Page 113 of Hellbent
“We’ll get one this week,” Ryder says, the words landing with a surprising warmth.
The words are the first indication I’ve had all day that there’s some ground beneath my feet here. A future. That even though he won’t look me in the eye, he’s still expecting me to be here.
“If Ryder wasn’t on surveillance—” Wyatt starts, shaking his head.
I lay a hand on his arm to interrupt him. “I’m okay.”
We stand there for a moment in that space between scolding and care, and I realize that I’m on the verge of tears. Not because of the memory of yesterday, but because of the prospect of tomorrow without Wyatt here to worry about me.
He studies me, then nods. “You gotta listen to Ryder, okay?”
A slow burn rises up my cheeks, but I keep my voice steady, my eyes locked on Wyatt. “I will.”
Ryder turns toward the counter, silent, reaching for the corkscrew.
The sound of a cork pulling free from a bottle breaks the moment, and he pours wine into two glasses with a glug. He hands them both to us.
“It’s a 2008 Bordeaux,” he says.
Wyatt takes a glass and tips it toward him in a lazy salute.
“Let’s go talk outside,” he says to me, cocking his head toward the doorway.
I take the second glass from Ryder, barely meeting his eyes, and follow Wyatt out into the rain.
Out on the porch, the rain clatters against the roof in a steady rhythm. The sounds from inside bleed through the door behind us, but out here, it’s just us and the storm.
Wyatt settles onto the weather-worn rattan couch, wine glass balanced loosely in one hand. I sink down beside him, tucking my bare feet up under me.
He takes a slow sip before speaking. “I want to let you know that I’m heading out tomorrow.”
I nod, pressing my lips together, but I can’t hide my disappointment. Used to be that I saw Wyatt every day. Now it’s been months since we had more than a few days together.
“How long this time?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Not sure yet.”
Wyatt’s been gone for three or four weeks at a time lately. I can’t imagine how longnot suremeans, if this is the first time it warrants a proper goodbye.
“Why won’t anyone just tell me what’s going on?” I say. “Where do you go? And why? It feels like the floor’s falling out from under me and no one wants to say why.”
He exhales, rubbing his palm over the knee of his jeans. “There’s not much to tell.”
“That’s bullshit,” I say, more sharply than I mean to.
He doesn’t flinch. Just holds my gaze.
“It’s just what we do,” he says finally. “Some of it matters. Some of it doesn’t. Either way, we don’t make a habit of explaining it.”
I stare at him. “Is it dangerous?”
A pause. Then, “Sometimes.”
“Is it illegal?”
He huffs a laugh. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
That makes my stomach twist.
