Page 22 of Rooster

"Wanna play a game of darts?"

He looks from me to the television screen as he pulls in a long breath.

"I suck at darts."

"I do too," I confess.

"I think—"

A chime from one of his monitors draws his attention back to the massive computer system he's sitting in front of.

"Actually," he says as his fingers work over the keyboard. "I have to stay here. Something just came up."

"I understand," I say as I stand, disappointment swimming inside me. "For the record, it's not fair they all get to play and have a good time and you're stuck in here working."

He doesn't argue with me as I walk out of the room.

Chapter 8

Rooster

"It's pretty laid back," I say, shifting on my feet.

I wouldn't say I'm awkward in social situations, but I'm not as comfortable as I would be if I were having this conversation with Whiskey while sitting behind my computer desk.

Maybe I use my system as a shield, something I can always use to keep busy. I used it earlier today with Morgan.

As much as I wanted to play darts with her, I really suck at it. As she admitted she did too, I know she'd think I was a complete loser if my first dart struck the wall two feet away, which I knew it had the chance of doing. I'm already a computer nerd, and being so unathletic and sucking at darts would only make me look ten times worse.

"No presidential patch?" he asks as he lifts a glass of amber liquid to his lips.

"Not yet," I say, keeping it to myself that Bandera has been chomping at the bit to be handed the damn thing since before we left our training sessions in New Mexico.

He drains his glass, and I know, for a fact, it's the second one he's had, yet he seems just as steady on his feet as he was before he poured the first one.

I know from reading his dossier that they call him Whiskey because of the odd amber color of his eyes, not because he has a drinking problem.

Actually, I know so much about this man and all the others in the group that it doesn't feel like this is the first time he has actually been in the house.

Whiskey's been introduced to everyone, and although Heathen was cordial upon introductions, it hasn't kept the man from keeping Kaylee locked to his side and his eyes on the man. The way he's staring at Whiskey doesn't seem to bother the man at all.

Music plays from the sound system as Twisted and Bandera play yet another game of pool. I think they've been at it for hours. They may play well into the night since they keep trading wins with no real victor being named.

"I guess I figured there would be more women here," he mutters. "Not much of a party."

I tilt my head in confusion. "This isn't exactly a party, and we don't really bring strangers around. We've been instructed to keep house visitors to a minimum. As in no outsiders."

"Yet he has a wife living here, and her best friend has tagged along?" he questions, his empty whiskey glass angled in their direction, uncaring if they know he's speaking about them.

"There was an incident," I begin, wondering just how much I need to tell him.

I'm not keeping secrets. The man has every right to know what's going on with Cerberus and inside this house, but speaking about what Kaylee and Morgan went through is also a confession that it happened all because of me.

I've grown used to explaining what Henry does and why, but admitting those things to a teammate who just arrived feels like a weakness.

"Morgan was in danger, so she's here for a little while until things are sorted."

"I see," he says, frowning when he lifts his glass again, only to discover it's empty.

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