Page 89 of Shrapnel
“I don’t blame you. Fearing me is a good thing.” He finally turned, sightless eyes looking right through Owen. “I’m going to die. Probably young. Probably badly. Die in the middle of nowhere, an anonymous body no one will recognize. If I’m lucky, some nice folks will label me a John Doe and raise funds to bury me somewhere. But in all reality, in the end, it’ll just be me and my gun.”
Jamie went quiet for a moment, looking down at the wooden slats of the bench between them. “I’m not a person, Owen. I’m not even a monster. I’m nobody.”
His voice was even. There wasn’t even a hint of self-deprecating humor. It was worse than the night at the Sunspot when his eyes were two black pits. This time Jamie was sober and upright. Owen was staring at the bridge of his sharp nose, unable to breathe or think. A cold chill crept down his back, freezing the droplets of humidity on his skin.
This was real. This wasn’t dazzling smiles in a sleight of hand. This was Jamie telling Owen a truth he didn’t ask for.
“That’s such bullshit.” Owen’s voice came out shaky, but he didn’t stop. “Was it nobody who installed cameras in my apartment building because the security was lax? Or nobody who put a reminder on my phone to drink water? Nobody who sent me a video of a cute hamster stuffing its cheeks because I was nervous about a meeting with my boss?” Owen snatched his hand, yanking it until Jamie brought his eyes up.
“Jamie, I lied. I lied when I said we weren’t friends. I lied when I said I didn’t give a damn about you. I give so many damns they’re visible from space.” Owen’s lips were numb now. Was he even breathing? “But the worst lie was the one I let you believe. I let you believe I was afraid of you.”
He stood and with his free hand, he pulled a pocket knife out of the endless depths of his kangaroo pocket. It was old and a little sticky from the time his little sister dropped it into a cup of soda. His dad had bought the knife for him the first time they went camping. He had never used it before today.
Flicking open the small knife, he slapped it into Jamie’s palm. Instinctively the assassin’s fingers clenched around the plastic handle. He brought Jamie’s wrist up to his neck, placing the blade just under his jaw by his ear.
“I’m not afraid of you. Not then, and not now.” Owen stepped between Jamie’s knees, looking down at him. Pulling that vacant stare back from the depths and watching as it focused.
“I trust you, Jamie.” Owen swallowed and Jamie followed the dip of his adams apple. “I only said that because I was afraid of myself. I was afraid that I would never be able to understand what you’ve been through. Because I want…”
What did he want? Even now, with a knife to his throat, he was unable to give voice to it.
“Because I want to be your friend,” he finished lamely.
Jamie watched him. His face hadn’t changed throughout Owen’s speech. He had impassively watched him, head titled ever so slightly. But Owen could tell he was present now—he was seeing him.
Slowly, Jamie stood. The knife pressed into Owen’s neck slightly, a small little bite that made Owen shudder. This close, their chests pressed together Owen could feel the warmth from his skin. See the prickling of sweat along his temple. He smelled like gunpowder and brass.
“First off,” he rumbled, his voice hoarse. He twisted his wrist from Owen’s fingers, pulling the knife off his neck. Jamie pressed his thumb to the edge of the blade and Owen squeaked in protest.
“This is junk.” He moved the blade so that Owen could see a small indent in the pad of Jamie’s thumb. There was no cut.
“Second,” Jamie slid his thumb up Owens's neck. The pressure from that single digit was more than the knife, blunted nail tracing down his slick skin until it was pressed lower than the knife had been. “This is your carotid artery. This is where you cut to kill a man.”
Owen shuddered, a small gasp slipping past his lips when he felt Jamie’s palm pressed against his skin. Warm and strong, he was reminded of the way his fingers looked when he held a gun. Jamie’s eyes darkened at the noise he made, dropping to watch the small exhalations ghost across Owen’s numb lower lip.
“And third,” Jamie’s hand softened, sliding down off his neck. Fingers brushed Owen’s collar bones under his hoodie before sliding around the strings, pulling them tight. “I could never put a knife to your throat, Owen. I would never hurt you.”
The sincerity in his eyes made Owen’s knees weak. His hands fisted in Jamie’s shirt, holding him tightly to keep him upright. His heart felt like it couldn’t pump blood to his limbs like they were anesthetized—fuzzy and floating out of his control.
He knew Jamie would never hurt him. He never had. Owen had been the one to hurt Jamie. Hurt him so deeply and yet here he was, holding him upright. Because he cared.
Calloused knuckles brushed against his jaw, a gentle rebuke to bring Owen back to the present.
“C’mon O Face, let’s get to work.”
Jamie’s absence was like a slap to the face. Owen had to blink through the sudden change, catching himself on the arm of the wooden bench. He watched Jamie disappear through the humid haze of the garden.
Jamie was an all-consuming fire. He sucked the oxygen from the room, twisted it until it fed his chaotic desires. A bright spark against the night, growing in intensity with every passing moment.
And if Jamie was the flame, then Owen was the moth. He couldn’t look away from his glow. The warmth and the light filled his vision until he couldn’t see the destruction it left behind.
Would the moth look away if it knew the danger it was flying into? Owen didn’t know. He had no plans to look away.
“You’re a disgrace! You can’t be Michael Elliott’s son.”
Noah leveled a heavy stare at the skinny Mesa underling. His words were vicious, but he had yet to back them up with anything besides some wild gesticulating. Standing on the front porch of White Sand Mesa, a small crowd of less zealous friends were standing behind him. Occasionally the bravest among them would nod or mumble a ‘yeah’ in solidarity.
Jackson was leaning against the wall, arms crossed. He had unsheathed his machete, tapping its blade against the limestone wall beside him.