Page 44 of Shrapnel

“No guns?”

“Not a single one.”

He pretended to pout but his eyes were sparkling. “Deal.”

9

Told Myself I Wouldn’t Let You Close

Peanut shells crunchedunder his feet as he shifted in the uncomfortable chair. He tapped the toes of his boots and listened to the crack crunch of the shells on the floor, enjoying the tiny breaking sounds that percolated past the jukebox. Faint notes of a song he just barely recognized pumped out of the old machine and Jackson tapped his toes along with the beat.

He took a sip of his warm beer and grimaced. It hadn’t been particularly good when it was fresh, but without the sting of cold on his lips it was borderline undrinkable. Still, he needed the buzz and his mother had taught him never to waste a drink. He pushed past his distaste and took a chug of the alcohol.

It hit his stomach like a stone and he leaned back, the chair creaking under his weight.

Sharkeys was your typical biker bar. Lit with a dozen beer signs, through the dim light he could see tobacco-stained walls peeking out from behind the hubcaps hung on the wall. Jackson thought the place was ugly at night, he couldn’t imagine it fully lit. The whole place was stale. He hated to compare it to the Sunspot but he did. They served the same type of beer, and their clientele was equally as unscrupulous, but there was a certain charm the Sunspot had. A vibe, someone had said once.

While Sharkeys lacked charm it did have something the Sunspot didn’t—anonymity. After the whole Wen debacle—some called it a war, but Jackson had seen war and that wasn’t it—his identity was often lumped in with the Weavers. He couldn’t afford that, professionally or personally. So Sharkeys it is.

Jackson had only been back in the country for a couple of weeks. He was taking some time to lay low. South America had been profitable, but he had made some mistakes. Mistakes he had never made before. While Jackson was more than content to blame burnout, he knew that was a flimsy lie he had told himself so he wouldn’t have to look deeper.

His mistakes started and ended with one smart-mouthed asshole named Jamie.

The fucker had gotten to him. How he had no idea. The assassin had quite literally exploded into his life and left his mark on Jackson. His cunning dark eyes haunted his dreams and more than once Jackson found himself about to call Grant to get the scoop on this kid.

I know.

The first time he said he knew about Jackson’s past, he had wanted to pop the kid's head off. But the longer those words lingered in his mind the more comfortable he got with the idea. The idea of someone knowing about the things he was running away from. Of knowing him.

And that was dangerous.

Jackson didn’t make friends. Grant was the closest thing to a friend he had, and he was an anomaly. Someone Jackson owed—a blood debt that Grant was just too kind to lord over him.

No, Jackson wasn’t the kind of person who had relationships. They slowed him down. Made him vulnerable. Being around Jackson wasn’t safe—for them or him. Jackson spent his life running, putting distance between himself and anything lasting. The only permanent thing on his body was the sleeve of tattoos on his arm.

Finishing off his beer, he slammed the glass onto the table.

He needed to get out of this town. This was too close. He was walking a fine line by staying here.

“Jackson?”

He looked up from under heavy lids to see a skinny, unremarkable looking guy wobbling on his feet. His smile was watery, eyes unfocused.

“That’s you right? You’re a big fucker.”

Jackson inhaled once before he did something he would regret. The idea was to lay low. He didn’t want anyone knowing he was in town and losing his shit on this guy would draw attention.

The man took Jackson’s silence for comradery, and he pulled out a chair, spilling into it. “You did that Vega thing, right? Took ‘em out?”

Jackson curled his lip in disgust. “What’s your name again?”

“You know me! Sticky Fingered Jim.”

“Go away Jim.”

This seemed to amuse his new friend and his laughter turned into a hacking cough, phlegm dotting Jim’s lips. He wiped them with the back of his hand and turned back to Jackson.

“Is it true the Weavers did that for some ass? Because I heard—”