Page 15 of Gunpowder

“My call starts soon,” Wren said, taking his keys out.

“I hope you don’t get in too much trouble for this.” Blair scratched the back of his head, thinking back to the stern woman who had seen to them the night before.

Wren opened the car door and looked over his shoulder. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

The R8 roared to life and Blair watched Wren peel away from the entrance, Tristan stirring awake beside him from the noise. Blair stared at the black impressions of tire treads on the pavement where Wren had burned rubber. This is the end of my rotation with emergency medicine, Wren had said.

You won’t see me again.

His vision unfocused for a second and rather than the asphalt he saw Wren in the doorway of his apartment, felt a surprisingly strong hand wrap around his forearm. Coffee and cologne. Three black rings dancing in the artificial light. He could still feel that touch as though it was pulling him closer, creating an unstable gravity between them. Blair’s own words echoed, taunting, in his mind. You never know.

4

GRAVITY

Blair leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the hulking group in front of them. Spencer was showing the guns to their client—or rather, clients, all four of the huge motherfuckers—while Felix stood at the window, smoking a cigarette. Blair liked being at the back of the room during a deal. He could see more, and having a wall at his back meant no one could surprise him.

“Looks good to me,” said one of the large men, and jerked his chin at the man on his right, who hefted a worn duffel bag onto the table.

Spencer counted the stacks of bills inside and nodded. “Always a pleasure, gentlemen.”

Blair waited for Felix and Spencer to walk out of the small room before filing out behind them, back into the narrow hallway and through the empty nightclub that wasn’t yet open for the day. His phone rang as they got outside. Blair didn’t recognize the number, but Spencer glanced over at the screen and said, “Area code is Long Island City. Might be the hospital, you should take it.”

They’d all ridden together in Felix’s Mustang, so Spencer and Felix leaned on the hood to smoke while Blair walked away to answer his phone. “Hello?”

“Hello again, Blair.”

Blair sucked in a breath that didn’t feel like it reached his lungs. “Wren.”

“Tristan tested positive for typhoid fever. Dr. Evans wants him admitted for his recovery to be monitored while he is on antibiotics.”

The words raised goosebumps on his arms even as he stood under the scorching August sun, its heat radiating from the asphalt under his feet. The roar of engines and car horns on the road became a dull hum. He had read up on typhoid fever after getting Tristan home from the hospital and, knowing just how bad it could get and how fast, he gladly take a round in the other leg if it meant Tristan would be okay.

“What are his chances?”

“It’s not chance any longer, we know now. He tested positive.”

“I mean his chances of living.”

“Weren’t you listening last night? Early detection is key. Bring him to us so we can keep him hydrated and make sure the antibiotics are doing their job, and he’ll be fine.”

“Our stepdad picked him up this morning since I was going to be out. I’ll have him bring Tristan.”

“That would be advisable.”

Blair dared to draw his first relieved breath since the phone rang. “I’ll give him this number if he has any questions. Will this one take him straight to pediatrics?”

“It will take him straight to me, don’t give him this number. He can look the hospital up online like everyone else.”

“Your people skills are shit.”

There was a raspy sound that he guessed was the closest thing Wren ever came to a laugh. “So you’ve told me.”

Blair was starting to sweat where his hoodie was tied around his waist, trapping the heat against his lower back. “People skills or not, it turns out your hunch was right. How does that feel?”

“Common.”

Blair huffed a laugh of his own. “You’re a fucking piece of work.”

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