Page 10 of Scorpion

I don’t want to live in a fucking tent. I don’t want Amy’s things to be in storage. I don’t want to keep feeling pain in my foot all because I don’t have the means to get it treated. Sure, I had surgery on it after the accident. But no one has looked at it since. This country doesn’t give a shit about its veterans.

“Before the accident, you could disable someone twice your size within forty-eight seconds. You graduated top in your class. Your shots hit more than they miss. Would you like me to go into detail about all the successful extractions and hits you did?”

“I’m still not interested.” If I have to work security, I’ll do it for someone other than my ex.

I limp around him and use the door handle as support while I fumble for the key.

“The starting salary is ninety thousand for someone of your expertise.”

I’m interested. “Fine.”

The response comes out quicker than I intend it to. Money like that could wipe out Amy’s student loan and some of her medical bills.

I make the mistake of glancing up at Mathijs to find his lips stretched into a half smile. Still as arrogant as ever. “You can move in tomorrow and start work in two weeks. I’ll send you the address.”

“I have an apartment.”

He nods. “Until tomorrow, I believe.”

I narrow my eyes. That’s not on the notice taped to my door. “How do you get all your information?”

I don’t know why I bother asking. His family’s hedge fund business is only a front; their real money comes from the underbelly of this city. Mathijs’s father wouldn’t have been impressed if he knew that his son told his fifteen-year-old girlfriend that their family is in a gang-like secret society.

“You and I aren’t the same kids we used to be. In our line of work, the better we are at something, the more enemies we have.” He steps forward as if he wants to touch me. “Zalak…” I turn away, knowing the next words that will come out of his mouth. “I’m sorry to hear about your sister and your team. I’m… I’m here for you if you need a—”

“I don’t need your handouts,” I snap when pain spikes up my leg. Fuck, I need to sit.

It’s not exactly how I should be talking to my new boss or someone who is just trying to make my life better. I need a fucking seat and a drink. Which means I need him gone.

“You can say many things, but do not insult me by referring to yourself like that. I don’t have a death wish, Zalak. If I wanted to open a charity, I am well capable of doing so.”

“When did you become such an asshole?” I’ve always been one. The Mathijs I remember was the king of sugarcoating.

“When I lost the one thing that was important to me.” His stare bores into me, picking apart every part of me that I’ve kept hidden away. “Take my condolences or don’t. It’s there for you either way.”

I nod, swallowing the boulder that’s lodged itself in my throat. “Thank you. And I’m… I’m sorry to hear about your parents.” Taking a solidifying breath, I stand straighter. “I was on deployment, and I only found out about what happened two weeks after the funeral. I wish I could have attended. They… they were the parents I never had.”

He gives me a sad smile. “You were the daughter they always wanted.”

Tears sting my eyes, and I avert my attention to unlocking the door so he doesn’t see how far I’ve fallen in the past decade. The lock clicks open and I inch the door wider to end the conversation.

Instead of staying put like a gentleman, the little shit barges past me and enters my apartment, switching on the lights as if he owns the place.

“I never invited you inside,” I grind out, hating that he’s seeing how pathetic my studio is. There’s a beat-up double-seater couch, a coffee table with a thousand ring stains, and a duvet that should have made its way to the dump a long time ago. Other than a single photo frame of me, Gaya, and TJ next to the TV, nothing about the apartment seems like a home.

Despite how measly my living situation is, and how horrific I must look, he doesn’t bat an eye, leaning against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed as if I’m the one intruding on his space. “Then tell me to leave.”

I’d rather choke than say those specific words to him again.

I hobble inside, dump my helmet and backpack on the counter, then grab two bottles of beer from the fridge. He shakes his head at my offer, so I press one of the drinks against my swollen eye. The condensation mixes with the blood still trickling from my forehead and down my neck, but I try to play it off like I’m not about to lose my sanity and consciousness. I slump against the fridge, praying that my good leg doesn’t give out on me too.

It takes longer than I care to admit to figure out that there’s a red bag on the kitchen bench. It’s a med kit.

A med kit that does not belong to me.

Did he know I was fighting tonight?

Mathijs nods toward the single dining chair. “Sit.”

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