Page 32 of Shrapnel

Staring at the fabric-covered wall of his cubicle, he could just start feeling the effects of the energy drink. His heart rate increased and there was a purr of artificial adrenalin coursing through his veins. He knew it was fake, but sometimes the rush he got from the caustic drink was the only thing that got him through the day.

Glancing down at the time at the bottom of his computer he huffed. It was late. He should have gone home hours ago but there was no point. Staring at a computer at work or home, made no difference. He rarely even turned on the video games he loved. It was like once he saw how they were made the magic was gone. Graphics stopped being impressive and just looked like lines and lines and lines of code to him.

Sighing, he loosened the tie they made him wear and contemplated throwing it in the trash behind the energy drink.

A petulant voice in his head whined,‘The Weavers never made you wear a tie…’but he ignored it.

He hadhatedworking for them. Every day was something new—the very fact that he had not one, but two actual assassins saved in his cellphone was all the proof he needed that that was not the life for him.

“You’re still here?”

Owen jumped, slamming his knee on the desk. He jerked around and blinked at his supervisor.

“Oh, er, yes. Just finishing…” He couldn’t remember what he had been working on. “…this.” He gestured to the computer as if that was enough of an explanation.

His supervisor, a nice normal looking guy in his thirties, nodded.

“Well, don’t work too late,” he said amiably. “You’ve been killing it lately.”

Owen smiled and waved as his boss left the building.

Of course, he was killing it. This was easy. Child’s play compared to reprogramming a drone in a van being chased by irate Russians with AKs. Or hacking into a warehouse's import/export log to change a few numbers so crates filled with ‘illegal goods’ that were supposed to go to Los Angeles went to San Antonio instead.

After the first time, he learned to stop asking what ‘illegal goods’ were. Ignorance is bliss and all.

What were the consequences if he didn’t do a good job? A pixelated knight suddenly sprouted an enormous pair of breasts and a unicorn horn? Working with the Weavers was life and death. He still hadn’t forgiven himself for what happened at the Vega’s storage facility. Elijah and Roland could have been killed because he led them into that trap.

He looked over at his cell phone lying face up on the desk. Tapping it, the screen came to life, and he couldn’t help but chuckle. At some point, Jamie had gotten ahold of it and changed the lock screen image to a photo of Wallace’s head photoshopped onto a Mr. Universe contestant’s body. The old goats disapproving glare sat atop a body with muscles that looked like they had been inflated with helium and slathered with oil and fake tanner. Under it, he had scribbled ‘Drink water or be…TERMINATED’ in his horrible chicken scratch handwriting.

Owen hadn’t changed it back. He wasn’t sure why.

As he was staring at his phone it began ringing. Surprised, he leaned over to see the contact was ‘Rod from God’.

Answering the phone, he held it up to his ear. “Jamie?”

The Sunspot was busy for a weeknight. Cars filled the parking lot, and several people were huddled around the front door smoking a cigarette. Despite the chilly weather, there was a jovial air to the place. A light atmosphere that hadn’t been present in a long time.

After the Vegas were wiped off the map and the Weavers and the Mesas took firm hold of the territory, things stabilized. After any civil unrest people were wary of feuding sides and there was palpable relief when it became obvious that the Mesas and Weavers were not only working together but content to keep the peace.

There was no official agreement between them, of course. No notarized document that assured lasting harmony between the gangs, but the Weaver brother’s connection with Noah’s aunt and uncle was one of the worst-kept secrets in history. Like an arranged marriage between royalty, it was as solid of an agreement as there could be between gangs.

A better-kept secret was that the Weaver’s lieutenant was currently sleeping with the leader of White Sand Mesa. But Owen wasn’t supposed to know that.

Adjusting his coat, he pointedly held his breath as he walked past the smokers and entered the bar. The heat was on full blast and cabaret music was pounding out through the old speakers.

It had been a few months since he had been to the bar, but the place never changed. The tables were still sticky, and the lights were still dim. Evan was dancing on stage, his face partially obscured by the feather boa he was dancing with. The man had a way of making his dance both comedic and sexy. A feat Owen would never understand.

He also didn’t understand how Evan could have come out all soft and sassy while Jackson was…well, he was pretty much the human embodiment of a grenade. But he wasn’t supposed to know Evan and Jackson’s familial connection, either.

Rhett was behind the bar. He had been filling in for Kurt when he was off fixing a house. He was really terrible at it. Just because Rhett was jacked and easily capable of ripping a man’s head from his shoulders, didn’t mean he wanted to. Anytime a customer got a little rowdy or in his face, Rhett dropped his head and took the abuse. More than once, Molly had to come out of her office with a baseball bat and threaten to crack a few skulls. Even Evan had come to his rescue, dumping an entire pitcher of beer on a customer’s head after he called Rhett a name.

He was also terrible with remembering drink orders and had very little coordination when it came to pouring drinks.

“I’m just saying that fire literally solves everything,” Jamie slurred.

He was splayed over the bar, arms starfished along the edge and cheek resting against the top. Rhett was staring at his head.

“Cold? Start a fire. Shitty ex? Start a fire. Bored? Start a fire. Sad? Fire. Happy? Celebratory fire.”