Page 79 of Zeus

He grins, or at least what might be mistaken as a grin. It looks more like a scowl, as if he's mildly disappointed I didn't drop the damn thing.

"It's a burner," he says as if he has to explain shit to me. "Any news?"

"Regina Banks is on the property. She's been hurt, but she's still up and walking around."

The left corner of his upper lip twitches, and that's what Cerberus sees in this man. He looks like he'd rather cut you off at the knees than shake your hand, but it's clear that, like the rest of us, he has a very low tolerance for people who hurt others, especially women and children.

"That it?" he growls, sounding more than a little disappointed.

"Cut me some fucking slack," I hiss, noting the surprise in his face that I have the balls to stand up to him.

I have no doubt this man could snap me like a fucking pretzel and enjoy every second of my cries of pain, but I won't be run over like a fucking deer in the headlights when it happens.

"We just got there yesterday," I continue. "The leader goes by Bobby, but I highly doubt that's his real name. We hit two cabins the night before last, another before that. We're getting guns and gear. They have a supply building right in the center of the compound. Just about everything they need to start a little revolution. Our task for today is to find an off-site house."

"Trap or girls?"

I shake my head. "I don't know yet."

He points to the pocket where I shoved the burner phone. "Use that when you do."

And with that, he walks out.

"Always a pleasure, motherfucker," I growl before locking the door and taking a piss.

Zeus is in the tiny waiting room, a small grocery bag in his lap, when I leave the bathroom, still drying my hands with a paper towel.

"Snacks?" I ask, pointing to the bag.

He opens the bag and pulls out three containers of different seasonings. I should've guessed the guy wasn't just using that shit as an excuse.

"Even Mrs. Dash can't help the food taste better when you have to choke it down around those fuckers," I mutter.

"Tell me about this place we're looking for," he requests, but his voice is harsh as if he's a two-pack-a-day smoker waiting to kick the bucket.

"It's—" I begin, but pause when the door to the shop opens.

"You're lucky that thing still drives," the man says as he hands over my keys.

"I count my blessings every day," I tell him as I pull out my wallet. "What do I owe you?"

"Your friend took care of it," he says, pointing to Zeus. "You're clear."

I notice the way he's looking at me, saying more with his eyes than his words.

"Thank you," I say.

"Until you're not," he urges. "Bring it back in if you have any more issues."

I pull in a deep breath, thanking him one last time before heading to the door. I pause with my hand on the push bar when he speaks again.

"I had a truck like that," he says. "She was stolen from me. We never found her. You're doing the right thing, taking such good care of the one you have. I should've paid more attention to the one I had."

When I look back at him, I notice the pain in his eyes and know immediately he isn't talking about a truck.

The world is a very small place, and the touch of pain, of loss, of victimization is always just a breath away, either your own personal suffering or the mistreatment of the person standing next to you on the street.

It happens too often to too many people, and it's my life goal to ease some of that for as many people as I can.