Page 54 of The Company

Chapter Twenty-One - James

I slam the bathroom door behind me and turn around.

“Fucking hell.” I’m presented with my face in the mirror. It’s the first time I’ve looked at myself in months. And I’m sorry I chose this moment to make the reacquaintance because I look every inch a killer.

My eyes are wild, my dark hair is longer than usual, and it’s got an unruly look. Like it’s putting up a resistance to the wind and the dust and the thousand miles I traveled since the last time I thought about it.

And my mouth—the same mouth that can kiss Harper in that soft and tender way, so foreign to me—looks severe. There’s a crease in my brow and lines around my eyes.

I punch the mirror and it cracks from the center outward. Blood drips from my hands.

There has never been a moment in the last twelve years where my hands were not soiled with blood. And no amount of hot desert air will ever dry it off.

Is this how Sasha saw me all day? Crazy? Am I crazy? The psych eval came back crazy. That’s why they sent me to the beach. “Unwind, James,” the Admiral said. “Relax.” And then his fucking daughter shows up. And that—that was not in the fucking plan.

At least I don’t think it was in the plan. I had a blackout around that time. I can remember the order to go to the beach, but then… nothing until that day I saw Harper for the first time. I’m pretty sure the blackout time can be counted in hours, not days. But I have no real proof. Life was a blur after Tony…

Adjust, the Tet voice inside me whispers. Adjust, James.

Why the fuck did I write that letter to Amber?

Why the fuck did I write that stupid fucking letter?

Why’d I write any of that shit?

“Fuck!” I punch the mirror again and this time pieces of it drop off and clatter into the sink.

I look at myself between the cracks.

A guy who’s pushing thirty, traipsing around the American West with a little girl, trying to get back to his child bride—even if she is all grown up now. It’s sick. And now Harper not only realizes she was given to me on her sixth birthday, but she knows I refused to accept the gift. And even if I could convince her that my rejection was for every altruistic reason imaginable—she was practically a baby, she was a bribe, she’s not a piece of property to be traded for favors—none of that matters anymore because I wrote that letter to Amber in the book and Harper read it. A pledge of revenge. A pledge to kill in her name.

A light knock comes from the door. “James?”

It’s Sasha. “What?” I seethe.

“Are you OK?”

“Go away,” I growl.

She leaves after that so I strip down, take a shower to try and wash this day off me.

Amber.

I don’t want to go there. I never want to go back there. The blur of the moment. The confusion. Tony.

Fucking Tony.

And Ford. How is that asshole still weaseling his way into my life? How do I talk about Amber without talking about Tony? And I can’t do any of that without fucking Ford.

I finish up with my shower and grow some balls. Two girls have me locked away in a bathroom. But as pathetic as that is, it makes me grin and eases my temper a little. Gives me some much-needed perspective. Shit, James, Tet says in my head, just put on your business suit, you pussy. Put on the suit and go to work. I can tell Harper anything she wants to know—it’s called a debrief.

I was debriefed after Tony and Amber and I held it together then.

No, asshole, Tet interjects, you got sent to the beach to unwind because you failed the fucking psych eval and then you blacked out.

Well, technically. Yes. But I turned off the emotions. Like always. I recalled every detail of the days leading up to that job. I told it just the way it happened.

And I can do it again.