Page 49 of Resilience

They were heading out on a Nevada run this morning. This would be only the second time Sam had worked a Russian run, and, like the first time, he was nervous. Fucking up on one of these runs could mean people died.

Last night, the run crew had ridden to the eastern border of the state to collect the shipment and transfer it into the Bulls’ van; that had been a short run, and Sam hadn’t been called in for it. But for this leg, all the way to Laughlin, Fitz, their road captain, preferred two drivers. Usually, at least one patch took part of the driving duties, so one prospect stayed home to cover the grunt work here, but this time, Fitz wanted both prospects.

The decisions for who rode a run and why were far above Sam’s pay grade; he just went where he was told to go and did what he was told to do. But he had noticed that this crew was pretty big: Dex, Caleb, Gunner, Fitz, and Jay, plus the prospects. Usually that meant they were hauling either an unusual amount or an unusual kind of cargo—something that required either more strong backs or more guns. Another thing to be nervous about.

But what they were hauling wasn’t his business, either. His and Monty’s business first thing this morning was collecting the loaded van from its secure location in a neighbor’s garage, making sure it was gassed up and ready for the drive, and that any gear the crew needed beyond their personal shit was checked and packed up. And, first and foremost, getting the coffee started.

Soon Carly, the head sweetbutt, and another girl or two would show up and lay out an easy breakfast, usually pastries or breakfast sandwiches, something like that. But coffee had to be ready when the first patch showed up. Sam made better coffee than Monty, so that was his first job.

They had a big, slightly old fashioned, commercial-grade coffeemaker behind the bar. This morning, Sam had to dump the fresh grounds back and start over three times because he kept losing count. His mind was not, to put it mildly, on coffee or the run or anything else happening today. All he could think about was last night. Athena.

Actually, he wasn’t really thinking. Just remembering. When he tried to think a clear thought, all he got was crashing noises. The change between them was so sudden and intense he felt like they’d done a slingshot around the moon, like in space stories.

He’d never imagined kissing Athena until he was actually doing it—and holy fuck. The second she’d scooted up to him and told him to kiss her, any lingering doubt or worry he’d had about his feelings had evaporated. But actually kissing her? That had changed his life. Maybe it had changed him—at the cellular level.

Kissing other girls had been pleasant, sexy, fun, all that. Kissing Athena was like having his insides overhauled. It had felt so good, so intense, so absolutely fucking right it had hurt—the kind of pain like finally reaching a deep itch. He’d known at once that he’d been in love with her for a long time.

What a fucking moron he’d been not to see it. But maybe not—maybe they’d figured it out at the exact right time, when they were both ready to see it. Not quite simultaneously, but almost.

They hadn’t done anything more than make out a little in the woods, then they’d lain together as the stars emerged. They hadn’t even talked all that much. When they got back to his house, he’d walked her to her car and kissed her goodnight. Totally PG, and totally perfect.

Every one of those kisses played over and over inside his skull, but even now, he wasn’t thinking about more than that, and he didn’t want to try to imagine more. He wanted to experience everything with her when it was real, and when the time was right.

“Hey, I’m headin’ over to—what the fuck’s with you?”

Sam looked over at Monty, who’d just come up from the basement. “What do you mean?”

“You got the biggest, shit-eatingest grin I’ve ever seen. If I couldn’t see your legs, I’d think you were getting head right now.”

Suddenly aware of his face, Sam got it under control. “Just in a good mood.”

Monty grinned. “Somebody got the special kind of laid.”

“Fuck off, headass.” Sam made it sound like regular shit-giving, but he was irritated. Protective of Athena, when Monty surely wasn’t thinking he could have been referring to her.

“So touchy,” Monty said and flipped him off. “Headin’ out for the van. Back in ten.”

“You want company?” The van wasn’t far, but it was full of Russian guns, so the buddy system was probably prudent.

“Nah, my uncle’s home, so I’ll swing by and get him.” Monty’s uncle was a longstanding hangaround and often helped out around the clubhouse. He’d worked in the station shop for a few years, until he got his real estate license. He was the one who’d recommended the neighbor with the good, secure garage as a stash place.

A couple of bikes roared outside. The blend of sound made it hard to discern which bikes were coming, but Sam was pretty sure one was Jay. Just guessing the route he’d have taken from downtown and whom he might have met on the way, Sam figured the other was Fitz.

“Better get that coffee brewing,” Monty said and headed toward the side door.

Sam got the coffee brewing.

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“Fuck. That fucking sucks.” Monty glared at the van.

In the past half-hour, all the riders had shown up, everything was packed and ready, they’d chugged two pots of coffee and stuffed tiny cheese quiches and bacon-wrapped sausages in their maws, and everybody had taken a turn in the john. They were on the lot, ready to mount up, when Dex had barked the bad news.

“You lodging a complaint, prospect?” Dex asked, his stony expression making it clear there was no complaint box for the prospects.

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