Surviving Ice (Burying Water, #4)(42)

“Yes.”

“How many?”

“Too many.” I close my eyes, like I still have to sometimes when I let myself really consider that question. It’s easier now that I’m out, when Bentley hands me a specific target and gives me an order. I know it’s a verdict that isn’t being reached lightly because Bentley doesn’t treat casualties carelessly. Back when I was a SEAL and trudging through enemy territory with my team, guns trained, and adrenaline propelling my limbs forward, I never knew exactly where the danger would come from, and in what form. We were forced to make split-second decisions or risk death all the time. Self-preservation is a powerful and sometimes blinding need.

It was so easy to make a mistake.

“Why did you choose the reaper?”

The harbinger of death.

“Why do you think I chose it?”





SEVENTEEN


IVY


I’d like to think that all people put great weight into the designs they mark their bodies with. That they choose something symbolic, that represents their passions, their personality, their struggles. I think Sebastian reached deep within himself when deciding on this design. Given the brief glimpse into his past that he just allowed me, I’m beginning to wonder exactly how dark it is in there.

The second the question left my lips, the tension in his body rippled beneath my fingertips. I hit a nerve. That’s never my goal, and it’s why I’ve always stuck to small talk and ambiguous yes and no answers when conversation gets too personal.

I pause for a second to wipe the ink away. There’s no way to answer his question without making it sound like I think he’s f*cked-up.

“I’m starving. I’m gonna order pizza. You want some?”

“I could eat.” As if on cue, his stomach growls obnoxiously in my ear, making me smile. “And you need a rest, too.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“That’s because you’re stubborn.”

I smile. “I’ll have it delivered to our back door in fifteen minutes. I know the guy working tonight.” If I’m going to tolerate Fez, I can at least get something out of the deal. “What do you want on it?”

“Don’t care. Just no tomatoes of any kind.”

“No tomatoes of any kind?” I frown, pulling away from my work to look over my shoulder at his face. “You do know what pizza is, right?”

He lifts his head to look at me.

“You’re joking.”

“I’m joking,” he confirms with a playful smirk.

I climb off the table and, peeling off one glove, hit Fez’s number in my contacts list. Just like that, we’ve veered back into more comfortable territory. We’re also back to flirting.



The moment I open the back door and see Fez’s face, I regret ordering pizza from Pasquale’s.

“Yo, yo, yo! Here’s da za!” He holds up a medium-size pizza that can usually feed me for three days, but I’m guessing Sebastian has a much bigger appetite than I do.

I hand him a twenty. “Thanks, Fez. Keep the change.”

I’m hoping he takes the hint.

Fez never takes the hint. “So . . . you chillin’ tonight?”

“Doing a friend’s ink. We’re just taking a quick break to eat before we get back into it. We have another few hours or so to go.”

“Damn! You savage! A’right. Well, ima hang in here, then.” He attempts to step in but I block him.

“Sorry. This isn’t the kind of night for hanging out.” I can only imagine what Sebastian would think of Fez.

He snorts, like I made a joke, but when I don’t move, he finally clues in. “Serio?”

I heave a sigh of exasperation. “Fez! You’re thirty-five! Stop trying to talk like a fifteen-year-old half-wit. You don’t sound cool. You sound like an idiot!”

He frowns. “You be trippin’, gurl.”

“Fuck. I give up,” I mutter, shaking my head at him. There’s just no point having this conversation.

“Is that dinner?” Sebastian asks, suddenly behind me. I didn’t hear him coming. He’s as stealthy as I am.

“Yeah. Here.” I shove the box into his hands.

Fez’s left brow pops as he eyes the shirtless, pants-undone Sebastian. “Oh. I see how you playin’.”

I roll my eyes. “Fez, I’m serious. This is a friend, and I’m very clearly working on his tattoo. I’ve gotta get back to filling him in. Thank you for delivering.” I wait for him to step off the threshold before I shut the door.

“What was his problem?” Sebastian asks.

“You, likely . . .” I mutter, plucking the box from Sebastian’s hands because he’s not moving fast enough and I truly am starving. I toss it on the desk and rip off a slice, watching the cheese threads stretch and dangle and snap until it’s free.

“Please tell me you’ve never f*cked him.”

“Even suggesting that is an insult.” I savor my first bite. Fez’s parents really do make the best pizza in Outer Mission.

“Thank God,” he mutters, stepping into my personal space to collect his own slice. “What’s that for?” He nods toward the thirteen-inch monitor.