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He couldn't sink back into that pit of despair.
He had to do something this time. Anything.
Zach's eyes snapped open, landing on the bong. No. Getting high wouldn't help. For once in his goddamn life, he had to try and make a difference.
And this time, he knew someone who might be in his corner.
Chapter seven
Wyattsteppedoutintothe cold pre-dawn air, exhaling a plume of mist. He pulled his leather jacket tighter around himself as he strode down the empty sidewalk. The city had not yet begun to stir, the first hints of morning light only just peeking over the tops of the buildings.
His boots echoed on the sidewalk as he made his way to the dead drop location. Today it was a nondescript mailbox on a quiet street. He scanned his surroundings, alert for any signs of trouble. At this hour, though, the world was quiet.
As he walked past it, he casually opened the mailbox and retrieved a plain manila envelope that had been tucked inside.
Quickly pocketing the payment, Wyatt allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction. Another job completed, another satisfied customer. He was good at what he did, and the envelope of cash in his pocket was proof of that.
When Wyatt was out of the area, able to stop being on high alert for trouble, he relaxed. Free to wander, his thoughts turned to Zach.
The feisty punk had gotten under Wyatt's skin. Wyatt couldn't stop thinking about their encounter, the way Zach had guided Wyatt's hands to his throat and egged him on, wanting to be choked.
It was clear the kid was damaged. Wyatt felt a swell of protectiveness and dominance towards Zach, even as he acknowledged it was pointless to care. Zach had snapped at him when Wyatt had shown a hint of care — a sign that Wyatt wasn't just after a warm hole to come into.
But still, Wyatt frowned at the thought of Zach's wounds. He'd grown up taming dogs, and in some fucked-up way, this was no different. Something inside of him longed to shelter the kid, take control and force him to submit — getting him to drop his shields and accept Wyatt's dominance. His protection.
Wyatt took care of what was his, after all.
But he knew that Zach was too wild, too feral to accept that.
After getting too personal during their encounter, Wyatt knew he'd likely never see Zach again. He'd seen the way that Zach's eyes had shuttered, his shields slamming shut. Now, the kid had slipped through his fingers, disappearing back into the city. Wyatt sighed, the memory of Zach's defiant eyes and wicked smirk etched into his mind.
With a gruff grunt, Wyatt pushed thoughts of Zach from his thoughts. It was best not to dwell on impossibilities.
Still, as the sun began to crest over the cityscape, Wyatt found his thoughts returning unbidden to Zach's eyes, full of challenge — and of pain.
Wyatt made his way through the streets, half enjoying the long walk, half testing to see if he was being tailed. But there was no-one following him, just the early dawn peace surrounding him.
When he got back to his place, though, someone had been at his apartment. He paused as he opened the door, cautious and on alert for signs of intrusion.
A scribbled piece of paper had been shoved underneath his door, a messy message scrawled in pen.
Even before Wyatt read the message, he knew whose handwriting that had to be.
Wyatt stared down at the paper — and then, with a frown, read it again.
Be at Joey's Pizza at nine. Don't be late.
Wyatt huffed out a breath, equal parts irritation and intrigue swirling through him. What was that kid thinking, summoning him like this? After Zach had stormed out, Wyatt had been certain he'd never hear from him again.
And yet here was this cryptic message, demanding he show up at Zach's workplace first thing in the morning. Wyatt felt a spark of annoyance. He didn't take orders from anyone, especially not some scrawny twenty-something with more attitude than sense.
But he did like their pizza. Nice crust.
He checked his watch. He could make nine, easy.
He just hoped that he wasn't making a mistake.
As the pizza joint came into view, Wyatt slowed, one hand on his concealed gun. Not knowing what to expect, he hadn't known what to bring — thanks, kid — so he'd gone with some old faithful fallbacks. Nothing fancy.
