He paused on some kind of Western in black-and-white. He watched for a moment as a cowboy on a horse tipped his hat at a woman in a bustled dress.
He wouldn’t mind hearing Grayson’s deep Texas drawl right about then.
On-screen, the scene changed. The cowboy was now stepping into the center of town, reaching for his holster. Shit, shit,shit. Fiery pain tore Reece’s chest in the path of a phantom bullet, like burnt flesh and torn skin and shattered bone.
The same pain he would have caused Grayson on the roof of Stone Solutions if Reece had made Cedrick Stone pull that trigger.
Reece’s chest burned, his head too light and black dots creeping into the corners of his vision as he scrambled for the power button, his arm not wanting to work—
A flag popped out of the end of the gun, inscribed with the wordbang.
“A joke,” Reece said out loud, like his racing heart cared. “Fake gun.Fake.”
He smashed the power button anyway, shutting off the television. He tossed the remote somewhere at the end of the couch as he flopped back against the cushions, the studio gone silent again, making his rapid breaths seem even louder.
Jesus. He couldn’t even handle a fake gun these days.
He flung out a hand toward the coffee table. Most people Reece met were sick of him within minutes; he couldn’t blame them, he was made of sarcasm and anxiety, it was an acquired taste. But Grayson had said he didn’t think Reece was annoying, had told him to text for any reason. And maybe Grayson had also said the Dead Man didn’t have friends, but Reece didn’t have friends either, except for Grayson now. He could send more bullshit texts, or reread old ones, or—something. Anything that reminded him that Grayson was alive and unhurt and would help.
As Reece’s hand closed around his phone, it buzzed with an incoming text. He raised it to his eyes.
Grayson: Housewarming gifts are customary.
His heart rate seemed to slow, just seeing Grayson’s words on-screen. He could almost pretend he could hear that drawl, even if Grayson couldn’t possibly believe Reece was actually that gullible.
Reece: Please. You just wanted to send me BEARS.
Grayson: Admittedly a bonus.
Reece cracked a smile. He let his head fall back against the couch, taking a few deep, slow breaths as he reread Grayson’s words. They made Reece feel less alone, even if he had no idea where Grayson actually was.
Reece: So where’s the Dead Man tonight?
Grayson: You know I’m not gonna tell you. Where I go is classified.
Reece: Can I guess? Are you at the graveyard? Hanging out with your zombie pals?
Grayson: You’re about as far off as you could be.
Reece furrowed his brow. What would Grayson think was the furthest thing from graves—oh. Of course.
Reece: Maybe sky-zombies are a thing. Zombies on a plane.
Grayson’s next message took a moment to come in, like he hadn’t expected Reece to get it right.
Grayson: You’re good at guessing games.
Reece was excellent at guessing games, thank you very much, not that he should be advertising that to the Dead Man.
Reece: Just got lucky.
Reece: So where are you flying to?
Grayson: You already got more than enough information for one night.
Reece: Night? It’s late afternoon by my watch. You’re on East Coast time, then?
Grayson: Care Bear. Be a good empath and stop guessing national secrets.
