Page 2 of Reeves

"So no plans to relocate back here?"

This guy. Who does he think he is? I shift my duffel to my other shoulder, already half-turned to keep walking. "I'm not staying, no."

Gus nods like I've confirmed what he already knew. No surprise crosses his face as he scribbles something in his notebook. No more questions follow.

I increase my stride away from him, but the interaction clings to me like the oppressive heat. The weight of the Stone is as heavy as it's always been.

The back of my neck prickles from the exposure I feel when I'm out of the SEAL teams and back in this fishbowl of a city. I fucking hate this feeling. The scrutiny. The expectations. The unspoken disappointment.

People don't look at me like this when I'm deployed. There, I'm defined by what I do, not by what my last name is.

I spot Gabe's truck near the exit. The dark green paint is dulled under a film of road dust.

His truck doesn't fit in with the black cars and luxury sedans. It's precisely why I called him to pick up instead of letting Cain send a driver.

Cain would've sent a car. Something blacked out with adriver who wouldn't ask questions. I called Gabe instead because I'd rather sit in a truck that smells like motor oil than pretend I've come home to all the pomp and circumstance I despise.

He pushes off the door when he sees me walking toward him. The movement is easy, but there’s a slight hitch when his weight shifts. His prosthetic leg is hidden under dark jeans. My gaze flicks there for half a second, then back to his face.

“Goddamn,” he says, already closing the distance. “You look like shit.”

I drop my duffel just in time for him to grab me and haul me in. His arms lock around my back in a bear hug. The impact knocks the air out of my lungs.

“Good to see you, too,” I manage, my voice compressed against his shoulder.

Gabe was my closest friend in the Teams until he was injured in a roadside bomb. He left almost two years ago. I still consider him my brother. We just aren't doing missions together anymore.

He squeezes once more before letting go. I drag in a breath, coughing under it, and pick my duffel back up.

“You been standing here long?” I ask.

“Long enough to watch you get stalked by that chump with the notebook.” Gabe jerks his chin toward the terminal. “Figured I’d let you handle it before I stepped in and made it worse.”

A corner of my mouth lifts. “Thanks a lot, dickhead.”

Gabe snorts. “You could’ve had a car waiting. Blacked-out SUV, driver in a suit, whole thing. Might've saved you the fan club.”

I shrug. “You know I don’t do that.”

He takes the bag from my hand without asking and tosses it into the back of the truck. I circle around and climb into the passenger seat.

The leather is hot through my shirt. Gabe slides in behind thewheel and pulls the door closed, sealing us in. The engine hums low as he eases us into the pickup lane traffic.

He glances over, eyes moving across my face like he’s checking for a specific tell. “What's your leave?”

“Fourteen god-forsaken days.”

“That's a pretty long clip. Good for you.”

“Too long, if you ask me.”

He nods once and looks back to the road. “Memorial’s tomorrow. You good?”

“I know.”

“I know you know.” His jaw tightens slightly. “Just saying.”

The truck rolls onto the main road, merging into traffic. The city comes at me all at once. Heat presses in through the glass, and palm trees bend slightly in the breeze. This city smells of asphalt and faintly sweet, dueling scents that don’t belong anywhere else.