Heathens & Hand Grenades (Book 1 of the Heathens Duet)

Chapter 56- Jaxson

When I was a young boy, I recall my parents often reading to me. One in particular was my mother's favorite. At the time I found the only thing I really liked about the story was the order and structure of the nun and the way she kept the children in two straight lines. I thought the girl unruly and annoying. The nun waking in the night, knowing something was amiss a device used to further the plot. I understand now.

Something is not right.

The air is wrong in the bunker. I know it the moment my feet hit the ground and a moment is all I need to get myself gathered and dressed. My nerves are screaming at me and my brain is trying to catch up to something my consciousness hasn't realized.

The coffee machine is empty.

I fully expect Dario and Callie to remain in his room until one of us grabs them for breakfast. I'm not even sure that would remove her from my arms, but Riggs' cooking could rouse a corpse from the afterlife.

To not see Riggs in the kitchen or at least meandering about with Kace somewhere in earshot, that has me sliding on my gloves and palming one of my knives as I make my way into the hall.

Kace's door is slightly ajar and I press on it while plastering myself to the wall. His sheets are rumpled. Never have I known him to leave his bed unmade. A pain in the ass boot camp may be, but some habits become so ingrained, it's easier to keep them.

Walking inside reveals no attacker lying in wait, so I relax my knife hand a fraction as I take in my surroundings. Nothing is wrong per se, but I know my brother. I search for a sign, a clue, anything to tell me more, but his music is where he usually expresses himself and the silent guitar isn't able to tell me anything without its master.

Forgiveness can wait until later. Grabbing the closest notebook to his bed, I look for something. Crinkled pages hastily erased and scribbled out lines. Curious. A spare sheet of paper and a light rubbing. Elementary and crude, but effective.

Poetic words not meant for my eyes. He can sort out his feelings on his own.

Our illustrious leader still sleeps. I give him the curtesy of knocking. Patience is a virtue I pride myself on, but I feel it abandoning me as I crack my knuckles. Give me a moment and I'll start tapping my foot like some cartoon rabbit. Distasteful. My darling pet has turned me into a caricature of my former self.

I listen carefully for some sign of life and am rewarded by the creak of Riggs' bed. "I'm coming in. Decent or not," I warn.

"Fine," he answers hoarsely through the door.

The problem is written all over his bloodshot eyes and the way he can barely meet my face. Riggs, for all he has been through, has never not met my eyes. He has always seen me as someone to respect and not fear. One of the only men. It's why I chose to give up everything to follow him, to help him regain the life he spoke about so fondly. He saw me as a man, not an animal.

I feel like one now as I stare him down. I hardly register my grip on my knife tightening in my hand as I walk closer. "What. Did. You. Do?" I growl out.

"She wasn't supposed to be here," he tells me solemnly. "She wasn't and then she was. But it wasn't her, and I was back there again," he rambles. "I couldn't turn it off," he stresses as his hands curl up and down, like even they can't get a handle on what they've done.

The picture forming is one I firmly reject. My pet is a fighter and until I see proof, she is curled up in bed with Dario. Sated and well rested. That is the only reality I will accept.