Page 98 of Reckless: Corruption

“I could help,” Theo says quietly, and something about his simple offer breaks the dam of resistance. We all hear what he’snot saying—that he needs a distraction from his suppressed heat as much as Jinx needs a break from four walls.

“Fine,” Ryker concedes, setting his tablet aside. “Pool maintenance it is.”

Jinx whoops like we’ve just authorized a Vegas weekend rather than basic summer cleaning. He snaps the zippo closed and tosses it onto the coffee table. “Operation Cannonball is a go! I’ll get the chemicals from the shed!”

“No unsupervised access to chemicals!” Finn calls after him, but our chaos alpha is already halfway out the door, moving with the boundless energy of a prison break in progress.

“I’ll make sure he doesn’t create anything explosive,” Ryker sighs, following Jinx with the resigned expression of someone who’s prevented property damage one too many times.

Which leaves me with Finn and Theo, both watching me with expressions that suggest I’ve unlocked something they didn’t realize they needed.

“Don’t look at me like that,” I protest, but there’s no heat in it. “It’s just a pool.”

“It’s normal,” Theo says simply, rising with that fluid grace that never quite abandons him, even battling suppressants. “We could use a little normal.”

“I’ll get the maintenance manual,” Finn offers, already reaching for his tablet. “There’s a specific protocol for reopening after winter closure.”

“Of course there is,” I mutter, but follow them both toward the pool area, a lightness in my step that’s been missing for days.

The pool area sits in a sheltered courtyard, glass walls providing shelter from mountain winds while still offering panoramic views of forest and sky. It’s beautiful, or at least it would be if not currently covered by a tarp that’s seen better days, surrounded by furniture draped in drop cloths like ghosts of summer past.

“Wow,” I observe, taking in the dust and neglect. The air tastes stale, abandoned, a time capsule of last year’s forgotten leisure. “This is going to be a project.”

“We didn’t exactly have time for pool parties last year,” Finn notes, already scrolling through the maintenance procedures. “Not with the Omega Guardian situation and then your arrival.”

“And now we’re opening it in spite of a beta virus pandemic and an imminent mission to destroy a production facility,” I point out, the absurdity of our priorities suddenly striking me. “We’re very well-adjusted.”

“Speak for yourself,” Theo says, already stripping covers from the patio furniture. “I’ve never claimed to be well-adjusted.”

“Fair point.”

Jinx bursts into the area with his arms full of pool chemicals, Ryker following with a more reasonable selection of cleaning supplies. The manic energy radiating off our chaos alpha would be concerning in any other context, but right now, it feels perfectly aligned with the task at hand.

“Alright, troops,” he announces, dropping his chemical haul on a poolside table with a clatter that makes Theo wince. “Operation Cannonball requires strategic distribution of forces. Finn, you’re on chemical duty because I trust you not to accidentally create chlorine gas. Ryker, your muscles are required for heavy lifting. Theo, aesthetics and organization because you’re the only one with taste. Glitch—” he turns to me with unholy glee “—you’re with me on tarp removal and initial cleaning because I suspect you’re secretly a chaos goblin under all that calculated precision.”

“Chaos goblin?” I repeat, caught between offense and amusement.

“Own it,” he advises, already moving toward the pool cover with determined purpose. “Embrace the goblin within. Let her wreak havoc. She’s been trapped too long.”

Despite the ridiculousness of Jinx’s command structure, we fall into our assigned tasks with surprising efficiency. Finn settles at a table with chemicals and testing kits, measuring with the same precision he brings to chess. Ryker moves patio furniture with methodical purpose, reconfiguring the space according to Theo’s artistic direction. And I find myself knee-deep in musty tarp and winter debris alongside Jinx, whose enthusiasm for destruction makes him the perfect partner for the messiest part of the job.

“So,” Jinx says casually as we wrestle with a particularly stubborn section of cover, “how’s the vaccine treating you? And don’t give me Mona’s scientific gobbledygook. Real answer.”

The direct question catches me off guard. “Mostly fine,” I admit, tugging at a corner that’s somehow become one with the pool deck. The tarp shreds beneath my fingers, releasing a puff of mildew that makes my nose wrinkle. “Occasional hot flashes. Brief dizzy spells. Nothing major.”

“Mona says you’re exceeding expectations,” he comments, using brute strength where my precision approach fails. “Whatever that means in crazy scientist language.”

“It means I’m producing antibodies at a higher rate than predicted,” I translate, grateful for his help as the section finally comes free with a sound like Velcro ripping. “Which is good news for potential mass production.”

“And for keeping you alive,” he adds, the casual tone not quite hiding genuine concern. “Which is my primary interest.”

“I’m fine, Jinx,” I assure him, touched by the care beneath his chaotic exterior. “Really.”

“Better be,” he grumbles, already attacking the next section with renewed vigor. “I’ve got plans that require you in full working order.”

“Do I want to know what these plans involve?”

His grin turns positively wicked. “Probably not. But they’re very entertaining. Possibly illegal in several states.” He leans closer, voice dropping to a mock whisper. “Involves you, me, Theo’s piano, and those little shorts you wear to training. The black ones that make your ass look like sin incarnate.”

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