Page 10 of Ruined

Bobby hesitates for half a second, and I feel his anger building as he confronts the need to be vulnerable. “She’s not your girl. She’s a fucking Fed.”

“You’ll always be my boy,” Angelo reassures him over my head. “There’s no need to be jealous of Riley.”

“I know, because she’s an agent. There’s only one thing to do with agents.”

“She’s not an agent anymore, Bobby, and you will not lay a finger on her without my permission. You understand, don’t you?”

Bobby pulls out his phone and starts messing with it rather than replying, which is acceptable because Angelo wasn’t really asking a question. He was making a statement of fact.

* * *

We get all the way to the city without being stopped by any agents or lawmen. I knew the chances of intervention were slim, but the part of me that still puts hope in the law is starting to give up hope. Nobody is coming. Nobody is going to save me.

The car pulls up in a spare space outside an expensive clothing store. The sort of place nobody on a federal salary could ever afford.

“Go in and pick up the packages I ordered,” Angelo says to Bobby.

Bobby does as he is told without saying a word. He has been grimly silent for the duration of the journey. I know he’s not happy about me, and now he’s not happy about Angelo.

There are rumors that Bobby has made several attempts on Angelo’s life. According to my profile, these attacks are half mating ritual, half true hostility. I wonder if he is working himself up to another one of those attacks now. Bobby likes to be an only child. He might be twisted in a thousand ways, but when it comes to his relationships, he appears to be traditionally monogamous.

Angelo and I are left in the car together.

“You should be more careful of him,” I murmur.

“Excuse me?” Angelo makes the inquiry with something like gentleness, or perhaps predatory softness. It is hard to tell.

“He’s dangerous, and he’s angry. He will hurt me, and he might hurt you.”

“Are you worried about me, Riley?” Angelo reaches out and turns my chin toward him, inspecting my gaze. “Are you already attached in some way? Do you know where you belong?”

I open my mouth slightly, but I don’t know what to say. I am worried for myself, but yes, there is some part of me that wants to preserve Angelo. I tell myself that’s because he is a capture target. He is not supposed to be hurt. He is supposed to be brought to justice.

“I know where I belong,” I tell him. It’s a non-answer, and he is not a stupid man. He knows that what I said doesn’t really mean anything, but he smiles approvingly anyway.

“Here.” Bobby opens the door of the car and tosses a heavy box at my midsection. “Clothes.”

“Thanks,” I say, more out of reflexive politeness than any true gratitude to him.

“Put them on,” Angelo says.

I open the box, revealing a simple suit and shirt combination. Angelo is going all out to disguise me as one of the boys. The agent Riley is fast disappearing.

It’s hard enough getting dressed in the back of a car, let alone in the back of a car between two broad-shouldered men, but I do what I can. It feels good to have pants on, at least. Having my legs covered is a psychological boost.

“She sits next to you, you call her your girl, you buy her things… You’ve known her less than a day and she’s already your new favorite.”

I hear jealous, bitter venom dripping from Bobby’s tone. Angelo has to be noticing this. Bobby is like a wild creature curled with its back against a wall, trapped between a bigger, wilder creature it must respect and what it thinks is a tasty little morsel it can control.

I’m still paying attention to what’s in the box, and what the point of it is. I think Angelo’s going to disguise me as a male, trying to throw the agency off the scent, as if they’re stupid enough to not notice that a male of my height and build has suddenly joined Angelo’s retinue.

Having gotten the pants on, I put the jacket over the shirt I’m already wearing, using the uncomfortable, twisting motions that are necessary to achieve those outcomes in the back seat of this car to slip the little knife from earlier into the pockets of the pants. These pants were made for men, so they have proper pockets. What a fucking relief. There’re even socks and shoes. The socks are thicker than women’s socks and comfier. The shoes are too. Somehow, it’s all my size.

Have we been getting screwed this entire time? Are suits actually… comfortable?

“Where’s the hat, Bobby?”

“They didn’t give me a hat.”

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