Page 9 of Pack Me Up

I almost say yes, but settle on, “I think so. Thanks, Tommy.”

“Anytime,” he says, and clicks off before I can think of a reason to keep him on.

I sit there, phone in my hand, and let the silence crawl back in. It’s not as heavy this time. The room feels a little more mine again. The tick of the clock gets louder. So does the hum of the city, a whole world pulsing just outside my window.

Tomorrow is a thing that will happen, whether I’m ready or not. I look at the guitar where I left it, half expecting it to have moved on its own, maybe climbed up onto the sofa, or thrown itself out the window. But it waits for me, patient.

I pick it up, run my thumb over the rough edge of the pickguard, and position my fingers on the strings. The music waits for me, and this time, I think I can meet it halfway.

I strum once, then twice to remind myself how the sound feels in my chest. Then I close my eyes and play.

Saint

PHOENIX PACK SECURITY BRIEF #107

FIFTY EMPLOYEES FIRED AND TWENTY CLIENTS DROPPED SINCE JULY

April 12th

The light buzzes overhead as I stare at every ugly detail. Paperwork bleeds across my desk, the logbook with so many pages slashed in red you’d think a murder happened here. Maybe one did. I wouldn’t be surprised if we missed it.

Every personnel file I’ve compiled over seven years is stacked in front of me, battered manila corners curling up like dead leaves. Two out of three have a red “TERMINATED” stamped across the front.

The roster spreadsheet is open on my monitor, the names thinning out line by line, until the bottom half is blank. It’s not supposed to be blank. Phoenix Pack Security is supposed to be a fortress, but I look at these rosters and see every weak spot, every vulnerability. If this were a client, I’d tear it apart and recommend they close up shop.

My hand aches from the grip I’ve got on my pen, fingers numb, knuckles bone-white against the plastic.

I know it’s better this way. We needed to clean up shop after I realized we couldn’t trust everyone working for us. When I dove deeper, I found numerous cracks that needed to be closed up.

It’s my fault. I drove us to grow too fast, and we didn’t prioritize quality as we expanded. My fucking ambition got us here.

Now that we only have one team besides my brothers and me, we had to drop some clients, and I’ll need to rebuild slowly.

There’s a scuff and a pause outside my door. The handle turns, and my brother Fox steps in, careful and silent.

His hair is a disaster. The red strands are messy and pushed back like he’s been running his hands through them all day. The circles under his eyes are darker than usual, and there’s a new bruise on his jaw, faint but visible in the light from the hallway. I catalog everything about him.

Making sure my brothers are taken care of is the thing that matters most to me and has ever since our parents died.

He leans against the door frame, arms crossed, one foot up like he’s taking a break. “Even as a beta, I can smell your stress from the rest of the house.”

“Noted,” I answer, voice rougher than I want it to be. “I’m reviewing terminations and I want to see every fuck-up in full color.”

He looks past me at the chaos on my desk, then comes inside and shuts the door with his fist, the click echoing through the room.

We don’t speak for a minute. The only sound is the buzz of the light and the hum of air through the vent by my feet. It’s just the two of us, just brothers, Phoenix blood. He walks over, steps around the piles, and perches on the edge of my desk like he’s testing its strength. His arms are crossed again, but not defensively. It’s more like he’s holding himself together.

I realize I haven’t looked him in the eye yet. Maybe I’m afraid of what I’ll see there. Instead, I stare at the bruise on his jaw. “You get that in the ring, or on the job?”

“Neither,” he says, and I finally look up. His eyes are tired, but clear. “Colton was looking to spar. I gave him a bruised rib that will clear up in a day or so.”

“Sounds like Colton,” I answer.

“You’re trying to handle all of this on your own, but we are all a part of this company,” he says, picking up the pen and twirling it between his fingers like it’s a weapon.

“I’ve got it,” I say gruffly.

“So what’s the plan?” he asks, and I know what he’s really saying: “What are you going to do about it, Saint?”