Page 57 of The Company We Keep

Dust didn’t begrudge him when he became taciturn for long stretches, or when he was distracted with a job. Carrow never became irritated or jealous when Dust would disappear back to his old apartment for an afternoon, or take a drive alone without explanation.

It felt too good to be true, sometimes — but then Leta was always there, reminding Carrow that he’d earned it, that he deserved someone like Dust.

The Company had been prospering almost at the same rate that his feelings for Dust had been flourishing.

For the first time in his life, he was spending money on things that didn’t have to do with his business life or his base of operations. Dust brought something out in him that made Carrow want to treat him with endless surprises — to treat the entire crew.

Crime was fun. But lavishing attention and luxury on the people he loved was surprisingly rewarding, too.

He’d created a gulf between himself and every member of The Company for years. But with Dust drawing him closer and giving him an “in,” he no longer saw his attachment to them as a danger — or worse, a liability.

After all, he told himself: the change in his feelings hadn’t stopped him from accepting risky jobs. It hadn’t compromised his judgment when it came to how to plan heists.

(And yes: maybe itdidmake him sick to his stomach everytime he had Dust doing something risky on the ground. Maybe his heartdidfall to his feet when Dust was unaccounted for during a job, even for a minute. Maybe his hands did shake and his heart did flutter when Dust took the occasional bullet. But he’d been handling it. He’d been finding some way to deal with it.

Maybe the things he felt for Dust terrified him.

But he — they all, Dust and Carrow, and The Company as a whole —day after day…they were surviving.)

And even though Carrow had never really cared too much for holidays or surprises, he’d been planning Dust’s Christmas present since before Halloween.

Dust gotEmerson’s voicemail the same day he decided to stay in Las Abras for Christmas.

It sure was some fucking timing.

He’d already been hating himself for not going to see his parents. He’d worked it out in his head how he could do it — the various paths he could take, doubling back a few times over, ensuring that nobody from The Company or Abe had followed him.

It would be expensive, time consuming, and difficult — but in evading detection from both Abe and The Company, he’d become pretty adept at covering his tracks.

It wasn’t that hemissedhis parents. Dust felt like heowedthem. He’d never told them how long he might be gone on the current mission. It was possible AIIB hadn’t even let them know he was still alive. Even if he only saw them for half a day before heading back on the convoluted journey back to Las Abras, at least they’d get to see him, to know he was well and happy and thriving.

He was going to tell Carrow about it at the last minute.And then there he’d been: picturing the man alone in the sprawling penthouse, imagining what the week would be like for him without the other people who kept his days lively for the rest of the year, without Dust in his bed, frowning like he had back in those AIIB shots in his folder, a glass of whiskey and a thousand-yard stare.

He hated himself for how easy it was to throw his whole plan in the garbage and say he’d stay.

Heloathedhimself for the instant relief he felt.

They’d returned inside to see what was happening with dinner, and then Dust had broken off for a shower. He grabbed his cell on the way into the bedroom, headed to grab a change of clothes. He barely used the phone, but checked it out of habit.

Three missed calls. One voicemail.

For a moment it didn’t even occur to him who outside of The Company could want to get in touch with him. His severance with AIIB was, at least at that moment,that complete.But as he thumbed over the home button, waiting for the phone to recognize his print, a stripe of fear worked its way down his spine.

It was Neil Emerson.

Panicked and paranoid, Dust strode out of the room towards the bathroom, forgetting his change of clothes, locking the door behind him, and turning on the faucet (To maskwhat,you moron? he chided himself).

He pulled up the voicemail. Just seeing Emerson’s name next to the timestamp felt like seeing a ghost.

Emerson.

The voicemail was short.

His fingertip hovered over the ‘delete’ button.

He tapped ‘play’ instead and held the phone to his ear.

“Wrenshall, it’s Emerson. We need to talk. Your debtorsarereallyleaning on me right now. They did not accept your proposal. They’re making it clear that they mean to collect — do you understand? I need you to meet me. I get what you’re going through, kid, I really do. I’ve been there before and I thought there was no way I could make good on my promises but… Let’s meet, OK? Your old place — I still have the key. If I don’t hear from you, just know that I’ll be there tomorrow at nine. I’ll be alone. I can make this better. We can get through this. I just want to talk, Dustin.”

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