d become? Something worse than what my old man had done to me and Mason growing up? It was hard to imagine what that could be. My father was a mean son of a bitch when he was drinking, and I had the scars to prove it, but I didn’t want to kill him. I didn’t want to kill anyone.

Didn’t mean I hadn’t. My hands were bloodier than anyone’s, even if I didn’t count Mason’s death. I’d killed for money, for protection, and for my country when I had to. I could find a reason to kill for Xion if I wanted to.

But I wouldn’t. I couldn’t.

No, I was the one in charge. I made the decisions. He belonged to me, dammit. He should do what I said, and if I said he wasn’t going after people, that was that.

The bathroom door banged open down the hall. I turned away from the window in time to catch Xion coming out of the bathroom with a lit cigarette between his lips, wearing nothing but a towel draped low on his hips. He turned his head toward me and gave me one of his characteristic broody glares.

My cock twitched in response. Dammit, it was like he had the damn thing on a string. Every time he looked at me that way, I couldn’t help but get hard.

Fuck me, how was it legal for him to look that fucking good? Even when I was twenty, I didn’t have enough abs to count. He was built smaller than me, and leaner, so maybe that helped. Maybe he just had better genes.

And maybe I should stop thinking about how good he’d look pinned under me, begging for me to let him come.

“What?” he growled and leaned on the wall, putting all that trim, smooth muscle on display.

“It’s three thirty in the fucking morning,” I grumbled.

“Yeah, so?”

“So, what are you doing awake?”

Xion shoved off the wall and came into the kitchen, muscling past me. He passed so close the air in my lungs was filled briefly with the scent of Irish Spring, toothpaste, and Xion. I wanted to bury myself in that scent, breathe it in like a drug.

“Couldn’t sleep.” He yanked open the fridge. The pale yellow light washed over him, highlighting every curve and dip of his muscular body as he bent over. The towel slid down his back slightly, exposing more skin. “What are you doing up?”

I’m looking at you, I thought, but didn’t let myself say it. He was schizophrenic, not stupid. Xion knew exactly what he was doing to me. He’d known for a while, a few weeks at least, even if neither of us acknowledged it out loud. Now that he knew, he was wielding my attraction to him like a goddamn weapon against me.

It started with lingering looks across the room. I’d look up and see him looking at me. A normal person would’ve looked away, but Xion didn’t. He’d hold my gaze just long enough to let me know I’d been caught looking at him, and then he’d go back to whatever he was doing.

Then there were the accidental touches. He’d brush his hand against mine when we were walking somewhere, or he’d lean in and bump his chest against me reaching for something over my head.

A few days ago, he’d started stealing lit cigarettes from my lips and sucking on the filters while smirking. He’d also taken to walking around the trailer in sweats and a skimpy little black tank top that was probably a size too small for him.

But coming out in nothing but a towel was a new one.

I clenched my jaw and gripped my glass of murky water tighter. “What the fuck are you doing?”

He hopped up onto the squat kitchen island where I piled my junk mail, an open milk carton in hand. “I’m thirsty.”

I stood there, fists clenching and unclenching, watching his throat move as he gulped down the last of the milk, watching a stray drop of it race over his pale skin and come to rest in the hollow of his throat. I wanted to lick it up. I wanted to stab something, hit someone. Half of me wanted to fuck someone up and the other half just wanted to fuck him.

He drew the back of his fist over his mouth. The gesture struck me as childlike, almost soberingly so. But Xion was no child. He had the body and mind of a man, and he was using both to manipulate me. I knew it, and yet I couldn’t stop myself from reacting.

I took a step forward. The movement placed me squarely between his knees, which I was acutely aware of. “Stop it.”

“Stop what?” The corner of his lip curved up into a wickedly tempting smirk. More than anything, I wanted to bite his lip until he quit smirking.

“Trying to manipulate me into becoming your personal assassin. Trying to seduce me.”

“Seduce you?” He threw his head back and laughed before pushing me away. “God, you’re such a fucking narcissist. Just because I’m talking to you doesn’t mean I want to fuck you.” He tossed the empty milk carton in the trash on his way past.

“I’m not stupid, Xion,” I shouted as he started back down the hall. “I see what you’re doing. It won’t work.”

He didn’t say anything, not until he’d already sauntered down the hall to his bedroom door. It was there he turned around, one hand on the doorknob, and finally answered me. “You all want to act like I’m the monster here. Maybe I am. Maybe I’m a fucking dangerous killer, but if I am, that’s only because some people deserve to die.”

“People like who?” I insisted, fists clenching.

“People like Harold Spencer. He was one of the orderlies who liked to touch me while I was in the hospital. But it wasn’t just him. He liked to let other people come in and do it, too. Said they paid for the privilege.”

Red hot anger flared in my chest. What the fuck? Who would do that to a kid?

“And the best part is,” Xion continued, “nobody believed me when I tried to tell people it was happening. It was just another one of crazy Xion’s paranoid delusions. Nobody fucking did anything, Boone. And you know what I learned from that? I learned that nobody gives a shit about me, and that if there was ever going to be any fucking justice in the world, I’d have to make it for myself. The way I see it, you’ve got three choices, Boone. You can help me, which you’ve already refused to do, you can die with him, or you can get the fuck out of my way. The choice is yours.”

Before I could say anything, Xion disappeared into his room, slamming the door shut behind him.

God damn him. What the fuck was I supposed to do now? Just ignore what I knew? Ignore the fact that this asshole had gotten away with what he’d done to Xion? And he wasn’t the only one either. If he’d molested Xion, he might be hurting other children too. I couldn’t just sit on that.

But what if it wasn’t true? Questioning him left a sour taste in my mouth. I desperately wanted to believe Xion’s story, but given his history… It could be another delusion. I had to be sure before I went after anyone.

I shouldn’t do anything, least not until I get some sleep. I scrubbed my hands over my face and stormed down the hall, shutting and locking my bedroom door. Instead of going to bed like I knew I should, I yanked out the chair at my desk and opened the top drawer, pulling out the bottle of Jameson I kept there along with my laptop. By dawn, I’d know everything there was to know about Harold Spencer, and then I could decide what I was going to do with him.