Page 131 of Lone Star

Reese had never liked the taste of coffee, but appreciated its uses as a stimulant. On long ops, he always took a large thermos full of it, sipping at it continuously, fighting it down one bitter swallow at a time – but only ever at a rate that maintained the balance between liquid intake and output. He never wanted to piss and leave his DNA behind at a scene.

He hadn’t realized the bitterness of coffee caused him to make a face, though, until one morning a few months ago in Mercy’s kitchen. Ava had chuckled, and he’d glanced up to see her smiling at him. “You want some cream for that? A little sugar?” When he’d only stared at her in wonderment, she’d taken the mug from his hands and doctored it until it was pale, and sweet, and flavorful. He’d experimented with flavors; French vanilla was his favorite.

He searched the hospital lounge’s array of non-dairy creamer capsules until he found a vanilla one, and added it to his paper cup of coffee. Added four sugar packets, and turned around to find Agent Maddox studying him.

“That’s a lot of sugar,” he said, frowning.

Reese took a sip, and didn’t make a face. “I like sugar.”

“Obviously.”

Reese had arrived at the hospital ten minutes ago and rendezvoused with Gringo in one of the quiet, family waiting rooms on the second floor, where Jinx and Melanie Menendez had rooms. Gringo’s eyes had gone a little wide, and Reese took it he wasn’t the expected backup. But, despite the jests and insults – teasing, he knew – about Gringo’s incompetence, he’d schooled his features and adapted quickly.

“Fox’s brother is up in ICU. And there’s a fed up there,” he’d informed him, voice low, brows jumping on the wordfed.

Reese had spotted the agent immediately, in his suit, with his sunglasses on his head, chewing gum and sticking out like a neon sign with his stiffness and uneasiness. He was young, proving himself at the Bureau, still, most likely.

He’d spotted Reese, too, gaze arresting, posture straightening. His gaze had traveled down and then up Reese’s body, and his mouth had set in a straight line, and even if Reese wasn’t wearing his cut – he so rarely did; identifying clothing was never a good idea – but the agent had said, “You’re one of them. A Dog.”

Reese had walked past him into the waiting room to fix himself a cup of coffee, exhausted suddenly. Faintly dizzy with fatigue.

He studied the man now between sips, letting the counter behind him hold some of his weight.

Maddox put his hands on his hips and huffed a challenging sound. “Right? You’re a Lean Dog?”

“No,” Reese said, because his cut, back at the clubhouse, bore only a bottom rocker that read PROSPECT. He wasn’t a fully-patched member, and therefore, technically, not a Dog. “I’m a Dog ally.”

“Ugh, okay, yeah, whatever. You’re a Dog. You people can’t just be hanging around the hospital.” He glanced away and raked a hand through his hair. “It’s bad enough Cantrell’s fucking working with you,” he muttered. He stared toward the window a moment, seeming to gather himself, then turned back to Reese. “Here to visit your buddy who got shot?” The question was conversational, but his tone was not.

“He’s not my buddy.”

The face the man made in response eluded Reese.

“I’m here to guard him.”

“Guard…?” The agent snorted. “You shitheads are unbelievable. Guard? I’m here.” He jabbed a finger into his own chest. “But I guess that doesn’t count, ‘cause I’m just a fucking federal agent.” He paced toward the window, and his hand made another pass through his hair. “Unbelievable.”

Reese sipped more coffee – intensely sweet, and warm; he could already feel the caffeine hitting his veins – and studied Maddox more closely. Young, and proving himself, yes, but the emotions playing out across his face, even in profile, spoke of restraint and frustration. A simmering resentment that he held tightly in check – but a hold that was fraying.

With an inner lurch, Reese realized that the man reminded him of Tenny, all of Ten’s pent-up anger and helplessness turning him sour and grim-faced, and reckless.

Reese said, “I’m sorry.”

The agent froze, and then whipped toward him, brows drawn low. “What did you just say?”

“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “You don’t want to be doing this.”

“I don’t…” Anger flared again: color in the cheeks, flash in the eyes, leap of the chords in the throat. “You’re damn right I don’t want to be babysitting fucking gangsters.”

“Club.”

“What?”

“It’s not a gang. It’s a club.”

“Are you–” Maddox took a sharp breath in through his nose. “Are you stupid or something? Or just fucking insane?”

Not an uncommon reaction. Though they’d taken to educating him how they saw fit, trying to pull him into their daily habits, rituals, and secret languages, the Lean Dogs, all save Mercy, had asked him similar things – though with less hostility. Less fear. He knew he wasn’t normal, but that had never bothered him. Save for when Tenny needled him.

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