Page 47 of Shrapnel

Owen bristled. “Ididbring someone.”

“I’m hardly your first choice.” The words should have been stinging but Jamie was chuckling as he said it.

What he didn’t want to admit was that he did have someone he was supposed to invite. Owen’s sister had claimed his second ticket the moment he bought them. He would catch all types of hell for not letting her come, but hewantedto bring Jamie. Maybe in a curiosity-killed-the-cat kind of way, but he had wanted to spend the night with Jamie.

“I haven’t had a girlfriend since sophomore year.” He chanced another look at Jamie. There was no judgment in his eyes.

“Why not?”

It was Owen’s turn to laugh. There were a thousand reasons he didn’t excel with women—he was short, a little on the pudgy side, a sloppy dresser, and he would rather sit at his computer all weekend than go out. Any of those were valid reasons. But he couldn’t say any of those without sounding like he was fishing for compliments. Owen didn’t know why, but something about receiving hollow compliments from Jamie just felt wrong.

“I was working for an organized crime family, Jamie. I couldn’t exactly subject someone to that kind of danger.”

Jamie rolled his eyes. “It wasn’t that bad.”

“Yes, it was! Not only did I have to look up a Panamanian kingpin’s Pornhub history, but I also had to plant a tracker on a known murderer's belt while you watched me through a sniper rifle.”

No quip followed and he looked over his shoulder to see a sober look on Jamie’s face. He wasn’t looking at Owen anymore, staring vacantly at the stage with stiff shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” he said after a tense pause. “You working with us was my fault and I didn’t realize how badly it scared you.”

Jamie’s words were filled with ice. Frost crept into his chest and clawed up his throat, choking him with emotion he couldn’t describe. He had never heard Jamie sincerely apologize before, and he hated it. Hated that he thought Owen disliked the time they spent together.

“My father was a risk assessor for a major insurance company,” Owen explained, staring at Jamie’s jaw, willing him to turn back to face him. To show him that crooked grin. “Every night we would sit around the dinner table, and he would tell me about all the terrible, scary things that could happen. I used to get so freaked out that I couldn’t sleep, afraid that the electrician that put up my ceiling fan wasn’t properly licensed, and the blades would fly off and decapitate me horror movie style.”

“How powerful was your fan…?”

“His fears affected me so badly that I couldn’t enjoy a lot of my early childhood. It got better in high school and getting away from his paranoia was one of the reasons I went away for college.”

Swallowing he fumbled with his fingers in his hoodie pocket. “Being afraid is a terrible thing. It’s exhausting and…it…. I’m grateful. Without you, I might still be clinging to that part of my life.”

Days when he felt like he couldn’t leave the safety of his house, where he chose to eat cereal because forks can be sharp. Nights where he wondered if the tape on the wall switch would fail and the switch would inexplicably flip, turning his fan into a roto-rooter of death. A war between logic and the overwhelming fear that choked him out. Eventually, his father noticed the toll his stories took, and he backed off, but Owen would still see him cast dubious glances and live his life avoiding things he couldn’t control.

The day Jamie entered the shop he was working, strolling in with a stupid look on his face and a knife embedded into his computer, he had reached through that fear. His strong fingers took hold of Owen and told him to hold on, it was going to be a bumpy ride. He had closed his eyes and prayed for it to be over, and when he opened them, he was standing on the other side. Whole, invigorated, and no longer afraid.

Jamie watched Owen for a minute before relaxing his shoulders. “You want something to drink?” he asked as he jerked a thumb over to the concession stand.

“Sure. Surprise me.”

Jamie moved off through the crowds and Owen couldn’t help but watch as the wiry man was jostled and elbowed. These people had no idea who he was. Jamie’s ability for camouflage might be why he was so good at his job—one day he was a lethal assassin, picking off people like they were bugs on a windshield and the next he was just a guy in the crowd listening to someone trauma dump.

Elijah was the same way. One look at him and you would think he was more likely to tattle on you for cheating on an exam than to send a blade through your jugular. But with Elijah it made sense—hewasa regular guy. Just a regular guy who happened to kill people sometimes.

With Jamie, it was a tossup. Was he a guy who turned into a killer because he had to or was he a killer who sometimes pretended to be normal?

If it was the former, how did he live with himself? And if it was the latter, what happened to make him that way?

Which, again, brought him back to his original question of just who the hell was Jamie?

And why did Owen care so much?

A red solo cup appeared in front of him, and he took it. Wrapping his fingers around the plastic he peered into the amber liquid dubiously.

“Oh yeah, it’s going to suck,” Jamie confirmed, lifting his cup to his lips and gulping the lukewarm alcohol.

There was something about buying warm overpriced beer that completed the whole concert experience. Owen drank his beer, quietly enjoying the buzz of energy in the crowd. Breaths held with expectation, eyes darting to the stage, feet tamping as they tried to get a glance of the performers on stage.

Just as night fell the performers took to the stage. With his beer long gone, Owen had his hands free. Cupping them around his mouth, he cheered with the rest of the crowd.