Page 58 of Shrapnel

Noah was so much more. He was his humanity, the tangible tether keeping Elijah’s soul from shattering into a million pieces. His caramel eyes reminded Elijah that he was human. That the lives he took couldn’t take his.

Call that ruin, or call it love, it was theirs.

Jackson blew dust off the cardboard box as he examined the label. The whole store was dusty. He doubted the interior had seen a broom in decades, let alone a feather duster. Any cleaning supplies would probably burst into flames the moment they crossed the threshold like…well like him if he were ever to enter a church.

It was the kind of place that was probably built by hand. Taxes would be sketchy and there were no security cameras. Bartering and the honor system were accepted here. Jackson preferred dusty mom-and-pop ammo shops to the big flashy chain stores.

Fisting the box of 9mm rounds, he followed the footprints in the dust around the handmade shelves until he found the rest of what he was looking for.

There was a slight hitch in his gait as he walked. His muscles were smarting from the scuffle with Jamie. It couldn’t even be called a fight. The kid played dirty and used Jackson’s injuries against him.

Brat was as clever as he was fast.Little asshole.

The old man sitting behind the counter didn’t even look up as he paid. There were no scanners or barcodes. The man’s bushy eyebrows twitched as he input the sale into the oldest looking cash register Jackson had seen outside of museums, giving the total before accepting the cash.

Jackson grunted his thanks as he took the paper bag jingling with bullets. The shop owner hadn’t looked up at him once and it left Jackson with the kind of satisfaction he usually only felt with distance and time behind him.

By the time he left, it was late afternoon. It took him a moment for his eyes to adjust to the brightness. Blinking spots from his eyes, he took a few tentative steps across the dirty cracked asphalt toward the SUV he had appropriated for his time in town.

On his way to the car, he noticed a bike parked beside the empty lot next to the shop. It hadn’t been there when he came in, and a man was kneeling in front of it. It was a sleek looking older model. The gas tank and fenders were a deep mahogany red with the brand stenciled in golden. Chrome spring fork caught the afternoon light, almost blinding him.

Despite this, it was the man who caught Jackson’s attention. Wearing loose jeans and a ratty grey tank top. His ratty light brown hair was pulled back with a bandana. Defined biceps moved underneath the dark ink of a tattoo as he worked on the bike. It was a subtle contrast to his dusky complexion.

The tattoo itself was massive. Trailing from his wrists, around his arms in big loops to connect over his shoulders. A single, unbroken metal chain twisted across his skin.

As if he sensed being watched, he turned to look over his shoulder.

Jackson was surprised to find he knew the man.

“Your bike?”

Rhett smiled shyly. “I wish. I’m working on it for the owner.” He wiped his grease-covered palms on the knees of his ripped jeans.

Jackson stared at Rhett in a way that made the young man squirm. He knew his look could be intimidating. Everything about him was intimidating. But he couldn’t help but try to evaluate the kneeling man.

“Thought you worked at the bar,” Jackson said finally.

He looked grateful that the silent scrutiny was over. “I do. But I fix bikes on the side.”

“Good with your hands?”

The quip surprised them both. Jackson couldn’t believe he had said something so…friendly. He had been in this town too long.

“You could say that.” Rhett’s shy smile turned into a real one, teeth flashing. His right incisor was crooked.

It could be said that Rhett Herrera was a good-looking kid. Probably somewhere in his mid-twenties, he was a large guy. If it weren’t for his habit of trying to take up less space in the world, he would be taller than most men his age.

Rhett returned to the bike, sliding his big hands between the engine coils. Jackson cocked his head and watched in fascination. His hands were used to take things apart. Destruction was all he’d ever known. It seemed easier than the delicacy with which Rhett was using.

“Can you hand me that ratchet?” he gestured to the toolbox with his chin.

Jackson grabbed the tool he thought Rhett wanted. He didn’t know what half of them were. In the army, he had gone through a basic mechanics course, but the information didn’t stick.

After handing Rhett the tool he crouched beside him. He wasn’t sure what to say. Jackson had a feeling that‘hey one time I caved a Kazakhstani warlord's head in with that exact wrench’was not appropriate small talk.

“Where did you learn how to…do this?” he asked haltingly. It was as if his tongue was an underdeveloped muscle, weak and atrophied from lack of use.

“The internet mostly,” Rhett admitted sheepishly. “I like fixing things.”