Page 21 of Shrapnel

But that was all in the past. He was officially done with the Weavers, with anything related to gang life, and was back on track. He had graduated, started his new job at a game development company, and was living the nerdy life of his dreams.

“You know,” Yeetdeeznutz called over the mic. “If you want a real debate…”

“No!” they all shouted in unison, the mics glitching out with the sudden influx of data.

“We are not having this discussion again. I refuse to hear one more word aboutDunevsStarship Troopers.”

“They were both heavily critical of the government and humanities reliance on technology—”

Owen was saved by a knock on his door. Surprised, he glanced over his shoulder and looked at the darkened front door. The only people who knocked on his door were delivery drivers—and he was pretty sure packages weren’t delivered at eleven pm.

He slipped the headphones off his head, rubbing his sore ears as he went to answer the door.

“O Face!”

Owen’s splinter had returned.

“What the hell?” Owen asked, moving out of the way so Jamie could step into his darkened foyer.

“Nice to see you, too.” Jamie dropped his duffel bag. A plume of foul-smelling dust billowed from its canvas fabric and Owen gagged.

“What the hell is in there?”

Jamie glanced down at it. “Now? My dirty laundry. But I think the smell is from the head.”

Owen did not ask him to clarify. He didn’t want to know.

“Can I bum your couch for a night?” Jamie asked, leaning against the wall with a sigh.

Taking his attention off the bag, he could finally see just how exhausted Jamie looked. There were dark circles under his eyes, and it looked like he had lost some weight.

“What’s wrong with your place?” Owen asked even as he led them into the apartment, flicking on lights as he went. His habit of keeping the lights off, had his mom calling him a vampire. He just preferred the glow of screens to lightbulbs.

“Elijah has company,” Jamie sighed, slinking into the apartment. He kicked off his shoes and Owen could see he was wearing two different socks. The leather shoulder holster he always wore was tight against his chest. Jamie slipped it off, lowering the two guns to the ground. He rolled his shoulders and Owen took a moment to study him.

Jamie’s clothes were dirty and rumpled. His black dress shirt was pulled out of his pants and his hair was tangled and greasy. Owen had never seen Jamie looking so deflated. Even his smile was thin and forced.

“Showers that way, clean towels under the sink. You can borrow some clothes.”

Jamie blinked for a second, surprised at Owen’s acquiescence. For a moment he looked his age. Every inch a twenty-one-year-old kid, with a dopey look on his face, unsure how to handle sudden charity.

“O Face…” he drawled sleepily, his lips quirking up in a crooked grin. “You do care.” He advanced toward Owen.

“Don’t you dare hug me…Jamie…Jamie no!!”

He ducked out of the gunman’s embrace and watched him disappear into Owen’s bedroom. His apartment only had one bathroom off the master.

A moment later he heard the shower come on. Owen retrieved a set of clothes for Jamie, belatedly realizing he was only wearing a pair of boxers and a baggy t-shirt. The fact that Jamie hadn’t made any sort of comment about his underwear was a testament to how tired he was.

Owen stared at the pile of weaponry Jamie left in his wake. There was no doubt in his mind that the assassin had come into his apartment with more than just the two guns. Picking up the harness, he was shocked by how warm it was. The leather was worn, stained in areas by sweat and God knows what. He rubbed a thumb against the straps. Idly, he wondered how comfortable it would be to wear. Did Jamie even notice it anymore? It was surprisingly heavy. He shouldered this burden so easily. Owen had seen him move on ops, seen how flighty and quick he was when he killed.

What was the weight of two guns compared to the lives he had taken?

Shuddering, he dropped the guns by the nasty bag. Unsure what to do, he went into the kitchen to make a PB&J. His mother always said it was rude not to feed guests.

By the time Owen finished the second sandwich, Jamie was coming out of the shower. A plume of shampoo followed him, his wet hair dripping onto Owen’s old gym shirt from high school. The vinyl front had long since peeled off, leaving behind a faded shape that might be a wildcat or an eggplant.

Jamie was a few inches taller than Owen, but he was thinner. He didn’t have the soft midsection years of gaming and mainlining energy drinks and Doritos had given Owen. The shirt hung off his thin shoulders, the hem fluttering just short of the basketball shorts he lent him. A thin stripe of pale, taut abdomen flashed, and Owen found his eyes drawn to it.