Page 13 of Shrapnel

Lifting his hand, he held a dime bag between two fingers. “Cocaine. It was all he had. Should be enough to cover what he owed you.”

He really shouldn’t have opened the door.

Sighing, he dug through the bags until he came across the promised pills. Jackson recognized them. Shaking two from the bottle he tossed them to the back of his throat and chased them with the cheap Whiskey the kid brought.

Without anywhere else to sit, he dropped down beside Jamie.

Another box of food was pressed to him, and he took it warily. Flipping open the lid he saw it was plain rice, vegetables, and corn tortillas.

Jamie kept eating, contentedly humming like a child who was just given his favorite treat.

Jackson wanted to be angry that he seemed to know so much about him, but honestly, at this point, he was just impressed.

“How did you know?” he asked, taking out a tortilla and biting into it.

“How did I know about your sensitive tummy or about Detroit?” Jamie’s tone was innocent but there was an infuriatingly smug tilt to his lips.

“Both.”

Jamie didn’t immediately answer. He chewed his food thoughtfully, swiping the warm bottle of Whiskey from Jackson to take a swig. He coughed as the rough alcohol hit the back of his throat. Hacking and breathing through his nose, he swung it back toward Jackson, spilling some on the ugly polyester comforter.

How had this kid even survived this long?

“There isn’t much I don’t know,” Jamie said once he could breathe again.

Jackson snorted in disbelief.

“I’m a sniper, Jackie Boy. My whole job is to watch and wait. You’d be surprised how much you can learn just by watching.”

“Stop calling me that.”

“Besides, you’re not as complicated as you think.” Jamie finished his food and tossed the container to the floor. “Turn around.”

He rummaged around one of the bags and produced a jar of cream. Jackson curled his lips in distaste, but Jamie rolled his eyes and clamored behind him, sitting on his legs so he could get at Jackson’s broad back.

The plastic cap unscrewed and then there was cold cream on his back. He grunted at the pressure on his wounds. The plastic cracked in his hands as he clenched the fork. Focusing on breathing and not on Jamie’s probing hands, he stared at the rice heaping over the partitions in the container.

Being a sniper explained why Jamie was so good at reading people, but not how he knew about Evan. Or what happened in Detroit. Grant was the only one who knew about Detroit. He killed everyone else. He couldn’t see Grant giving the information away. Which brought him back to just who the fuck was this kid?

And why? Why did he even bother?

He slathered the cream on his wounds. Jackson wasn’t familiar with the smell, but he could already feel it working. The pain in his back was easing.

Jamie’s hands were wandering past the wounds. Fingers trailed down his ribs to nestle at the rounded curved of his hip, lingering there long enough to leave a hint of warmth.

Looking up, he could see Jamie behind him in the mirror over the rickety-looking dresser. His face was covered with ash and God knows what else, eyes half-lidded as he looked at Jackson’s back with a kind of pleased reverence. Strands of his hair were blackened and crispy. At some point, he had been caught in a fire.

From this angle, with his mouth finally shut, he wasn’t unappealing. There was a savage sort of beauty in the harsh angles of his hatchet face and in the cartoonishly expressive eyes.

He was like a different person from the one who laughed in the face of Jackson’s murderous hands. This Jamie was contemplative and steady, not at all manic or desperate. His presence was calm, so much so that Jackson even found himself leaning into his whispering touches.

Jamie was humming.

A soft sort of sound with no real melody or beat, just gentle vibration coming from somewhere low in his throat. It was nice. Stupidly nice. Jackson felt it soothe his agitation.

Jamie looked up and met his eyes in the mirror. They stared at each other in the reflection for a long moment before Jamie bent to lay a kiss on the knob of Jackson’s spine. Brushing his hair aside, he kissed up his neck. His eye contact was unwavering.

A cream-covered hand reached around to tickle at his collarbones. Jackson caught it in a punishing grip.