Chapter 15 - It's the Little Things

— Mishka —

"Your bed is here," said John, pointing to a room the size of my closet with an uncomfortable-looking camping cot against one wall and a tall slim dresser next to it for only storage. One of the walls didn't even have paint on it.

I looked at the guy as if he was mocking me. For what I costed him, I would assume they have some cash at hand. So either this is extremely temporary, or they don't have as much as they should for soliciting someone of my caliber. I completely took the possibility of them saving up their cash off of the cards as it sounded too far-fetched even for me.

There was an alarm bell ringing in my head and I didn't like it.

"Dinner in thirty. You'll be briefed after," he added before he left. I gave the back of his head a gimlet stare.

I got inside the closet-room, and just took a few of my clothes out of my bag, and put them in the dresser for easy access. I sat on the bed, my bag next to me, and got a grenade out and began working on the tripwire I was going to put on my door.

On the up side, I don't have to booby trap my window, because there is none. This room is deliciously gloomy and dank.

I slid my bag under my bed, put my trap in place as I closed the door, and slammed a taped piece of paper to the door stating, "No room service or you go BOOM!" then sauntered to the dining hall with my hands in my pockets, whistling.

John, the leader of this ragtag little group, was sitting at the table, one hand on the shoulder of a younger guy, barely out of boyhood that was named Elijah.

I met a couple of the guys when I came in and so far, I'm not impressed.

But hey, what do I know? Maybe they're a bunch of crouching morons, hidden badasses.

I dropped my ass on one of the chairs and analyzed the place.

It looked mostly like some abandoned factory that was turned into a makeshift uni dormitory.

There was one Middle Eastern-looking guy sitting on the couch tinkering with a glock named Amir. His eyes were sharp, he looked like he knew what he was doing with that gun, but he wouldn't scan a room when he walks in, which either mean inexperience or complaisance.

There was a black dude name Westley next to him smoking a joint. Drug consumption and professionalism never go hand in hand, especially when it involves weapons.

The room was large, which is not the best for defence, but it could be worse. There was a lot of dirt-blackened windows, which is bad, but they were really high, which was slightly better, but there were a few tall buildings a few blocks away that could have a view in. Relying on grime in the windows for secrecy is generally not my policy.

The furniture was old, not too solid. Nothing to reliably hide behind in a shootout.

There was a man of a least partial Latino heritage cooking something that smelled like tacos, good tacos—which is one of the best redeeming points I can afford this crew so far—and his name was Mateo.

"Who's the wiseass with the 'no room service' sign on his door?" said a new guy coming in.

"That would be me," I said swaying on the back legs of my chair and hanging my head backwards to get a view of the guy.

He walked like ex-military, which was an improvement on the others, though probably out for awhile judging by the length of his beard.

"Boom?" he asked.

"Tripwire," I explained. "Grenade." That got everyone's attention.

"Why take the job if you don't trust us?" asked a second guy coming in. He was even blacker than Westley. And I don't just mean in skin colour. He was a walking rapper stereotype, with baggy clothes, and everything. And bling, so much bling. At least Westley was more casual. Maybe a little too casual even.

"Don't get flattered Pumpkin, I don't trust anyone. Besides, my last place got jumped. I decided it would be the last time I wouldn't take thorough precautions. The warning is there to make sure no good-intentioned busy-body gets blasted inadvertently. See. I'm all caring about you guys and everything."

"You think you're the shit or something?"

"Nah, 50 cents, I'm just very careful. And efficient. That's generally why people hire me."

"Hired huh?" said soldier-boy. "I'm Ethan. That's Mason."

"Cool," I said slamming the chair's legs back on the floor. Which seemed to annoy John.

I like annoying people. It's my favourite pastime.

"So … you're not all hired muscles, I suppose?" I asked.

"Nah, just me and you, pal," said Ethan. He called me pal and everything, but strangely, the word forgot to tell his face to mean it, I noticed.

So either I'm just being too obstreperous for him, or he has reasons. Which I will have to dig into.

Which is in big part why the attitude. It's a good way to gage people. You get a better reading at what a person is really made of, when put under pressure, than under a controlled environment.

That, and I also enjoy it.

It's the little things.

"So," I continued. "How many more guys?"

"Just Brett and Karl missing," Ethan said.

"Any women?"

"Sadly no."

"Shoot," I complained. "So a ten-man crew. Small. Is it for better sneaking around, or for lack of funds?"

"That doesn't concern you," said John.

I gave him a stare, but he was spared from more by tacos.

We ate quietly. Brett and Karl did join us eventually.

I couldn't wait to see what that job was about.

Oh, and in case you haven't noticed, I'm being sarcastic.

— Darren —

I was sitting in Zayn's living room, which was in a small apartment in the basement of his parents.

He, along with Malik and Tyson, were stunned into silence, which is a pretty rare feat. And generally I would have enjoyed this achievement, and teased them about it, but it was kinda hard to do when they were rendered speechless by my big reveal. My (apparently secret) mate and plans to leave.

We all had beers, but I was now the only one drinking mine, and doing so to ineffectively fill the awkward silence that stretched between us.

"Did you have any intention to tell us before you left?" asked Malik.

"Didn't I just do that?" I answered.

"When are you leaving?" asked Zayn.

"I don't know. Officially, my moving has not been confirmed by anyone."

"Unofficially?" asked Tyson.

"Unofficially, it's getting harder and harder not to consider going."

"So, you're leaving to join a rich and famous family, and their fancy pack," summarized Mal.

"That is not how I would have described it. And I have no idea about their financial situation."

"Maybe you could ask?" he said matter-of-factly.

"How about, maybe I could just pull my own weight, get a job, and make my own money."

"Dude, you don't get it. If she's rich, she's used to a certain lifestyle," he told me wisely. "I doubt you could keep up without Daddy Alpha's help."

"Please leave my father out of this."

"You really had a go at your father?" asked Zayn, shaking his head in disbelief. "Getting yourself a woman as grown you some serious balls man. Cast iron balls."

I winced. I stayed clear of my Dad for days. And going back to work has given me only additional excuses to stay away. I've grown since to dread the moment I will be confronted with the extent of damage I've caused.

I've kept my interactions with my brothers to a minimum, if at all, and I haven't dared talk to my Mom. I'm afraid she's going to find herself torn between my father and I, and I think she deserves better than this.

"She wants to meet you, you know," I blurted.

"Who?" asked Ty.

"Eva," I answered.

"Maybe we could go somewhere. Go to the Micro." He meant the microbrewery we generally hanged out at after school or work.

"Sounds good. Maybe you could bring Daniella," I told Mal.

"Man you've been out of touch. Daniella is out of the picture," said Ty. "Then there was Taylor—"

"Skylar," Mal interjected.

"—But she's gone too," continued Ty. "Now he's looking for her replacement which is probably gonna be either Scarlet, Alison or Blair."

"Nah," said Mal. "It might be a new one."

"What's her name?" asked Ty.

"Sierra."

"Don't you think you could call a few, share maybe, give us options?"

I decided to ignore the two idiots and turned to Zayn.

"How's it been with Christi?" I asked him.

"Not good. She met her mate."

I grimaced. "Is it over?"

"I don't know man. She's torn, and actually ghosting us both."

"Maybe she's just afraid to make a decision," I suggested.

"Doesn't change the facts."

"No, it doesn't," I conceded, while Ty and Mal were arguing about who had the most epic ass in the pack. We both looked at them, as the assholes they were. Eventually they felt the hostility and turned toward us.

"So," said Mal, with something in his tone that made me cringe at the prospect of whatever shit he was about to spout. "What about your girl's ass?"

"Continue that train of thought, and I'm gonna force you to shift to wax you bald."

He looked at me unmoving. After a few seconds, he grabbed his beer mumbling, "You're just not fun."

"Yeah man, I'm gonna miss you too," I told him. And I saw all of them come to the hard realization that we would truly be a part. Most of us have been hanging out since elementary school—middle school for Tyson—, and we've never been apart since for more than a couple of weeks. But this was all about to change.

"Won't you regret it?" asked Ty.

"No."

Zayn recognized the look. He'd been the one I'd talked to the most. He knew how I felt. How I've been waiting for an opportunity to leave for a while now. It's just that I never really motivated myself enough to make the jump.

"Maybe we'll visit," he told me, grabbing one of my shoulders in compassion, but not too long so we wouldn't get too emotional or anything, and we just all took a sip of beer in silence.