Generation Kill AU - You Will Be For Me and I Will Fight For You (Brad Colbert/Nate Fick, NC-17, 2/4
Part I
You Will Be For Me and I Will Fight For You
Twenty minutes later, Brad's in the passenger seat of a silver Volvo sedan driving through a city he's never been in before. Brad can tell it's a weekday because the people on the streets are dressed for work. There are joggers, people pushing strollers. Dogs tied to metal bike stands.
There are brick houses, large buildings with flags that almost look like embassies. They drive through a winding, tree-laden park. Brad looks at the license plates of passing cars. Washington D.C. Maryland. Virginia. Texas. Connecticut. California. Can't people make up their minds? Where the hell are they?
They drive past an indoor tennis facility, past more large houses made of stone and brick.
It's all pedestrian, but it's been so long since Brad's seen signs of everyday life that he feels almost euphoric. The people here have lawns. Nobody in L.A. has a real front lawn. Even in Beverly Hills.
They're driving down 16th Street.
16th Street Northwest.
Northwest where?
They pass a sign for Walter Reed Army Medical Center. The only Walter Reed Medical Center in the country is in Washington D.C. Ten minutes later there's another sign that says Welcome to Maryland.
Well, that explains his plane trip. This is getting more interesting all the time.
In the seat beside him, Nate's wearing gray aviator sunglasses and rapping along to some atrocity blaring out of the speakers. "Don't you have any real music?" Brad says as they stop for a light across from an Einstein Brothers Bagels.
An eyebrow rises above Nate's frames. "Jay-Z is real music."
Brad scoffs. "Air Supply is real music. Yes. Journey. Guns N'Roses. Chicago. America. That is real music."
"Real music made when we were in diapers."
"Maybe when you were in diapers."
"You're only two years and three months older than me," Nate says. "If you want to argue about potty training feel free."
They pass the offices for Discovery Channel, which have an enormous mural painted along the side. The AFI Theater. A public library.
Brad grumbles in his seat until Nate's iPod makes a whirring noise and Belinda Carlisle starts singing that she's mad about you. At this, Brad has to laugh.
A hint of color floods Nate's cheeks, but he doesn't say anything as they merge onto 495 East.
Belinda Carlisle becomes The Beatles becomes Run DMC. "Are you having some sort of identity crisis?" Brad asks with a degree of concern.
"Diversity of choice, you should try it."
"Choice requires being given a choice."
"I gave you a choice."
"Jail or Section. That's some choice."
"Some people would kill for your choice."
"If you guys have your way, I will be killing for my choice."
Nate winces. "Poor selection of words, I apologize."
Brad doesn't reply, choosing instead to watch the flow of traffic around them. He's used to seeing flashier cars: Benzes, Beemers, Porsches, the occasional Ferrari. Everything here seems much more provincial. Practical.
There's more rap Brad doesn't recognize from the speakers, a girl singing about Oedipus Rex and some country music that Brad takes very loud exception to. Finally Nate punches at his iPod several times until the listing for genres coughs up everything listed under the 80s.
Two seconds later, Nate takes an exit for 95 North and nearly gets broadsided by a tractor trailer. He doesn't seem to notice, Brad just shakes his head. "If you want to die in a fiery crash, don't take me with you."
"At some point we're going to have to give you combat driving lessons," Nate says conversationally.
"Are those lessons really going to matter if we get killed by a Mack truck?"
"You sound like Ray."
Brad rubs a hand over the fine stubble left on his scalp. "Is Ray okay?"
Nate changes lanes. "Why wouldn't Ray be okay?"
"I'll cause you less trouble if you don't insult my intelligence."
"Ray's fine. He's back in the office, working on comms and driving Walt crazy. Par for the course."
"It's not his fault."
Nate turns off his iPod. "What's not his fault?"
Brad unfastens his seat belt so he can take off his jacket. He's hot and feels confined. He tosses the jacket in the back, refastens his seat belt and tries to get comfortable. "How long is this trip?"
"What's not Ray's fault?" Nate repeats.
"You kept me locked up in a basement for months. I lived on food in plastic pouches and never got to go outside. I couldn't - I can't live like that. I wasn't trying to leave, I just wanted some air."
"You could've just said you wanted to go outside."
"And what department of customer service was I supposed to direct that request to?" Brad sneers. "The one that wouldn't even let me have a toothbrush for six weeks? I haven't even had real food since I left L.A."
"I'll try and make that up you," Nate says.
"Try real hard." Brad says tersely.
"I always do."
I-95 is buffeted on both sides by trees, and when they take an exit for Baltimore-Washington International airport that doesn't change. There's no doubt where Brad is now. With the exception of a few condos, the area by the airport is heavily forested. Except that Nate doesn't take Brad to the airport; instead, they take an exit for Linthicum.
"I thought that said Lithium," Brad says as they turn from 195 onto a road that clearly hasn't been repaved in a long time.
"How do you think I remember where I'm going?" Nate says as they pass by a sign for Amtrak and a series of small homes. After another three or four miles, Nate turns down a road leading to what could be considered an industrial area. There are only a handful of businesses, but there are plenty of trees and absolutely no houses.
They drive for some time until they hit a fork in the road. The area now appears utterly undeveloped except for the dirt road they're on. Brad starts to have second thoughts about whether or not Nate's going to kill him.
There are no signs of any kind, but Nate clearly knows where they're going.
And then out of nowhere they're passing along a heavily manicured hedge. Nate takes an abrupt left turn and Brad inhales. They're heading up a paved road in the middle of some sort of vast property. Brad can't really call it a yard since it's probably about an acre on either side of the road.
It takes them almost ten minutes to reach the house. Although, "house" isn't necessarily the right word. Mansion might be better. The structure, whatever it is, is all dark brick and enormous windows. There are flowers and shrubbery. It reminds Brad of Leah's Barbie house when she was seven.
There's a circular drive which Nate takes right up to the front door before cutting the engine. Brad leans forward in his seat to look past Nate. "Where are we?"
Nate pushes his sunglasses high on his head. "We're alone. If you want to kill me, now's your chance."
Brad's just going to assume Nate's joking. "I couldn't kill you," he complains. "You're the only one who knows where the hell we are."
Nate chuckles as he gets out of the car. "There is that. Want to see your home for the foreseeable future?"
Brad climbs out of the car and stretches, feeling the sun on his face. There's that humidity that he felt the last time he was outside, but it's more oppressive here. The property is beautiful, though; he can't even see the main road from here.
Nate grabs two duffel bags from the backseat and Brad follows him up the stairs as Nate opens the door and drops the bags in the foyer. There's a persistent beeping noise that turns out to be the security system, and Brad watches Nate curse under his breath as he tries to turn it off.
"Is it really that hard?" Brad says, coming to his side.
The keypad has twelve open spots on the LED screen and Brad whistles low. "You have to know all of these?"
"Shut up," Nate demands sharply.
The alarm rockets up several decibels and Brad covers his ears. "Shit shit shit," Nate chants punching in numbers. He seems honestly agitated. This is new.
Finally, the alarm stops blaring and Brad uncovers his ears. "Wow."
Nate rests his forehead against the wall. "There are a couple things you need to know about the house. One of them is that the security system is rigged to several blocks of C4 in the basement to prevent unwanted house guests taking up residence."
Brad narrows his eyes. "You're lying."
Nate turns his head to look at Brad.
He's not lying.
"Okay," Brad says thoughtfully. "I'm sleeping in the car."
Nate clears his throat and stands upright. "You do that," he says, grabbing a duffel bag and heading up the stairs. "But people who sleep in the car don't get to use the pool or the jacuzzi."
Nate pauses on the stairs and turns back around. "And they eat MREs."
"I hate you," Brad says with full sincerity.
Nate grins broadly. "I know."
Brad throws up his hands in defeat. "Fine. You win."
"I know," Nate repeats. "Get changed, we're going running in fifteen minutes."
"I don't have any shoes."
"There are three pairs in your bag."
"When did you - never mind."
Nate's eyes shine with amusement.
"Did I already say I hate you?" Brad asks. "I feel like I haven't said that enough."
"I'm sure you'll say it a lot more."
When Nate said they were going running, he meant that he was going to try and kill Brad by running him into dehydration, various creeks, riverbeds, pebbles and sheer exhaustion.
Running ten miles full tilt with Rudy on the treadmill in the morning is nothing like running ten miles full tilt in Maryland humidity in the middle of the afternoon. By the time they get back to the house, Brad's blisters have blisters and he's so covered in sweat even his socks are soaked.
He collapses on his back on the gray slate tile in the foyer and closes his eyes. The tiling is cool against his sunburned skin. The only thing he can hear is his own breathing and the hum of the central air.
Something pokes his ankle. "No."
"You don't even know what I was going to say," Nate protests.
Brad opens his eyes and looks directly at Nate. Nate's hair is plastered to his forehead and there's sweat dripping from his chin. There's no reason for Brad to find this even remotely attractive. "No."
Nate shrugs and pulls his shirt over his head, dropping it on the floor with a wet plop. "Fine," he says. "Your loss."
There's a smudge of black ink under Nate's arm running perpendicular to his ribs, but since Brad's lying on his back, he's not really in the right position to make out what it is.
Ten minutes later Brad opens his eyes and looks at the chandelier overhead. He wonders what it was Nate was going to say. He decides it doesn't matter as he unplasters himself from the tiling and climbs the stairs to the second floor.
There are several bedrooms on the second floor; Brad chose the one that didn't have white walls, a single bed and a chair bolted to the floor. Instead he chose the room with the white walls, king-sized sleigh bed with the mahogany headboard and the navy-blue leather armchair.
He also has his own shower.
The duffel bag Nate brought for him doesn't have much besides his books, workout clothes and shoes, but the dresser drawers are full of clothes with tags on them and they're all in Brad's size. When he opens the closet doors there are more clothes, also in his size. There are four other rooms not including the one Nate chose; the likelihood that he was going to choose this room is 1 in 6.
He goes next door to see if the closet is full of clothes. It's not.
The drawers are empty in the yellow bedroom, the green bedroom, the blue bedroom and the sand-colored bedroom.
Fine, Section wins.
Brad strips in the hallway, leaving a trail of clothes back to his room. If Nate can make a mess, so can he.
He heads directly for the bathroom, making a sharp detour when he hears something that sounds a lot like splashing.
Brad crosses the room and looks out his window. There's a pool in the backyard, and Nate's currently partaking.
Brad watches as Nate cuts a swath through turquoise water, his arms churning efficiently as he touches the edge of the pool, flips under water and goes back.
It's hypnotic.
Brad's dick twitches in interest, filling slowly until Brad takes himself in hand and begins to stroke with intent.
Brad thumbs the head of his cock, pressing the slit and trying to remember the last time he was able to jerk off in peace. Without cameras or Ray whistling in the other room, without being in a hurry to just get it done. He's been recycling standard fantasy material: big tits, wet pussy, large pricks, the faceless bodies and nameless partners that sex tends to blend into after enough exposure.
This is something new.
Pale skin and flushed cheeks. A tattoo along a perfectly defined torso. An ass that Brad might be willing to follow anywhere.
Nate's back glows in the sun, and Brad counts as Nate swims his laps: stroke, stroke, breathe, stroke, stroke, breathe...
Brad finds himself stroking his dick in time with Nate's motions, exhaling when Nate exhales.
He imagines he can smell the chlorine from the pool, feel the coolness of the water rushing over his sunburned back. The precome smeared over his palm and fingers is too warm. Nate's hands are probably cold now, his skin clammy, damp to the touch.
His mouth would be hot though, slick and sticky.
Brad can feel those long fingers rolling his balls, sliding between his legs and opening him up, finding his prostate. The thrust of those fingers, the way they would stroke and stretch and take.
He can just imagine Nate's tongue pressing against the underside of his cock, the smirk when Brad shot all over his face. Or maybe it's the arch of Nate's back when Brad's fucking him, the way he'd be greedy, demanding more. Faster. Harder. Fuck, c'mon.
Brad wants to shoot his load all over Nate Fick's ass. His chest. His thighs.
Brad comes thinking of Nate licking away Brad's spunk from the corners of his mouth.
He gets semen all over the bedroom window.
In the pool below, Nate keeps swimming blissfully unaware.
Brad looks down at the white mess and snorts. He'll clean it up later.
It occurs to him that this room probably has cameras in it, too. He hopes Nate enjoys the show.
After his shower Brad plans to explore the house. Instead he climbs into bed, still wet from his shower, and falls asleep. He wakes up to a soft knocking on his door. "Brad?"
Brad grumbles and rolls over.
Nate opens the door. His hair is damp, but he's dressed in a green T-shirt that says Dartmouth in faded letters and a pair of khaki shorts. "Dinner," he says before disappearing.
Brad rubs his eyes and climbs out of bed. He scrounges in the dresser for briefs and yanks tags off of a pair of plaid board shorts and a plain white T-shirt. The skin on his back is tight, throbbing with sunburn. Brad decides to forgo the shirt.
He can smell dinner the minute he leaves his bedroom, there's butter and spices and a sweetness he can't quite place. He takes the carpeted stairs two at a time, practically jogging through house until he finds the kitchen located off of the dining room.
The kitchen is enormous, full of stainless steel appliances, a large island for preparing food and white cabinets with glass doors. It reminds him a little of his mom's kitchen growing up, except this kitchen could have twenty people cooking in it and Brad would still have room left over to skateboard on the black-and-white marble floor.
There's a rectangular wooden table by the window that overlooks the pool in the backyard. The table is set and on it are two plates piled high with food. Brad gapes at Nate. "When did you cook this?"
"You've been sleeping for a while," Nate says, sitting down at the head of the table with a beer.
Brad covets Nate's bottle of Sapporo openly. "Do I get one or is this part of my deprivation training?"
Nate waves towards the fridge. "Help yourself."
"Did you spike the beer?"
"Are you planning on running away?"
"No."
"Then I don't see why I'd have to drug you. Besides, I wouldn't screw up good beer with a sedative."
Brad opens the refrigerator and is hit with an overload of choice: there are four different kinds of beer. The fridge is also stuffed with packages of chicken, beef and fish, overflowing produce bins, milk, juice, eggs and bacon. "God, I've missed bacon," he says reverently.
Nate chuckles. "I though Hebrew law had some ideas about pork."
"I'm an atheist, I don't give a shit," Brad says, grabbing a bottle of Heineken and another of Red Stripe. The bottles are frosty in the palm of his hand.
He drops down at the place setting on Nate's right and looks at the food before him. "I'm going to eat it, but what is it?" he asks, picking up the bottle opener and popping the top on his Heineken.
"Red Snapper in a herb butter sauce, spicy green beans and rosemary potatoes. There are homemade peanut butter cookies for desert."
"You're just full of surprises aren't you?" Brad says, picking up his fork.
"Try this surprise on for size: you're not going to eat anything until you put a shirt on."
Brad points his fork at Nate. "Are you fucking with me?"
Nate looks from Brad to his fork and back. "Don't start something you don't want me to finish."
"I don't fucking believe you."
"In this house you act like you have some home training. Go put on a shirt."
"Are you just that attracted to me that you can't control yourself if I'm not dressed?"
Nate makes a dismissive noise. "Hardly. Shirt. Now."
Brad glowers.
"If you want your food to get cold, that's your business," Nate says.
Brad takes a defiant swig of his beer before pushing back his chair with a shriek of wood on marble, going back to his room and retrieving his shirt. Asshole.
Nate's already eating by the time Brad comes back. Brad sits down with a lot of extra noise, picks up his fork and devours the food. It's good. No, it's better than good. It's orgasmic. It's possible he says that between bites of fish.
Nate smirks, his mouth slick from the beer in his hand. "It's not a race. I promise there's more."
Brad grunts through a mouth full of potatoes.
Nate cuts him off after his second helping.
"What are you, my mom?" Brad protests as Nate blocks his way to the fish.
"Worse, I'm your handler; and I didn't bring any Pepto-Bismol for when you get sick from being a greedy pig after living on MREs, so just have a cookie and deal with it."
Brad doesn't sulk, but he does eat five cookies and winds up feeling dangerously full. He also does the dishes without being asked. When he's done, he wanders through various rooms until he finds Nate standing before a wall of books in a room with camel-colored leather furniture and several flags and swords on the wall.
"No Wii, huh?" Brad says, standing alongside Nate and studying the bulging shelves. Military history, American history, Middle Eastern history, Asian history, historical fiction, science fiction, Cervantes, Plato, Horace, Machiavelli, Aristotle. It just goes on and on.
"No," Nate says.
"No PS3?"
"No."
"No Wi-Fi?"
"For you?" Nate mocks incredulously. "Absolutely not."
"So what are we supposed to do?"
"You can read. Or there are board games."
Brad grins. "I can think of a game we can play."
Nate laughs uproariously. "Worst line ever."
"What? It worked all the time in L.A."
"I don't know if you've noticed this, but you're not in L.A. anymore."
"Yeah, I was starting to get that idea."
Nate turns towards Brad. "How are you at chess?"
Nate wakes him up in the middle of the night. "You have 45 seconds to get ready to run."
Brad closes his eyes in the darkness; every muscle in his body is aching from their run the day before. He doesn't want to do this. He shakes it off, opens his eyes again and climbs out of bed. It's still pitch black outside.
Nate's waiting for him by the front door. The light from the chandelier is luminous and hurts Brad's eyes.
Nate hands Brad a black headband with various gadgets attached.
Brad studies it suspiciously. "What is it?"
"Your night-vision goggles," Nate says, turning off the lights and opening the front door. "Let's go."
The goggles are unwieldy. Brad has to adjust them as he's chasing after Nate, who's running like the sun is out and he has the vision of a hawk. He probably does.
There's no depth perception with the goggles though, and Brad finds himself misjudging distances and nearly colliding with Nate twice.
They sprint across the front yard toward the main road and then Nate doubles back and they wind up running towards the back of the property. Suddenly Nate disappears through the hedges.
When they did this yesterday afternoon at least Brad could see what was up ahead, today all he can do is follow Nate's lead.
By the time they get back from their run, the sun is up and Brad's starving. He showers and pulls on his training clothes. He has no idea what they're doing today, but he highly doubts it'll be rescuing kittens or practicing their cross stitch.
There's nobody in the kitchen, but through the kitchen window he can see Nate in the pool. Brad opens the refrigerator and pulls out everything that could be considered breakfast food.
When Nate walks in, Brad's working his way through three scrambled eggs, half a package of bacon, coffee, milk, orange juice and a bowl of Cheerios. There are rivulets of water running down Nate's chest, he's half hidden by the towel he's using to dry his hair and he's at the wrong angle for Brad to see his tattoo.
Dammit.
He raises an eyebrow when he sees Brad's meal. "Hungry?"
Brad's answer is to stuff a piece of bacon into his mouth. He watches as Nate hangs the towel around his neck before he pulls a blender from one of the cabinets, plugs it in and then retrieves several pieces of fruit out of the fridge.
Nate drops two apples, an orange, a banana, a couple different kinds of berries and some white powder in the blender and hits puree.
"Is that all you're going to eat?" Brad asks as Nate dumps his shake into a glass.
Nate carries his shake over to the table and steals a piece of Brad's bacon. "No."
After breakfast, Nate showers while Brad cleans up, and just as Brad's starting to get restless, Nate reappears in an olive green T-shirt and matching shorts.
The shirt says "Fick" in block letters across the sternum.
"Let's go," Nate says, motioning for Brad to follow him through the dining room and out the double doors that lead to the backyard.
For the first time, Brad gets to see the jacuzzi that's also located on the terrace. There's no time to admire it, because Nate's jogging down the stairs to the back lawn where he makes a sharp turn to his right.
There's a storage shed built onto the side of the house that Nate opens with a biometric scanner. Brad wonders if anything having to do with Section has an old-fashioned key. Nate disappears inside only to reemerge seconds later with a huge, round bale of straw covered with a bulls-eye.
And a bow and a bucket of arrows.
He hands Brad the bale of straw. "Follow me," he says, striding out towards the open lawn.
When Nate stops, Brad stops, but Nate waves him on. "Keep walking."
So Brad keeps walking.
When Brad's about forty yards away, Nate calls for Brad to set the target down.
Brad takes his time walking back until Nate looks down at the watch on his wrist. "For every second you waste I'm adding another mile to the morning run."
Brad moves a lot faster after that. When he gets back to Nate, Nate holds out the bow. "Ever used one of these before?"
"Not since the last time I was living in Sherwood Forest," Brad replies.
Nate shakes his head, but Brad can see the hint of a smile. "You have an idea of what you're supposed to do with it, though?"
"A long, hard piece of wood. I have some ideas."
"Brad." Nate's tone is indulgent, his mouth twitching.
"I assume I'm supposed to hit the target, but I've been wrong before."
"You were wrong?" Nate asks. "When was that?"
"Some time in my teens, but puberty confuses everyone," Brad concedes.
"Yeah, I heard that," Nate says, handing Brad several arrows from the basket.
"Are you telling me The Great Nate Fick never had an awkward period?"
Nate smirks, and as Brad watches, Nate turns until he's perpendicular to the target, takes an arrow from Brad's hand and notches it on the bow string. Nate squints slightly and then lets the arrow go.
The thud of the arrow hitting the target echoes across the lawn. Nate didn't just hit the bulls-eye, he hit it dead center.
"I had an awkward period once," Nate admits, lowering the bow, "but it only lasted until the end of homeroom."
Brad has to laugh.
"All right, Robin Hood," Nate says, swapping the arrows in Brad's hand for the bow. "Your turn."
The bow is a lot bigger than it looks. Heavier too. Brad holds it up and practices pulling on the bowstring. The muscles in his arm quiver as he releases the bowstring again and again. "Don't you think this is a little old school for our oppressive regime?"
"Oppressive regime," Nate repeats. "Have you been spending too much time with Poke?"
"You have to admit he has a point about the U.S. government."
"Who said anything about the government?"
Brad gives Nate a look. "Am I going to be on horseback, is that what this is about?"
"Walk before you gallop," Nate says, handing him an arrow.
Brad studies the arrow, the blunt head and the small notch in the back. He uses the notch to hook the arrow into the bowstring before turning his body in an imitation of Nate's pose. He can feel Nate's eyes on him as he lets the arrow go.
The arrow bounces out of Brad's grasp and lands in the grass.
Nate covers his mouth with the back of his free hand.
Brad scowls and grabs another arrow. On his second attempt the arrow goes about a five feet.
"Better," Nate says supportively.
Brad glowers. "What the hell is the point in this?"
"To improve your aim."
Brad takes the last arrow in Nate's hand. "Rifles and bows - I can see the similarity."
"Archery forces you to focus," Nate explains. "You have to take into account the wind, the weather, the way the arrow rises and falls when you breathe. Always fire on the exhale."
Brad grumbles in the back of his throat even as he notches the arrow and tries to focus on his breathing. Out. In. Out. Let go.
The arrow flies through the air before bouncing off the corner of the target and disappearing into the grass.
Nate shields his eyes from the sun. "Much better."
"Well, if all the guns in the world suddenly vanish one morning, at least we're covered."
"I wouldn't go that far."
"I hit the target," Brad protests.
"Yes, you hit it and it bounced off."
"Don't bring up old shit."
Brad practices his archery for almost three hours under the mid-morning sun, growing progressively more frustrated as the sun rises higher in the sky, blinding his attempts to aim. Nate watches him attentively. Occasionally, he corrects Brad's grip or nudges Brad's head higher with a finger under Brad's chin. Every time Nate touches him, Brad's aim goes to shit.
At noon, they go inside for lunch.
After lunch, Nate takes Brad to the library and sits him at a large oak table that looks out over the back lawn. Brad's ready for it when Nate drops several textbooks on the table. And when Nate drops two weeks worth of Le Monde and Le Figaro on top of them. He can't be fluent without practicing. However, he's not expecting the additional three atlases that are almost as big as the table.
"Know thine enemy," Nate quotes. "Or at least know their climate, most populous cities, number one export, most used dialects and a brief overview of their history, political and religious struggles and the current government."
Brad's mouth drops open a little bit.
Nate gazes at Brad serenely. "Yes, Brad?"
"Which countries?"
"All of them."
"On which continent?" Brad asks incredulously.
"Well, you could assume every continent except Antarctica, but I wouldn't assume anything when it comes to Management."
Brad stares.
"It's not that bad," Nate says as he drops down in one of the armchairs with a small leather bound book. "There are only two-hundred and fifty-seven countries at the moment."
After four hours, Brad's only on country #5: American Samoa.
When Nate gets up and wanders off, Brad drops his head down on page 20 of the World Atlas 2009. He can do this, but fuck is it tedious.
He looks up when someone coughs.
Nate's holding a glass of milk, a plate of cookies and a banana which he sets down on page 21.
"Dinner is in two hours," he says. "I expect you to sing me the national anthem of Anguilla over dessert."
Nate chokes on the brownies they have for dessert, almost falling out of his chair laughing as Brad sings, "God Bless, Anguilla."
Brad's a little tone deaf. Also, he has no idea of the song's rhythm so it's really just a musical massacre.
After dinner, they return to the backyard where Nate retrieves a gray case from the storage shed. Inside are knives and Chinese throwing stars. Brad can feel the glee spread all over his face. Nate chuckles. "This is what we call positive reinforcement. If you behave, you get to play."
Brad picks up one of the throwing stars, pricking his ring finger on the sharp edge. He ignores the smear of blood, focusing on holding the star just the way Rudy taught him before flinging it at the archery target.
He hits the circle just outside the bulls-eye.
Nate nods in approval. "Good."
The next several days are just like the first: night runs, archery, studying, dexterity skills. After Brad gets accustomed to the pattern, Nate changes it. Brad studies in the morning, runs in the afternoon under the brutal sun and then practices his archery and knife skills.
At one point Nate takes Brad out running as the sun sets, and then, once it's dark, he blindfolds Brad and forces him to follow Nate's voice eight miles home.
Two days later, Nate ties Brad to a tree, handcuffs his wrists and times how long it takes him to get free.
The day after that, two trampolines appear in the back yard. According to Nate, jumping from trampoline to trampoline is how Brad's going to learn how to manage his landings.
"Landings from what?" Brad asks.
"Sometimes you may have to leave a job suddenly."
Brad narrows his eyes. "You mean I may have to jump out of windows."
"Or moving cars."
"You are so full of shit," Brad says. Nate stands there placidly. Brad stares. "You're fucking serious, aren't you?"
"This isn't the kind of thing you want to learn on the job," Nate says.
"I hate you."
"I know."
Brad loves jumping on the trampolines. He hates trying to figure out how to jump off the trampolines without killing himself. After he's dismissed from his afternoon in hell, Brad strips off his shirt, kicks off his shoes and jumps directly into the swimming pool.
He hasn't really had a chance to use the pool yet between his morning training and his afternoon training and his middle-of-the-night training. He does several laps, reveling in the coolness of the water, diving down to the bottom and dragging his fingers along the smooth concrete.
When he finally surfaces, Nate's sitting at the edge of the pool, his feet in the water. "You're good," he says.
Brad swims over, resting his forearms on the ledge next to Nate. "You're not so bad yourself." A beat. "I've been watching you."
Nate just nods. His face is pink in the Maryland sun. There's sweat dotting his upper lip.
"Are you coming in?" Brad asks.
Nate shakes his head. "No, thanks. I hate swimming."
"That doesn't even make any sense. You swim all the time."
Nate's legs move lazily through the water. "I grew up here, in Baltimore. Every summer we used to go on vacation to the Eastern Shore -- Ocean City - with some family friends, the Harrisons. The summer before fifth grade, their son, Jeremy, drowned when were out swimming. I've been pretty anti-swimming since then."
Brad pushes himself out of the pool, sending a rush of water all over the place, including onto Nate. Nate doesn't seem to care.
"If you hate swimming so much then why the hell do you do it?" Brad asks, settling next to Nate and shielding his eyes from the sun so he can see Nate better.
"I had to get over it when I joined Section," Nate says. "It's just one of those things."
Brad looks down at where his thigh is pressed alongside Nate's. "Oh," is all he says.
Nate has culinary skills Brad never could've imagined.
They have Cornish game hens with a lemon herb butter one night and tilapia with a spinach pecan pesto on another. Brad makes obscene noises over Nate's gnocchi with spinach and sausage, and belches obscenely after the pepper-crusted lamb chops in a red wine sauce.
Belching is a sign of approval to Bengalis. (At least that's what Brad told Nate the Atlas said).
There are blueberry muffins for breakfast and oatmeal raisin cookies for dessert. And after Nate cooks, Brad cleans. That's the unspoken agreement.
They're in the kitchen one night, Brad's cleaning up after the steak and asparagus Nate fixed for dinner, and Nate's sitting at the kitchen table drinking Grolsch beer and eating two of the vanilla cupcakes he made yesterday. "Where's all this food coming from?" Brad asks.
"The house has a caretaker. He takes care of the groceries and maintenance."
"How come I've never seen him?"
"Because he's not paid to be seen."
"Is he the one who picked out all my clothes?"
Nate's cheeks flush with color. "No, that was me. Why, is there a problem?"
Brad smirks down at the pan he's scrubbing. "No, no problem," Brad says. Well, except that Brad isn't sure there are enough hours in the day for all the jerking off he wants to do while thinking about Nate choosing clothes for him to wear.
He cuts a glance at Nate and wonders if Nate does the same thing. Jacking off while thinking about Brad wearing the clothes he chose.
It seems pretty archaic, being dressed by someone else, but apparently it makes Nate happy. And that gets Brad off.
Most of what Brad wears are workout clothes, but there are plenty of board shorts and T-shirts. There are hoodies and jeans, and Brad's pretty sure there are a few suits in his closet as well.
This also means that Nate picked out Brad's underwear. There's no reason for this to make him flush, but he does all the same.
He gets over it by flicking a handful of soap suds at Nate, who looks up in consternation. "What?"
"Am I getting paid?" Brad asks.
He has no idea where that came from.
Nate's apparently taken off guard, too. "Do you think you should be? We clothe you, feed you and train you. What do you need money for?
"Retirement."
"You're talking about retirement? You haven't even started work yet."
Brad rinses the pot and sticks it in the drainer. "I'll never be able to get another job," he points out. "Not now."
"I don't know about that. I heard you were pretty handy with computers."
"That's just what my records say," Brad replies, scrubbing several pieces of flatware. "You don't know if it's true."
"Yes, I do. You've done informational searches for me."
Brad's so startled he gets stabbed by a fork. "I have?"
Nate licks frosting from the corner of his mouth. "Did you ever read the copy of The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo I gave you?"
Brad blinks. "Yeah, I did. It was something else."
Nate's licking his fingers now. "Well, you're my Lisbeth Salander."
Brad laughs. "I'm your motorcycle-riding, kick-ass, emotionally stunted computer hacker who beats up sadistic captains of industry with a golf club?"
Nate grins. "Pretty much."
"I think you just gave me a compliment."
"I think you're right."
Brad's is so pleased it's almost shameful. He rolls his eyes at his own inane behavior. "When I was reading it I kept thinking about this client I used to have," he says, changing the subject. "Prometheus. He always wanted the strangest shit."
"Prometheus? The guy who stole fire from Zeus and gave it to man?"
Brad raises an eyebrow.
Nate picks at his remaining cupcake. "I like Greek mythology."
"Is there anything you don't like?"
"Brussel sprouts. Olives. Extreme cold. People who can't admit it when they fuck up. Golf." Brad laughs. "I cut you off though," Nate apologizes. "You were telling me about your client."
"Yeah, Prometheus. He was something else. One time he wanted the hypothetical trajectories of certain North Korean satellites. Another time it was mirrored hard-drives of random people, like the head of NBC. Once he wanted a list of all the people who'd ever checked out Das Kapital from the library more than ten times between 1980 and 1985."
Nate cocks his head to the side, his hair falling across his forehead. "It's nice to be remembered."
Brad stops washing and peers intently at Nate. "You're Prometheus? You're the one who's been giving me jobs for the last two years?"
"I told you I've had my eye on you for a while."
Brad doesn't know whether to be flattered or disturbed. He goes for Door #3. "It's nice to be wanted," he says. "Now about getting paid."
"To answer your question: yes, you will be paid. Twenty-five thousand dollars for successful completion of each assignment. There's an account in your name at Bank of America that you can access at any time."
Brad rinses off the rest of the flatware. "Who decides what constitutes success? You?"
"Management."
"And what percentage goes to you?"
Nate takes a swallow from his beer before answering. "None. That's your money."
"What about the other money?" Brad asks, drying his hands on a dish towel as he drops down at the table across from Nate and steals what's left of Nate's cupcake.
"Other money?"
Brad fixes Nate with a look as he peels away the cupcake wrapper. "From before."
"Brad, you know that life is over."
"So the money's gone?"
"No, the money's there."
Brad pauses with the cupcake halfway to his mouth. "It is?"
Nate finishes off his beer and pushes away from the table.
"I wanted you," he says, getting to his feet, "not your money."
Nate lets Brad sleep in the next morning. According to the little wind-up clock on Brad's nightstand it's almost 6:30 in the morning when Nate finally knocks and tells Brad to get dressed.
Brad's all set for their run, or for archery, or god forbid, being quizzed on the number-one export from Gabon and all the religious sects in Mayotte.
Instead, Nate leads Brad straight into the coat closet in the foyer. When Nate closes the door behind them, Brad whistles low. "If you wanted to be alone with me, you didn't have to go to all this effort."
"Shut up, Brad," Nate says, pressing at what turns out to be a false wall. Seconds later Nate's leading Brad down a set of stairs that are lit by nothing more than safety lighting. At the bottom of the stairs there's another door that requires voice recognition, a retinal scan, and unless Brad's mistaken, a finger print that's actually a blood test.
Who knew the U.S. Government was so paranoid? Oh, wait.
The door creaks open and Brad follows Nate into an enormous cavern... that's actually a shooting range.
"Hello, Nathaniel Fick," an electronic voice says in welcome. It's eerie.
Along the far wall are the lanes, at least six of them. And targets. Black paper shapes with white backdrops just waiting.
On the near wall is a glass case behind which are a variety of handguns, semi-automatic rifles, double-barrel shotguns, a few machine guns Brad thought went out of production around World War II and everything in between.
Upon closer inspection the glass case is actually about three inches of plexiglass. Brad watches as Nate opens the case and takes down two handguns. Nate tucks one into the waistband of his pants and walks the other over to Brad.
"This is a Beretta," Nate announces, handing the gun to Brad. "How does it feel?"
Brad looks intently at the weapon in his hand. It's cool, metallic, nothing more. Four or five months ago he would've killed for a weapon like this if it meant he could leave Section. Now, it's just a piece of equipment. "Light," he says.
Nate nods. "That's because it doesn't have any bullets in it. You think you could work with it?"
"If I had to."
Brad watches as Nate produces a bullet from his right pants pocket and pulls the gun out of his waistband. "This is a Sig Sauer," Nate says, ejecting the magazine, loading the bullet into the empty cartridge and then loading it back into the gun and pointing it at Brad.
Brad holds his hands, Beretta and all, high in the air. "Nate, what the fuck - I thought... I -- don't do this."
Brad doesn't want to get shot. He doesn't want to die. But more pressing than both of these things is the fear of dying by Nate's hand. Nate is the only one - the one thing --
Nate who just stares at him blankly.
Brad can feel the anger stirring in his veins. Betrayal. Genuine hurt and disappointment. "If you're going to do it, then just fucking get it over with," Brad snaps, lowering his hands.
Nate's right eye closes like he's winking and the gun goes off.
Brad can feel the bullet breeze by his left ear.
He doesn't wet himself, but it's a little close.
He takes a step back when Nate advances, but Nate keeps coming only to grab Brad by the bicep with his non gun-wielding hand and spin him around 180 degrees.
Nate points with the muzzle of his gun, his chest plastered against Brad's back. "Look at the target in lane three," he says, his mouth by Brad's ear. "I just shot it in the head even though you were standing right there."
Brad doesn't follow.
He turns his head, and his nose bumps along Nate's cheekbone.
"I need you to be able to do that," Nate says quietly. "To get the job done no matter the distraction."
Brad looks down at Nate's hand on his arm, his thumb rubbing back and forth gently, and then back up at Nate. "I can do that," he lies.
Nate releases his hold on Brad and steps back while offering Brad the butt of the Sig. "I know you can."
Brad takes the Sig in his right hand and looks down at the Beretta in his left.
Brad holds both of the guns out in front of him, like he's seen in the movies and pulls the triggers. The Sig doesn't fire, but the Beretta does. The noise and the recoil stun Brad and he looks over at Nate in disbelief. "I thought you said it wasn't loaded."
Nate shrugs. "I needed you to trust me."
"So you lied to me?"
"I needed to know that you'll believe everything I tell you."
Brad stares. "What if I'd tried to shoot you?"
"There's only one bullet in there."
"One bullet is plenty."
Nate's mouth quirks up. "You're sounding more like an assassin every day."
"You're nuts."
Nate's smile is small, intimate. "It's why you like me."
Brad doesn't know how to respond to that.
He doesn't even know what's more dangerous: the people he probably works for, the weapons he's holding in his hands or the man standing across from him.
Brad spends the entire morning at the range, getting accustomed to the feel of various handguns. After showing Brad how to load and eject the cartridges from the Sig Sauer and the Beretta, Nate throws a Glock 22 into the mix.
It's hard dealing with the recoil, the smell of cordite and the differing weights on each trigger. And then the music starts.
The bass is throbbing, the vocals are ear-shattering, Brad can't feel himself breathe never mind focus on shooting accurately. He turns around in disbelief, but Nate impatiently gestures for him to continue.
Of course Nate's also wearing ear protection. Asshole.
How the fuck is Brad supposed to focus...
Oh. He's not.
He's supposed to adapt.
Brad grits his teeth and carries on, trying to hit the target in the head while his brain is rattling around in his skull. After a while, though, the rap music becomes less arduous. Brad can concentrate. Kind of.
And then a fan starts blowing right above his head. It's loud and powerful as hell; Brad has to widen his stance just to keep upright.
When Brad tosses a scowl over his shoulder at Nate, the fucker winks at him.
They have lunch later than usual; Brad's ears are ringing, and he's only half-pretending when he forces Nate to repeat everything he says twice. Afterward Nate leads Brad around the side of the house where there are several cables and a couple of grappling hooks lying on the ground and something that Brad's pretty sure is a harness.
"Kinky," he says, picking up the most-definitely-a-harness and studying it. "I didn't know you were into bondage."
Nate's hair is strawberry blond in the late afternoon sun instead of its usual sandy brown. He squints at Brad, his mouth twitching with merriment. "I'm into a lot of things," he confesses. "Right now, I'm into looking at your ass as you scale the side of the house."
Brad drops the harness at the same time his mouth drops open. "Are you flirting with me?"
Nate holds out a grappling hook and a cable. "Get these hooked around the chimney and then you can decide for yourself."
Brad tucks the grappling hook between his ribs and his upper arm, careful not to accidentally impale himself, and studies the eyelet of the hook critically.
Back in the early days of his training with Mike there were several lessons on escaping being attached to hooks and chairs and poles. This led to a study of knots. Who knew it would have so many practical applications?
"You have a knot in mind for this?" he asks.
"Whatever you think'll hold your weight." A pause. "I wouldn't recommend a slipknot though."
Brad thinks for a moment and then goes for a series of overhand knots. "It's not fancy," he warns.
"It doesn't have to be fancy, it just has to get the job done. You can impress me later," Nate says. "Now get that up there."
Rather shockingly, Brad manages to get the grappling hook into a good position on his first try. At least he thinks it's a good position.
"Looks good," Nate says, giving the cable a firm tug. "Go to it."
Brad narrows his eyes. "Go to what?"
"Climbing up to the roof."
"You're serious? I thought you were fucking with me."
"Then what, exactly, did you think the point of this exercise was, Brad?"
"To win you over with my awe-inspiring knot-tying skills."
Nate swipes his tongue over his upper lip. Bastard. "If I were grading you on your skills, you'd fail. Now start climbing."
Brad taps his knuckles against the side of the house. "You want me to climb bricks?"
"That's what the cable's for. I'm not asking you to do it freehand. That comes later."
"Have I told you lately how much I hate you?"
"Not today, no."
The difference between scaling a building with a cable versus using a harness is like driving a Yugo to war instead of taking a Humvee.
For dinner they have leftovers on the terrace. The mosquitoes are murderous, and Brad spends more time fighting them off than he does eating his pasta salad. He takes their empty Tupperware into the kitchen and grabs several pieces of fruit to bring back to Nate.
When he returns, Nate's sitting at the edge of the pool with a green metal box at his side.
Brad hands Nate an apple, a banana and a bowl of berries and then drops down beside him, sticking his feet into the pool. He takes the apple back, bites into it and then goes for the $64,000 dollar question. "Is this where you keep all your sex toys?" he asks, tapping the green box.
Nate chuckles as he eats a blueberry. "Why don't you tell me? After all, it's a present for you."
"For me?" Brad sets the apple in his lap, drags the box over to his side and opens it. Inside the metal box is another box with an envelope attached.
Brad opens the envelope and removes a credit card.
"Don't get excited," Nate warns. "The card's expired."
Brad gives Nate his best disappointed look. "So what am I supposed to do with it?"
"You're supposed to use it to open the next box."
Brad extracts a yellow metal box from the green box and shakes it. There's no latch.
Putting his apple in his mouth, Brad sets the box on his lap and begins trying to jimmy the lock with the credit card. First he tries the long side of the credit card and then the short. Finally, he manages to spring the lock with the edge of the card.
He's also drooled all over his apple.
He sets the defiled apple on the concrete next to him, places the credit card next to it and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
He opens the yellow box, only to find a red box inside of it. This one has a paperclip taped to the lid.
He frees the paperclip and looks up at Nate. "Now what?"
"Now you use the paperclip to open the box."
"I do?"
"Welcome to Lock Picking 101."
"Are you telling me paperclips work outside of bad movies and TV with lazy writing?"
Nate pops a raspberry into his mouth. "Guess you're about to find out."
Brad unfolds the paperclip and studies the tiny lock holding the box together. "Tell me again why you're putting me through this?"
"Because you're my asset."
Brad looks up at Nate. "So you do this with all of your assets?"
"Well, you're my first. So, so far... yes."
"I'm your first?"
"Yeah."
"You've never done this before? Not with anyone?"
Nate scratches the side of his neck. "No," he says. "Out of hundreds of possible assets for Bravo, you were the only one I wanted."
Nate's trying to tell him something important. Brad sets the box down and listens. "I've been off the grid for almost ten years. How the hell could you even know about me?"
Nate smirks. "You can't hack the NSA and ever be off the grid. There are files about you, about your computer skills, about your past. And I was curious. I could've had any soldier anywhere in the world, but I chose you."
Brad rubs the back of his head. His hair's been growing in; maybe he needs to cut it again. "Why?"
"Because I didn't realize it was going to be so hard." Nate admits. "Choosing a civilian for Section meant that I had to prove you to Management. That I had to - have to -- prove that you're the right choice. Every class, every lesson is about proving your worth and the worth of my team. I've been hard on you and I know it, I'm not sorry, but I wish I could've done things differently."
"Differently how?"
Nate's eyes are focusing somewhere past Brad's shoulder. "I thought that I'd be able to talk to you -- court you," he says. "Try and show you what you could do if you came to work for me. But that's not how Management operates."
Nate's tone is quiet, wistful. But there's something underneath it. Distress. Disillusionment. "How does Management work?" Brad asks.
Nate sucks on his lower lip for a moment. He looks uncertain. "I spent months working to set up my team, finding Poke, Mike and Rudy, calling in favors to get Walt and Ray from R&D." A beat. "And then I found you. And you were it. I went to Management to see what they thought... and Management decided they would procure you at any cost. I was informed that if I didn't make this happen you were going to be dealt with."
Any cost. Dealt with.
The chill that races through Brad's veins has nothing to do with his feet in the pool. "Did you set me up to be arrested?" he asks fiercely.
"No, I didn't - it wasn't me," Nate insists.
"But you know I didn't kill anyone."
"Brad."
"You know I didn't do it." Brad knows the answer to this, but he has to hear it from Nate.
"Yes," Nate concedes. "I know you didn't do it."
"And you let them do this to me." Brad's tone is so hard, so bitter he almost doesn't recognize his own voice.
"I didn't have any choice," Nate pleads. "If I didn't bring you back, they were going to leave you there to rot."
"I wasn't guilty!"
"Do you know how many innocent men are wasting away in prison? Do you really think the U.S. Government gives a shit if some hacker rots in jail?"
"You work for these people. You're just as guilty as they are." Brad scrambles to his feet.
"Brad, listen," Nate says, reaching out for him.
When Brad shoves Nate away, he does it with everything he has. There's a strange cracking thud and splash as Nate falls into the pool.
And then there's nothing but the sound of the water lapping against the sides of the pool.
Brad stares as Nate sinks down into the blue depths.
And keeps sinking.
Nate hates swimming. Maybe that's a lie.
He should be moving by now regardless.
Except Nate's never lied to Brad.
Not even about this.
Brad hits the water hard. Jumping in because it's too shallow to dive. Nate waits at the bottom of the pool, pale and lifeless. Brad grabs him under the arms and pulls him to the surface. Water runs down Nate's face but the water is faintly pinkish in hue.
Trying to heft Nate out of the pool when Brad can barely touch the bottom is almost impossible, but he gets it done and then propels himself out right after. Nate's in a crumpled heap and when Brad stretches him out alongside the pool his lips are slightly blue. There's blood smeared on his cheek.
Brad will panic later. Right now he'll remember military school and Sidney Hill and the sleeper hold that didn't work and the CPR that did. He tilts Nate's head back, pinches his nose and breathes into Nate's mouth, one, two.
Nate's chest is rising, but he's not conscious.
Brad sits up and begins compressions. One, two, three, four...
"Nate, if you die on me, I will never fucking forgive you," Brad swears.
A second later, Nate begins coughing, water bubbling between his lips and his body spasming.
Brad rolls Nate into his side, patting his back as Nate coughs and heaves. "You okay?" Brad asks, rubbing circles through the damp cloth of Nate's shirt.
Nate coughs more, his body curling into a fetal position. Brad leans over him, studying him intently and brushing water away from his mouth.
He moves back when Nate pushes himself to his knees, water running down his face. Nate's eyelashes are plastered together, his lips are blue and blood is trickling down his temple.
"Did you just save my life?" Nate asks, looking slightly stunned and very dazed.
"Considering I almost took it I thought I should," Brad says.
"Brad."
There are all kinds of things in Nate's voice that Brad doesn't want to hear at the moment. "You're bleeding," he says.
Nate blinks at him. "I am?"
Brad takes Nate's fingers and presses them to Nate's temple. "Right there."
Nate's skin is cold, clammy. His hair soft. Brad pulls his hand away immediately.
"About what I said," Nate begins. "About Management. About us."
"I think you've said plenty for one night," Brad finishes, getting to his feet.
He leaves Nate on the terrace and goes upstairs to his room. He closes the door behind him and sinks down to the floor. The carpeting is plush, thick. And definitely preferable to his cell in solitary.
He needs a drink and a shower. He needs a computer and his old life. It wasn't much of a life, but it was his in a way nothing seems to be now.
Nothing about this life is really his except his relationship with Nate.
Brad doesn't know how long he sits there before he hears the creak of footsteps outside his door. He waits but nothing happens. Eventually, Nate leaves and Brad goes and cleans himself up.
That night he falls asleep reading Le Rouge et le Noir because Nate recommended it.
The next day is strange.
Brad's already done with breakfast by the time Nate appears. And instead of making a protein shake or eggs or even a few bowls of cereal, Nate pours himself a cup of coffee and sits down at the table.
He has two butterfly tapes at his temple and dark circles under his eyes.
Brad watches Nate drink, waiting for instructions, acknowledgment. Eye contact. Something.
Nate just rubs his eyebrow and stares out the window at the pool.
Brad sighs and gets up. If this is Nate's way of granting him independence he's not going to waste it sulking about the boy who doesn't want to be his friend anymore.
Instead, Brad does what he thinks he's supposed to do. He reads the newspapers in the library, cursing at Real Madrid's performance in the Spanish football league as he flips through El País. Those fuckers don't deserve their good luck. He studies ten countries and wonders if the 1,398 people of Niue ever get tired of living on taro. He goes to the firing range and decides he likes the Sig better than the Glock, but not better than the Beretta.
After a few hours, he goes outside to practice scaling with a harness, but the idea of crushing his nuts doesn't seem very appealing. He decides instead to go for a run, which is more like a jog without Nate there goading him on.
He leaves the property, squeezing through the hedge to the outlying forest that hasn't been developed. The trees seem to provide sufficient coverage from the sun for once, and Brad finds himself heading in the direction of the creek. It's an unbeaten path that Nate favors and Brad spends his time focusing on not tripping over tree roots and rocks.
When he gets back to the house, there's a strange buzzing noise he can't identify. He ducks through the hedge and nearly gets beheaded by man welding a chainsaw.
Brad reacts first. Ducking around the back of his attacker, grabbing the chainsaw-wielding arm and applying pressure until he can feel bones shifting and the chainsaw is released into his own hand.
When his attacker goes down to his knees with a cry, Brad nails him in the kidneys and follows that up with a kick in the ribs for good measure.
Rudy and Mike would be proud.
"Stop! Stop!" a pale man with thinning hair gasps, clutching his arm to his chest. The man's wearing saggy jeans and a brown T-shirt that says SuperFly. He's got middle-age paunch and doesn't look dangerous, but he did just try to kill Brad.
"Who the hell are you?" Brad demands, holding a buzzing chainsaw in one hand while pressing his foot down on the man's windpipe.
"Care... caretaker!" the man wheezes. "Evan Wright!"
Brad removes his sneaker from Wright's throat and cuts off the chainsaw. "You're the caretaker?"
"Fuck." The man curses, rolling onto his side. "I think you broke me."
"Why were you trimming the hedge with a chainsaw?" Brad demands.
"Because I left my flamethrower at home. Why the hell are you running in the middle of the afternoon? Nate told me you all were working at the house all week."
Oh. Oops. "Failure to communicate," Brad explains. "You okay?"
Wright waves Brad off when he tries to help him up. "I think you've done plenty already," he says, getting to his knees unsteadily.
Brad watches him carefully.
"I think I'll finish this up another time," Wright says, holding his arm to his chest like it's broken. Maybe it is. "Like in the middle of the night, when you're asleep."
"We run in the middle of the night sometimes," Brad says.
Wright shakes his head and begins patting at his pockets with his good hand. "You guys need to get a fucking hobby," he says, pulling a joint and a lighter from his back pocket.
It takes Wright several tries to light the joint. He takes a long hit and seems to exhale forever. "You want some? You could probably use it."
Brad shakes his head. "I think my government frowns on paying me to get high, but thanks anyway."
"Your government must suck," Wright says, taking another toke. "My government subsidizes my habit just so I can pretend this place is a hallucination."
Brad gestures over his shoulder. "I should get back to the house."
"Yeah," Wright exhales. "You should. Try not to incapacitate anybody between here and there."
Brad flips Wright the bird as he turns on his heel and runs back. He enters the house through the kitchen door only to find Nate's still sitting at the table where Brad left him. He has a book open in front of him, but he doesn't seem to be reading it.
"I met Evan Wright," Brad informs him.
Nate doesn't even look up from his book.
Brad stares at the crown of Nate's head for several moments before he stalks through the kitchen and upstairs to his room to shower, change and regroup.
Lunch is just as quiet as breakfast. Nate ignores the sandwich Brad sets in front of him, and eventually he gets up and walks away. Brad follows him into the library, carrying his red metal box from last night. It was sitting on the table in the kitchen when he came down for breakfast.
He removes the straightened paperclip taped on top and goes back to work.
He opens two more boxes before he breaks. He sets down a blue box the size of a video tape on the coffee table and walks over to the wall of books. It takes him a while to find something he's happy with, but eventually it happens.
He takes the book over to Nate. "If you're not going to talk to me, read to me."
Nate looks up at him, eyes wide, but he closes his book and takes the one Brad's holding out.
Brad watches as Nate opens he book and pages through to the first page. Nate reads the opening line of David Copperfield to Brad without looking at the book at all.
"Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show."
Part III
You Will Be For Me and I Will Fight For You
Twenty minutes later, Brad's in the passenger seat of a silver Volvo sedan driving through a city he's never been in before. Brad can tell it's a weekday because the people on the streets are dressed for work. There are joggers, people pushing strollers. Dogs tied to metal bike stands.
There are brick houses, large buildings with flags that almost look like embassies. They drive through a winding, tree-laden park. Brad looks at the license plates of passing cars. Washington D.C. Maryland. Virginia. Texas. Connecticut. California. Can't people make up their minds? Where the hell are they?
They drive past an indoor tennis facility, past more large houses made of stone and brick.
It's all pedestrian, but it's been so long since Brad's seen signs of everyday life that he feels almost euphoric. The people here have lawns. Nobody in L.A. has a real front lawn. Even in Beverly Hills.
They're driving down 16th Street.
16th Street Northwest.
Northwest where?
They pass a sign for Walter Reed Army Medical Center. The only Walter Reed Medical Center in the country is in Washington D.C. Ten minutes later there's another sign that says Welcome to Maryland.
Well, that explains his plane trip. This is getting more interesting all the time.
In the seat beside him, Nate's wearing gray aviator sunglasses and rapping along to some atrocity blaring out of the speakers. "Don't you have any real music?" Brad says as they stop for a light across from an Einstein Brothers Bagels.
An eyebrow rises above Nate's frames. "Jay-Z is real music."
Brad scoffs. "Air Supply is real music. Yes. Journey. Guns N'Roses. Chicago. America. That is real music."
"Real music made when we were in diapers."
"Maybe when you were in diapers."
"You're only two years and three months older than me," Nate says. "If you want to argue about potty training feel free."
They pass the offices for Discovery Channel, which have an enormous mural painted along the side. The AFI Theater. A public library.
Brad grumbles in his seat until Nate's iPod makes a whirring noise and Belinda Carlisle starts singing that she's mad about you. At this, Brad has to laugh.
A hint of color floods Nate's cheeks, but he doesn't say anything as they merge onto 495 East.
Belinda Carlisle becomes The Beatles becomes Run DMC. "Are you having some sort of identity crisis?" Brad asks with a degree of concern.
"Diversity of choice, you should try it."
"Choice requires being given a choice."
"I gave you a choice."
"Jail or Section. That's some choice."
"Some people would kill for your choice."
"If you guys have your way, I will be killing for my choice."
Nate winces. "Poor selection of words, I apologize."
Brad doesn't reply, choosing instead to watch the flow of traffic around them. He's used to seeing flashier cars: Benzes, Beemers, Porsches, the occasional Ferrari. Everything here seems much more provincial. Practical.
There's more rap Brad doesn't recognize from the speakers, a girl singing about Oedipus Rex and some country music that Brad takes very loud exception to. Finally Nate punches at his iPod several times until the listing for genres coughs up everything listed under the 80s.
Two seconds later, Nate takes an exit for 95 North and nearly gets broadsided by a tractor trailer. He doesn't seem to notice, Brad just shakes his head. "If you want to die in a fiery crash, don't take me with you."
"At some point we're going to have to give you combat driving lessons," Nate says conversationally.
"Are those lessons really going to matter if we get killed by a Mack truck?"
"You sound like Ray."
Brad rubs a hand over the fine stubble left on his scalp. "Is Ray okay?"
Nate changes lanes. "Why wouldn't Ray be okay?"
"I'll cause you less trouble if you don't insult my intelligence."
"Ray's fine. He's back in the office, working on comms and driving Walt crazy. Par for the course."
"It's not his fault."
Nate turns off his iPod. "What's not his fault?"
Brad unfastens his seat belt so he can take off his jacket. He's hot and feels confined. He tosses the jacket in the back, refastens his seat belt and tries to get comfortable. "How long is this trip?"
"What's not Ray's fault?" Nate repeats.
"You kept me locked up in a basement for months. I lived on food in plastic pouches and never got to go outside. I couldn't - I can't live like that. I wasn't trying to leave, I just wanted some air."
"You could've just said you wanted to go outside."
"And what department of customer service was I supposed to direct that request to?" Brad sneers. "The one that wouldn't even let me have a toothbrush for six weeks? I haven't even had real food since I left L.A."
"I'll try and make that up you," Nate says.
"Try real hard." Brad says tersely.
"I always do."
I-95 is buffeted on both sides by trees, and when they take an exit for Baltimore-Washington International airport that doesn't change. There's no doubt where Brad is now. With the exception of a few condos, the area by the airport is heavily forested. Except that Nate doesn't take Brad to the airport; instead, they take an exit for Linthicum.
"I thought that said Lithium," Brad says as they turn from 195 onto a road that clearly hasn't been repaved in a long time.
"How do you think I remember where I'm going?" Nate says as they pass by a sign for Amtrak and a series of small homes. After another three or four miles, Nate turns down a road leading to what could be considered an industrial area. There are only a handful of businesses, but there are plenty of trees and absolutely no houses.
They drive for some time until they hit a fork in the road. The area now appears utterly undeveloped except for the dirt road they're on. Brad starts to have second thoughts about whether or not Nate's going to kill him.
There are no signs of any kind, but Nate clearly knows where they're going.
And then out of nowhere they're passing along a heavily manicured hedge. Nate takes an abrupt left turn and Brad inhales. They're heading up a paved road in the middle of some sort of vast property. Brad can't really call it a yard since it's probably about an acre on either side of the road.
It takes them almost ten minutes to reach the house. Although, "house" isn't necessarily the right word. Mansion might be better. The structure, whatever it is, is all dark brick and enormous windows. There are flowers and shrubbery. It reminds Brad of Leah's Barbie house when she was seven.
There's a circular drive which Nate takes right up to the front door before cutting the engine. Brad leans forward in his seat to look past Nate. "Where are we?"
Nate pushes his sunglasses high on his head. "We're alone. If you want to kill me, now's your chance."
Brad's just going to assume Nate's joking. "I couldn't kill you," he complains. "You're the only one who knows where the hell we are."
Nate chuckles as he gets out of the car. "There is that. Want to see your home for the foreseeable future?"
Brad climbs out of the car and stretches, feeling the sun on his face. There's that humidity that he felt the last time he was outside, but it's more oppressive here. The property is beautiful, though; he can't even see the main road from here.
Nate grabs two duffel bags from the backseat and Brad follows him up the stairs as Nate opens the door and drops the bags in the foyer. There's a persistent beeping noise that turns out to be the security system, and Brad watches Nate curse under his breath as he tries to turn it off.
"Is it really that hard?" Brad says, coming to his side.
The keypad has twelve open spots on the LED screen and Brad whistles low. "You have to know all of these?"
"Shut up," Nate demands sharply.
The alarm rockets up several decibels and Brad covers his ears. "Shit shit shit," Nate chants punching in numbers. He seems honestly agitated. This is new.
Finally, the alarm stops blaring and Brad uncovers his ears. "Wow."
Nate rests his forehead against the wall. "There are a couple things you need to know about the house. One of them is that the security system is rigged to several blocks of C4 in the basement to prevent unwanted house guests taking up residence."
Brad narrows his eyes. "You're lying."
Nate turns his head to look at Brad.
He's not lying.
"Okay," Brad says thoughtfully. "I'm sleeping in the car."
Nate clears his throat and stands upright. "You do that," he says, grabbing a duffel bag and heading up the stairs. "But people who sleep in the car don't get to use the pool or the jacuzzi."
Nate pauses on the stairs and turns back around. "And they eat MREs."
"I hate you," Brad says with full sincerity.
Nate grins broadly. "I know."
Brad throws up his hands in defeat. "Fine. You win."
"I know," Nate repeats. "Get changed, we're going running in fifteen minutes."
"I don't have any shoes."
"There are three pairs in your bag."
"When did you - never mind."
Nate's eyes shine with amusement.
"Did I already say I hate you?" Brad asks. "I feel like I haven't said that enough."
"I'm sure you'll say it a lot more."
When Nate said they were going running, he meant that he was going to try and kill Brad by running him into dehydration, various creeks, riverbeds, pebbles and sheer exhaustion.
Running ten miles full tilt with Rudy on the treadmill in the morning is nothing like running ten miles full tilt in Maryland humidity in the middle of the afternoon. By the time they get back to the house, Brad's blisters have blisters and he's so covered in sweat even his socks are soaked.
He collapses on his back on the gray slate tile in the foyer and closes his eyes. The tiling is cool against his sunburned skin. The only thing he can hear is his own breathing and the hum of the central air.
Something pokes his ankle. "No."
"You don't even know what I was going to say," Nate protests.
Brad opens his eyes and looks directly at Nate. Nate's hair is plastered to his forehead and there's sweat dripping from his chin. There's no reason for Brad to find this even remotely attractive. "No."
Nate shrugs and pulls his shirt over his head, dropping it on the floor with a wet plop. "Fine," he says. "Your loss."
There's a smudge of black ink under Nate's arm running perpendicular to his ribs, but since Brad's lying on his back, he's not really in the right position to make out what it is.
Ten minutes later Brad opens his eyes and looks at the chandelier overhead. He wonders what it was Nate was going to say. He decides it doesn't matter as he unplasters himself from the tiling and climbs the stairs to the second floor.
There are several bedrooms on the second floor; Brad chose the one that didn't have white walls, a single bed and a chair bolted to the floor. Instead he chose the room with the white walls, king-sized sleigh bed with the mahogany headboard and the navy-blue leather armchair.
He also has his own shower.
The duffel bag Nate brought for him doesn't have much besides his books, workout clothes and shoes, but the dresser drawers are full of clothes with tags on them and they're all in Brad's size. When he opens the closet doors there are more clothes, also in his size. There are four other rooms not including the one Nate chose; the likelihood that he was going to choose this room is 1 in 6.
He goes next door to see if the closet is full of clothes. It's not.
The drawers are empty in the yellow bedroom, the green bedroom, the blue bedroom and the sand-colored bedroom.
Fine, Section wins.
Brad strips in the hallway, leaving a trail of clothes back to his room. If Nate can make a mess, so can he.
He heads directly for the bathroom, making a sharp detour when he hears something that sounds a lot like splashing.
Brad crosses the room and looks out his window. There's a pool in the backyard, and Nate's currently partaking.
Brad watches as Nate cuts a swath through turquoise water, his arms churning efficiently as he touches the edge of the pool, flips under water and goes back.
It's hypnotic.
Brad's dick twitches in interest, filling slowly until Brad takes himself in hand and begins to stroke with intent.
Brad thumbs the head of his cock, pressing the slit and trying to remember the last time he was able to jerk off in peace. Without cameras or Ray whistling in the other room, without being in a hurry to just get it done. He's been recycling standard fantasy material: big tits, wet pussy, large pricks, the faceless bodies and nameless partners that sex tends to blend into after enough exposure.
This is something new.
Pale skin and flushed cheeks. A tattoo along a perfectly defined torso. An ass that Brad might be willing to follow anywhere.
Nate's back glows in the sun, and Brad counts as Nate swims his laps: stroke, stroke, breathe, stroke, stroke, breathe...
Brad finds himself stroking his dick in time with Nate's motions, exhaling when Nate exhales.
He imagines he can smell the chlorine from the pool, feel the coolness of the water rushing over his sunburned back. The precome smeared over his palm and fingers is too warm. Nate's hands are probably cold now, his skin clammy, damp to the touch.
His mouth would be hot though, slick and sticky.
Brad can feel those long fingers rolling his balls, sliding between his legs and opening him up, finding his prostate. The thrust of those fingers, the way they would stroke and stretch and take.
He can just imagine Nate's tongue pressing against the underside of his cock, the smirk when Brad shot all over his face. Or maybe it's the arch of Nate's back when Brad's fucking him, the way he'd be greedy, demanding more. Faster. Harder. Fuck, c'mon.
Brad wants to shoot his load all over Nate Fick's ass. His chest. His thighs.
Brad comes thinking of Nate licking away Brad's spunk from the corners of his mouth.
He gets semen all over the bedroom window.
In the pool below, Nate keeps swimming blissfully unaware.
Brad looks down at the white mess and snorts. He'll clean it up later.
It occurs to him that this room probably has cameras in it, too. He hopes Nate enjoys the show.
After his shower Brad plans to explore the house. Instead he climbs into bed, still wet from his shower, and falls asleep. He wakes up to a soft knocking on his door. "Brad?"
Brad grumbles and rolls over.
Nate opens the door. His hair is damp, but he's dressed in a green T-shirt that says Dartmouth in faded letters and a pair of khaki shorts. "Dinner," he says before disappearing.
Brad rubs his eyes and climbs out of bed. He scrounges in the dresser for briefs and yanks tags off of a pair of plaid board shorts and a plain white T-shirt. The skin on his back is tight, throbbing with sunburn. Brad decides to forgo the shirt.
He can smell dinner the minute he leaves his bedroom, there's butter and spices and a sweetness he can't quite place. He takes the carpeted stairs two at a time, practically jogging through house until he finds the kitchen located off of the dining room.
The kitchen is enormous, full of stainless steel appliances, a large island for preparing food and white cabinets with glass doors. It reminds him a little of his mom's kitchen growing up, except this kitchen could have twenty people cooking in it and Brad would still have room left over to skateboard on the black-and-white marble floor.
There's a rectangular wooden table by the window that overlooks the pool in the backyard. The table is set and on it are two plates piled high with food. Brad gapes at Nate. "When did you cook this?"
"You've been sleeping for a while," Nate says, sitting down at the head of the table with a beer.
Brad covets Nate's bottle of Sapporo openly. "Do I get one or is this part of my deprivation training?"
Nate waves towards the fridge. "Help yourself."
"Did you spike the beer?"
"Are you planning on running away?"
"No."
"Then I don't see why I'd have to drug you. Besides, I wouldn't screw up good beer with a sedative."
Brad opens the refrigerator and is hit with an overload of choice: there are four different kinds of beer. The fridge is also stuffed with packages of chicken, beef and fish, overflowing produce bins, milk, juice, eggs and bacon. "God, I've missed bacon," he says reverently.
Nate chuckles. "I though Hebrew law had some ideas about pork."
"I'm an atheist, I don't give a shit," Brad says, grabbing a bottle of Heineken and another of Red Stripe. The bottles are frosty in the palm of his hand.
He drops down at the place setting on Nate's right and looks at the food before him. "I'm going to eat it, but what is it?" he asks, picking up the bottle opener and popping the top on his Heineken.
"Red Snapper in a herb butter sauce, spicy green beans and rosemary potatoes. There are homemade peanut butter cookies for desert."
"You're just full of surprises aren't you?" Brad says, picking up his fork.
"Try this surprise on for size: you're not going to eat anything until you put a shirt on."
Brad points his fork at Nate. "Are you fucking with me?"
Nate looks from Brad to his fork and back. "Don't start something you don't want me to finish."
"I don't fucking believe you."
"In this house you act like you have some home training. Go put on a shirt."
"Are you just that attracted to me that you can't control yourself if I'm not dressed?"
Nate makes a dismissive noise. "Hardly. Shirt. Now."
Brad glowers.
"If you want your food to get cold, that's your business," Nate says.
Brad takes a defiant swig of his beer before pushing back his chair with a shriek of wood on marble, going back to his room and retrieving his shirt. Asshole.
Nate's already eating by the time Brad comes back. Brad sits down with a lot of extra noise, picks up his fork and devours the food. It's good. No, it's better than good. It's orgasmic. It's possible he says that between bites of fish.
Nate smirks, his mouth slick from the beer in his hand. "It's not a race. I promise there's more."
Brad grunts through a mouth full of potatoes.
Nate cuts him off after his second helping.
"What are you, my mom?" Brad protests as Nate blocks his way to the fish.
"Worse, I'm your handler; and I didn't bring any Pepto-Bismol for when you get sick from being a greedy pig after living on MREs, so just have a cookie and deal with it."
Brad doesn't sulk, but he does eat five cookies and winds up feeling dangerously full. He also does the dishes without being asked. When he's done, he wanders through various rooms until he finds Nate standing before a wall of books in a room with camel-colored leather furniture and several flags and swords on the wall.
"No Wii, huh?" Brad says, standing alongside Nate and studying the bulging shelves. Military history, American history, Middle Eastern history, Asian history, historical fiction, science fiction, Cervantes, Plato, Horace, Machiavelli, Aristotle. It just goes on and on.
"No," Nate says.
"No PS3?"
"No."
"No Wi-Fi?"
"For you?" Nate mocks incredulously. "Absolutely not."
"So what are we supposed to do?"
"You can read. Or there are board games."
Brad grins. "I can think of a game we can play."
Nate laughs uproariously. "Worst line ever."
"What? It worked all the time in L.A."
"I don't know if you've noticed this, but you're not in L.A. anymore."
"Yeah, I was starting to get that idea."
Nate turns towards Brad. "How are you at chess?"
Nate wakes him up in the middle of the night. "You have 45 seconds to get ready to run."
Brad closes his eyes in the darkness; every muscle in his body is aching from their run the day before. He doesn't want to do this. He shakes it off, opens his eyes again and climbs out of bed. It's still pitch black outside.
Nate's waiting for him by the front door. The light from the chandelier is luminous and hurts Brad's eyes.
Nate hands Brad a black headband with various gadgets attached.
Brad studies it suspiciously. "What is it?"
"Your night-vision goggles," Nate says, turning off the lights and opening the front door. "Let's go."
The goggles are unwieldy. Brad has to adjust them as he's chasing after Nate, who's running like the sun is out and he has the vision of a hawk. He probably does.
There's no depth perception with the goggles though, and Brad finds himself misjudging distances and nearly colliding with Nate twice.
They sprint across the front yard toward the main road and then Nate doubles back and they wind up running towards the back of the property. Suddenly Nate disappears through the hedges.
When they did this yesterday afternoon at least Brad could see what was up ahead, today all he can do is follow Nate's lead.
By the time they get back from their run, the sun is up and Brad's starving. He showers and pulls on his training clothes. He has no idea what they're doing today, but he highly doubts it'll be rescuing kittens or practicing their cross stitch.
There's nobody in the kitchen, but through the kitchen window he can see Nate in the pool. Brad opens the refrigerator and pulls out everything that could be considered breakfast food.
When Nate walks in, Brad's working his way through three scrambled eggs, half a package of bacon, coffee, milk, orange juice and a bowl of Cheerios. There are rivulets of water running down Nate's chest, he's half hidden by the towel he's using to dry his hair and he's at the wrong angle for Brad to see his tattoo.
Dammit.
He raises an eyebrow when he sees Brad's meal. "Hungry?"
Brad's answer is to stuff a piece of bacon into his mouth. He watches as Nate hangs the towel around his neck before he pulls a blender from one of the cabinets, plugs it in and then retrieves several pieces of fruit out of the fridge.
Nate drops two apples, an orange, a banana, a couple different kinds of berries and some white powder in the blender and hits puree.
"Is that all you're going to eat?" Brad asks as Nate dumps his shake into a glass.
Nate carries his shake over to the table and steals a piece of Brad's bacon. "No."
After breakfast, Nate showers while Brad cleans up, and just as Brad's starting to get restless, Nate reappears in an olive green T-shirt and matching shorts.
The shirt says "Fick" in block letters across the sternum.
"Let's go," Nate says, motioning for Brad to follow him through the dining room and out the double doors that lead to the backyard.
For the first time, Brad gets to see the jacuzzi that's also located on the terrace. There's no time to admire it, because Nate's jogging down the stairs to the back lawn where he makes a sharp turn to his right.
There's a storage shed built onto the side of the house that Nate opens with a biometric scanner. Brad wonders if anything having to do with Section has an old-fashioned key. Nate disappears inside only to reemerge seconds later with a huge, round bale of straw covered with a bulls-eye.
And a bow and a bucket of arrows.
He hands Brad the bale of straw. "Follow me," he says, striding out towards the open lawn.
When Nate stops, Brad stops, but Nate waves him on. "Keep walking."
So Brad keeps walking.
When Brad's about forty yards away, Nate calls for Brad to set the target down.
Brad takes his time walking back until Nate looks down at the watch on his wrist. "For every second you waste I'm adding another mile to the morning run."
Brad moves a lot faster after that. When he gets back to Nate, Nate holds out the bow. "Ever used one of these before?"
"Not since the last time I was living in Sherwood Forest," Brad replies.
Nate shakes his head, but Brad can see the hint of a smile. "You have an idea of what you're supposed to do with it, though?"
"A long, hard piece of wood. I have some ideas."
"Brad." Nate's tone is indulgent, his mouth twitching.
"I assume I'm supposed to hit the target, but I've been wrong before."
"You were wrong?" Nate asks. "When was that?"
"Some time in my teens, but puberty confuses everyone," Brad concedes.
"Yeah, I heard that," Nate says, handing Brad several arrows from the basket.
"Are you telling me The Great Nate Fick never had an awkward period?"
Nate smirks, and as Brad watches, Nate turns until he's perpendicular to the target, takes an arrow from Brad's hand and notches it on the bow string. Nate squints slightly and then lets the arrow go.
The thud of the arrow hitting the target echoes across the lawn. Nate didn't just hit the bulls-eye, he hit it dead center.
"I had an awkward period once," Nate admits, lowering the bow, "but it only lasted until the end of homeroom."
Brad has to laugh.
"All right, Robin Hood," Nate says, swapping the arrows in Brad's hand for the bow. "Your turn."
The bow is a lot bigger than it looks. Heavier too. Brad holds it up and practices pulling on the bowstring. The muscles in his arm quiver as he releases the bowstring again and again. "Don't you think this is a little old school for our oppressive regime?"
"Oppressive regime," Nate repeats. "Have you been spending too much time with Poke?"
"You have to admit he has a point about the U.S. government."
"Who said anything about the government?"
Brad gives Nate a look. "Am I going to be on horseback, is that what this is about?"
"Walk before you gallop," Nate says, handing him an arrow.
Brad studies the arrow, the blunt head and the small notch in the back. He uses the notch to hook the arrow into the bowstring before turning his body in an imitation of Nate's pose. He can feel Nate's eyes on him as he lets the arrow go.
The arrow bounces out of Brad's grasp and lands in the grass.
Nate covers his mouth with the back of his free hand.
Brad scowls and grabs another arrow. On his second attempt the arrow goes about a five feet.
"Better," Nate says supportively.
Brad glowers. "What the hell is the point in this?"
"To improve your aim."
Brad takes the last arrow in Nate's hand. "Rifles and bows - I can see the similarity."
"Archery forces you to focus," Nate explains. "You have to take into account the wind, the weather, the way the arrow rises and falls when you breathe. Always fire on the exhale."
Brad grumbles in the back of his throat even as he notches the arrow and tries to focus on his breathing. Out. In. Out. Let go.
The arrow flies through the air before bouncing off the corner of the target and disappearing into the grass.
Nate shields his eyes from the sun. "Much better."
"Well, if all the guns in the world suddenly vanish one morning, at least we're covered."
"I wouldn't go that far."
"I hit the target," Brad protests.
"Yes, you hit it and it bounced off."
"Don't bring up old shit."
Brad practices his archery for almost three hours under the mid-morning sun, growing progressively more frustrated as the sun rises higher in the sky, blinding his attempts to aim. Nate watches him attentively. Occasionally, he corrects Brad's grip or nudges Brad's head higher with a finger under Brad's chin. Every time Nate touches him, Brad's aim goes to shit.
At noon, they go inside for lunch.
After lunch, Nate takes Brad to the library and sits him at a large oak table that looks out over the back lawn. Brad's ready for it when Nate drops several textbooks on the table. And when Nate drops two weeks worth of Le Monde and Le Figaro on top of them. He can't be fluent without practicing. However, he's not expecting the additional three atlases that are almost as big as the table.
"Know thine enemy," Nate quotes. "Or at least know their climate, most populous cities, number one export, most used dialects and a brief overview of their history, political and religious struggles and the current government."
Brad's mouth drops open a little bit.
Nate gazes at Brad serenely. "Yes, Brad?"
"Which countries?"
"All of them."
"On which continent?" Brad asks incredulously.
"Well, you could assume every continent except Antarctica, but I wouldn't assume anything when it comes to Management."
Brad stares.
"It's not that bad," Nate says as he drops down in one of the armchairs with a small leather bound book. "There are only two-hundred and fifty-seven countries at the moment."
After four hours, Brad's only on country #5: American Samoa.
When Nate gets up and wanders off, Brad drops his head down on page 20 of the World Atlas 2009. He can do this, but fuck is it tedious.
He looks up when someone coughs.
Nate's holding a glass of milk, a plate of cookies and a banana which he sets down on page 21.
"Dinner is in two hours," he says. "I expect you to sing me the national anthem of Anguilla over dessert."
Nate chokes on the brownies they have for dessert, almost falling out of his chair laughing as Brad sings, "God Bless, Anguilla."
Brad's a little tone deaf. Also, he has no idea of the song's rhythm so it's really just a musical massacre.
After dinner, they return to the backyard where Nate retrieves a gray case from the storage shed. Inside are knives and Chinese throwing stars. Brad can feel the glee spread all over his face. Nate chuckles. "This is what we call positive reinforcement. If you behave, you get to play."
Brad picks up one of the throwing stars, pricking his ring finger on the sharp edge. He ignores the smear of blood, focusing on holding the star just the way Rudy taught him before flinging it at the archery target.
He hits the circle just outside the bulls-eye.
Nate nods in approval. "Good."
The next several days are just like the first: night runs, archery, studying, dexterity skills. After Brad gets accustomed to the pattern, Nate changes it. Brad studies in the morning, runs in the afternoon under the brutal sun and then practices his archery and knife skills.
At one point Nate takes Brad out running as the sun sets, and then, once it's dark, he blindfolds Brad and forces him to follow Nate's voice eight miles home.
Two days later, Nate ties Brad to a tree, handcuffs his wrists and times how long it takes him to get free.
The day after that, two trampolines appear in the back yard. According to Nate, jumping from trampoline to trampoline is how Brad's going to learn how to manage his landings.
"Landings from what?" Brad asks.
"Sometimes you may have to leave a job suddenly."
Brad narrows his eyes. "You mean I may have to jump out of windows."
"Or moving cars."
"You are so full of shit," Brad says. Nate stands there placidly. Brad stares. "You're fucking serious, aren't you?"
"This isn't the kind of thing you want to learn on the job," Nate says.
"I hate you."
"I know."
Brad loves jumping on the trampolines. He hates trying to figure out how to jump off the trampolines without killing himself. After he's dismissed from his afternoon in hell, Brad strips off his shirt, kicks off his shoes and jumps directly into the swimming pool.
He hasn't really had a chance to use the pool yet between his morning training and his afternoon training and his middle-of-the-night training. He does several laps, reveling in the coolness of the water, diving down to the bottom and dragging his fingers along the smooth concrete.
When he finally surfaces, Nate's sitting at the edge of the pool, his feet in the water. "You're good," he says.
Brad swims over, resting his forearms on the ledge next to Nate. "You're not so bad yourself." A beat. "I've been watching you."
Nate just nods. His face is pink in the Maryland sun. There's sweat dotting his upper lip.
"Are you coming in?" Brad asks.
Nate shakes his head. "No, thanks. I hate swimming."
"That doesn't even make any sense. You swim all the time."
Nate's legs move lazily through the water. "I grew up here, in Baltimore. Every summer we used to go on vacation to the Eastern Shore -- Ocean City - with some family friends, the Harrisons. The summer before fifth grade, their son, Jeremy, drowned when were out swimming. I've been pretty anti-swimming since then."
Brad pushes himself out of the pool, sending a rush of water all over the place, including onto Nate. Nate doesn't seem to care.
"If you hate swimming so much then why the hell do you do it?" Brad asks, settling next to Nate and shielding his eyes from the sun so he can see Nate better.
"I had to get over it when I joined Section," Nate says. "It's just one of those things."
Brad looks down at where his thigh is pressed alongside Nate's. "Oh," is all he says.
Nate has culinary skills Brad never could've imagined.
They have Cornish game hens with a lemon herb butter one night and tilapia with a spinach pecan pesto on another. Brad makes obscene noises over Nate's gnocchi with spinach and sausage, and belches obscenely after the pepper-crusted lamb chops in a red wine sauce.
Belching is a sign of approval to Bengalis. (At least that's what Brad told Nate the Atlas said).
There are blueberry muffins for breakfast and oatmeal raisin cookies for dessert. And after Nate cooks, Brad cleans. That's the unspoken agreement.
They're in the kitchen one night, Brad's cleaning up after the steak and asparagus Nate fixed for dinner, and Nate's sitting at the kitchen table drinking Grolsch beer and eating two of the vanilla cupcakes he made yesterday. "Where's all this food coming from?" Brad asks.
"The house has a caretaker. He takes care of the groceries and maintenance."
"How come I've never seen him?"
"Because he's not paid to be seen."
"Is he the one who picked out all my clothes?"
Nate's cheeks flush with color. "No, that was me. Why, is there a problem?"
Brad smirks down at the pan he's scrubbing. "No, no problem," Brad says. Well, except that Brad isn't sure there are enough hours in the day for all the jerking off he wants to do while thinking about Nate choosing clothes for him to wear.
He cuts a glance at Nate and wonders if Nate does the same thing. Jacking off while thinking about Brad wearing the clothes he chose.
It seems pretty archaic, being dressed by someone else, but apparently it makes Nate happy. And that gets Brad off.
Most of what Brad wears are workout clothes, but there are plenty of board shorts and T-shirts. There are hoodies and jeans, and Brad's pretty sure there are a few suits in his closet as well.
This also means that Nate picked out Brad's underwear. There's no reason for this to make him flush, but he does all the same.
He gets over it by flicking a handful of soap suds at Nate, who looks up in consternation. "What?"
"Am I getting paid?" Brad asks.
He has no idea where that came from.
Nate's apparently taken off guard, too. "Do you think you should be? We clothe you, feed you and train you. What do you need money for?
"Retirement."
"You're talking about retirement? You haven't even started work yet."
Brad rinses the pot and sticks it in the drainer. "I'll never be able to get another job," he points out. "Not now."
"I don't know about that. I heard you were pretty handy with computers."
"That's just what my records say," Brad replies, scrubbing several pieces of flatware. "You don't know if it's true."
"Yes, I do. You've done informational searches for me."
Brad's so startled he gets stabbed by a fork. "I have?"
Nate licks frosting from the corner of his mouth. "Did you ever read the copy of The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo I gave you?"
Brad blinks. "Yeah, I did. It was something else."
Nate's licking his fingers now. "Well, you're my Lisbeth Salander."
Brad laughs. "I'm your motorcycle-riding, kick-ass, emotionally stunted computer hacker who beats up sadistic captains of industry with a golf club?"
Nate grins. "Pretty much."
"I think you just gave me a compliment."
"I think you're right."
Brad's is so pleased it's almost shameful. He rolls his eyes at his own inane behavior. "When I was reading it I kept thinking about this client I used to have," he says, changing the subject. "Prometheus. He always wanted the strangest shit."
"Prometheus? The guy who stole fire from Zeus and gave it to man?"
Brad raises an eyebrow.
Nate picks at his remaining cupcake. "I like Greek mythology."
"Is there anything you don't like?"
"Brussel sprouts. Olives. Extreme cold. People who can't admit it when they fuck up. Golf." Brad laughs. "I cut you off though," Nate apologizes. "You were telling me about your client."
"Yeah, Prometheus. He was something else. One time he wanted the hypothetical trajectories of certain North Korean satellites. Another time it was mirrored hard-drives of random people, like the head of NBC. Once he wanted a list of all the people who'd ever checked out Das Kapital from the library more than ten times between 1980 and 1985."
Nate cocks his head to the side, his hair falling across his forehead. "It's nice to be remembered."
Brad stops washing and peers intently at Nate. "You're Prometheus? You're the one who's been giving me jobs for the last two years?"
"I told you I've had my eye on you for a while."
Brad doesn't know whether to be flattered or disturbed. He goes for Door #3. "It's nice to be wanted," he says. "Now about getting paid."
"To answer your question: yes, you will be paid. Twenty-five thousand dollars for successful completion of each assignment. There's an account in your name at Bank of America that you can access at any time."
Brad rinses off the rest of the flatware. "Who decides what constitutes success? You?"
"Management."
"And what percentage goes to you?"
Nate takes a swallow from his beer before answering. "None. That's your money."
"What about the other money?" Brad asks, drying his hands on a dish towel as he drops down at the table across from Nate and steals what's left of Nate's cupcake.
"Other money?"
Brad fixes Nate with a look as he peels away the cupcake wrapper. "From before."
"Brad, you know that life is over."
"So the money's gone?"
"No, the money's there."
Brad pauses with the cupcake halfway to his mouth. "It is?"
Nate finishes off his beer and pushes away from the table.
"I wanted you," he says, getting to his feet, "not your money."
Nate lets Brad sleep in the next morning. According to the little wind-up clock on Brad's nightstand it's almost 6:30 in the morning when Nate finally knocks and tells Brad to get dressed.
Brad's all set for their run, or for archery, or god forbid, being quizzed on the number-one export from Gabon and all the religious sects in Mayotte.
Instead, Nate leads Brad straight into the coat closet in the foyer. When Nate closes the door behind them, Brad whistles low. "If you wanted to be alone with me, you didn't have to go to all this effort."
"Shut up, Brad," Nate says, pressing at what turns out to be a false wall. Seconds later Nate's leading Brad down a set of stairs that are lit by nothing more than safety lighting. At the bottom of the stairs there's another door that requires voice recognition, a retinal scan, and unless Brad's mistaken, a finger print that's actually a blood test.
Who knew the U.S. Government was so paranoid? Oh, wait.
The door creaks open and Brad follows Nate into an enormous cavern... that's actually a shooting range.
"Hello, Nathaniel Fick," an electronic voice says in welcome. It's eerie.
Along the far wall are the lanes, at least six of them. And targets. Black paper shapes with white backdrops just waiting.
On the near wall is a glass case behind which are a variety of handguns, semi-automatic rifles, double-barrel shotguns, a few machine guns Brad thought went out of production around World War II and everything in between.
Upon closer inspection the glass case is actually about three inches of plexiglass. Brad watches as Nate opens the case and takes down two handguns. Nate tucks one into the waistband of his pants and walks the other over to Brad.
"This is a Beretta," Nate announces, handing the gun to Brad. "How does it feel?"
Brad looks intently at the weapon in his hand. It's cool, metallic, nothing more. Four or five months ago he would've killed for a weapon like this if it meant he could leave Section. Now, it's just a piece of equipment. "Light," he says.
Nate nods. "That's because it doesn't have any bullets in it. You think you could work with it?"
"If I had to."
Brad watches as Nate produces a bullet from his right pants pocket and pulls the gun out of his waistband. "This is a Sig Sauer," Nate says, ejecting the magazine, loading the bullet into the empty cartridge and then loading it back into the gun and pointing it at Brad.
Brad holds his hands, Beretta and all, high in the air. "Nate, what the fuck - I thought... I -- don't do this."
Brad doesn't want to get shot. He doesn't want to die. But more pressing than both of these things is the fear of dying by Nate's hand. Nate is the only one - the one thing --
Nate who just stares at him blankly.
Brad can feel the anger stirring in his veins. Betrayal. Genuine hurt and disappointment. "If you're going to do it, then just fucking get it over with," Brad snaps, lowering his hands.
Nate's right eye closes like he's winking and the gun goes off.
Brad can feel the bullet breeze by his left ear.
He doesn't wet himself, but it's a little close.
He takes a step back when Nate advances, but Nate keeps coming only to grab Brad by the bicep with his non gun-wielding hand and spin him around 180 degrees.
Nate points with the muzzle of his gun, his chest plastered against Brad's back. "Look at the target in lane three," he says, his mouth by Brad's ear. "I just shot it in the head even though you were standing right there."
Brad doesn't follow.
He turns his head, and his nose bumps along Nate's cheekbone.
"I need you to be able to do that," Nate says quietly. "To get the job done no matter the distraction."
Brad looks down at Nate's hand on his arm, his thumb rubbing back and forth gently, and then back up at Nate. "I can do that," he lies.
Nate releases his hold on Brad and steps back while offering Brad the butt of the Sig. "I know you can."
Brad takes the Sig in his right hand and looks down at the Beretta in his left.
Brad holds both of the guns out in front of him, like he's seen in the movies and pulls the triggers. The Sig doesn't fire, but the Beretta does. The noise and the recoil stun Brad and he looks over at Nate in disbelief. "I thought you said it wasn't loaded."
Nate shrugs. "I needed you to trust me."
"So you lied to me?"
"I needed to know that you'll believe everything I tell you."
Brad stares. "What if I'd tried to shoot you?"
"There's only one bullet in there."
"One bullet is plenty."
Nate's mouth quirks up. "You're sounding more like an assassin every day."
"You're nuts."
Nate's smile is small, intimate. "It's why you like me."
Brad doesn't know how to respond to that.
He doesn't even know what's more dangerous: the people he probably works for, the weapons he's holding in his hands or the man standing across from him.
Brad spends the entire morning at the range, getting accustomed to the feel of various handguns. After showing Brad how to load and eject the cartridges from the Sig Sauer and the Beretta, Nate throws a Glock 22 into the mix.
It's hard dealing with the recoil, the smell of cordite and the differing weights on each trigger. And then the music starts.
The bass is throbbing, the vocals are ear-shattering, Brad can't feel himself breathe never mind focus on shooting accurately. He turns around in disbelief, but Nate impatiently gestures for him to continue.
Of course Nate's also wearing ear protection. Asshole.
How the fuck is Brad supposed to focus...
Oh. He's not.
He's supposed to adapt.
Brad grits his teeth and carries on, trying to hit the target in the head while his brain is rattling around in his skull. After a while, though, the rap music becomes less arduous. Brad can concentrate. Kind of.
And then a fan starts blowing right above his head. It's loud and powerful as hell; Brad has to widen his stance just to keep upright.
When Brad tosses a scowl over his shoulder at Nate, the fucker winks at him.
They have lunch later than usual; Brad's ears are ringing, and he's only half-pretending when he forces Nate to repeat everything he says twice. Afterward Nate leads Brad around the side of the house where there are several cables and a couple of grappling hooks lying on the ground and something that Brad's pretty sure is a harness.
"Kinky," he says, picking up the most-definitely-a-harness and studying it. "I didn't know you were into bondage."
Nate's hair is strawberry blond in the late afternoon sun instead of its usual sandy brown. He squints at Brad, his mouth twitching with merriment. "I'm into a lot of things," he confesses. "Right now, I'm into looking at your ass as you scale the side of the house."
Brad drops the harness at the same time his mouth drops open. "Are you flirting with me?"
Nate holds out a grappling hook and a cable. "Get these hooked around the chimney and then you can decide for yourself."
Brad tucks the grappling hook between his ribs and his upper arm, careful not to accidentally impale himself, and studies the eyelet of the hook critically.
Back in the early days of his training with Mike there were several lessons on escaping being attached to hooks and chairs and poles. This led to a study of knots. Who knew it would have so many practical applications?
"You have a knot in mind for this?" he asks.
"Whatever you think'll hold your weight." A pause. "I wouldn't recommend a slipknot though."
Brad thinks for a moment and then goes for a series of overhand knots. "It's not fancy," he warns.
"It doesn't have to be fancy, it just has to get the job done. You can impress me later," Nate says. "Now get that up there."
Rather shockingly, Brad manages to get the grappling hook into a good position on his first try. At least he thinks it's a good position.
"Looks good," Nate says, giving the cable a firm tug. "Go to it."
Brad narrows his eyes. "Go to what?"
"Climbing up to the roof."
"You're serious? I thought you were fucking with me."
"Then what, exactly, did you think the point of this exercise was, Brad?"
"To win you over with my awe-inspiring knot-tying skills."
Nate swipes his tongue over his upper lip. Bastard. "If I were grading you on your skills, you'd fail. Now start climbing."
Brad taps his knuckles against the side of the house. "You want me to climb bricks?"
"That's what the cable's for. I'm not asking you to do it freehand. That comes later."
"Have I told you lately how much I hate you?"
"Not today, no."
The difference between scaling a building with a cable versus using a harness is like driving a Yugo to war instead of taking a Humvee.
For dinner they have leftovers on the terrace. The mosquitoes are murderous, and Brad spends more time fighting them off than he does eating his pasta salad. He takes their empty Tupperware into the kitchen and grabs several pieces of fruit to bring back to Nate.
When he returns, Nate's sitting at the edge of the pool with a green metal box at his side.
Brad hands Nate an apple, a banana and a bowl of berries and then drops down beside him, sticking his feet into the pool. He takes the apple back, bites into it and then goes for the $64,000 dollar question. "Is this where you keep all your sex toys?" he asks, tapping the green box.
Nate chuckles as he eats a blueberry. "Why don't you tell me? After all, it's a present for you."
"For me?" Brad sets the apple in his lap, drags the box over to his side and opens it. Inside the metal box is another box with an envelope attached.
Brad opens the envelope and removes a credit card.
"Don't get excited," Nate warns. "The card's expired."
Brad gives Nate his best disappointed look. "So what am I supposed to do with it?"
"You're supposed to use it to open the next box."
Brad extracts a yellow metal box from the green box and shakes it. There's no latch.
Putting his apple in his mouth, Brad sets the box on his lap and begins trying to jimmy the lock with the credit card. First he tries the long side of the credit card and then the short. Finally, he manages to spring the lock with the edge of the card.
He's also drooled all over his apple.
He sets the defiled apple on the concrete next to him, places the credit card next to it and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
He opens the yellow box, only to find a red box inside of it. This one has a paperclip taped to the lid.
He frees the paperclip and looks up at Nate. "Now what?"
"Now you use the paperclip to open the box."
"I do?"
"Welcome to Lock Picking 101."
"Are you telling me paperclips work outside of bad movies and TV with lazy writing?"
Nate pops a raspberry into his mouth. "Guess you're about to find out."
Brad unfolds the paperclip and studies the tiny lock holding the box together. "Tell me again why you're putting me through this?"
"Because you're my asset."
Brad looks up at Nate. "So you do this with all of your assets?"
"Well, you're my first. So, so far... yes."
"I'm your first?"
"Yeah."
"You've never done this before? Not with anyone?"
Nate scratches the side of his neck. "No," he says. "Out of hundreds of possible assets for Bravo, you were the only one I wanted."
Nate's trying to tell him something important. Brad sets the box down and listens. "I've been off the grid for almost ten years. How the hell could you even know about me?"
Nate smirks. "You can't hack the NSA and ever be off the grid. There are files about you, about your computer skills, about your past. And I was curious. I could've had any soldier anywhere in the world, but I chose you."
Brad rubs the back of his head. His hair's been growing in; maybe he needs to cut it again. "Why?"
"Because I didn't realize it was going to be so hard." Nate admits. "Choosing a civilian for Section meant that I had to prove you to Management. That I had to - have to -- prove that you're the right choice. Every class, every lesson is about proving your worth and the worth of my team. I've been hard on you and I know it, I'm not sorry, but I wish I could've done things differently."
"Differently how?"
Nate's eyes are focusing somewhere past Brad's shoulder. "I thought that I'd be able to talk to you -- court you," he says. "Try and show you what you could do if you came to work for me. But that's not how Management operates."
Nate's tone is quiet, wistful. But there's something underneath it. Distress. Disillusionment. "How does Management work?" Brad asks.
Nate sucks on his lower lip for a moment. He looks uncertain. "I spent months working to set up my team, finding Poke, Mike and Rudy, calling in favors to get Walt and Ray from R&D." A beat. "And then I found you. And you were it. I went to Management to see what they thought... and Management decided they would procure you at any cost. I was informed that if I didn't make this happen you were going to be dealt with."
Any cost. Dealt with.
The chill that races through Brad's veins has nothing to do with his feet in the pool. "Did you set me up to be arrested?" he asks fiercely.
"No, I didn't - it wasn't me," Nate insists.
"But you know I didn't kill anyone."
"Brad."
"You know I didn't do it." Brad knows the answer to this, but he has to hear it from Nate.
"Yes," Nate concedes. "I know you didn't do it."
"And you let them do this to me." Brad's tone is so hard, so bitter he almost doesn't recognize his own voice.
"I didn't have any choice," Nate pleads. "If I didn't bring you back, they were going to leave you there to rot."
"I wasn't guilty!"
"Do you know how many innocent men are wasting away in prison? Do you really think the U.S. Government gives a shit if some hacker rots in jail?"
"You work for these people. You're just as guilty as they are." Brad scrambles to his feet.
"Brad, listen," Nate says, reaching out for him.
When Brad shoves Nate away, he does it with everything he has. There's a strange cracking thud and splash as Nate falls into the pool.
And then there's nothing but the sound of the water lapping against the sides of the pool.
Brad stares as Nate sinks down into the blue depths.
And keeps sinking.
Nate hates swimming. Maybe that's a lie.
He should be moving by now regardless.
Except Nate's never lied to Brad.
Not even about this.
Brad hits the water hard. Jumping in because it's too shallow to dive. Nate waits at the bottom of the pool, pale and lifeless. Brad grabs him under the arms and pulls him to the surface. Water runs down Nate's face but the water is faintly pinkish in hue.
Trying to heft Nate out of the pool when Brad can barely touch the bottom is almost impossible, but he gets it done and then propels himself out right after. Nate's in a crumpled heap and when Brad stretches him out alongside the pool his lips are slightly blue. There's blood smeared on his cheek.
Brad will panic later. Right now he'll remember military school and Sidney Hill and the sleeper hold that didn't work and the CPR that did. He tilts Nate's head back, pinches his nose and breathes into Nate's mouth, one, two.
Nate's chest is rising, but he's not conscious.
Brad sits up and begins compressions. One, two, three, four...
"Nate, if you die on me, I will never fucking forgive you," Brad swears.
A second later, Nate begins coughing, water bubbling between his lips and his body spasming.
Brad rolls Nate into his side, patting his back as Nate coughs and heaves. "You okay?" Brad asks, rubbing circles through the damp cloth of Nate's shirt.
Nate coughs more, his body curling into a fetal position. Brad leans over him, studying him intently and brushing water away from his mouth.
He moves back when Nate pushes himself to his knees, water running down his face. Nate's eyelashes are plastered together, his lips are blue and blood is trickling down his temple.
"Did you just save my life?" Nate asks, looking slightly stunned and very dazed.
"Considering I almost took it I thought I should," Brad says.
"Brad."
There are all kinds of things in Nate's voice that Brad doesn't want to hear at the moment. "You're bleeding," he says.
Nate blinks at him. "I am?"
Brad takes Nate's fingers and presses them to Nate's temple. "Right there."
Nate's skin is cold, clammy. His hair soft. Brad pulls his hand away immediately.
"About what I said," Nate begins. "About Management. About us."
"I think you've said plenty for one night," Brad finishes, getting to his feet.
He leaves Nate on the terrace and goes upstairs to his room. He closes the door behind him and sinks down to the floor. The carpeting is plush, thick. And definitely preferable to his cell in solitary.
He needs a drink and a shower. He needs a computer and his old life. It wasn't much of a life, but it was his in a way nothing seems to be now.
Nothing about this life is really his except his relationship with Nate.
Brad doesn't know how long he sits there before he hears the creak of footsteps outside his door. He waits but nothing happens. Eventually, Nate leaves and Brad goes and cleans himself up.
That night he falls asleep reading Le Rouge et le Noir because Nate recommended it.
The next day is strange.
Brad's already done with breakfast by the time Nate appears. And instead of making a protein shake or eggs or even a few bowls of cereal, Nate pours himself a cup of coffee and sits down at the table.
He has two butterfly tapes at his temple and dark circles under his eyes.
Brad watches Nate drink, waiting for instructions, acknowledgment. Eye contact. Something.
Nate just rubs his eyebrow and stares out the window at the pool.
Brad sighs and gets up. If this is Nate's way of granting him independence he's not going to waste it sulking about the boy who doesn't want to be his friend anymore.
Instead, Brad does what he thinks he's supposed to do. He reads the newspapers in the library, cursing at Real Madrid's performance in the Spanish football league as he flips through El País. Those fuckers don't deserve their good luck. He studies ten countries and wonders if the 1,398 people of Niue ever get tired of living on taro. He goes to the firing range and decides he likes the Sig better than the Glock, but not better than the Beretta.
After a few hours, he goes outside to practice scaling with a harness, but the idea of crushing his nuts doesn't seem very appealing. He decides instead to go for a run, which is more like a jog without Nate there goading him on.
He leaves the property, squeezing through the hedge to the outlying forest that hasn't been developed. The trees seem to provide sufficient coverage from the sun for once, and Brad finds himself heading in the direction of the creek. It's an unbeaten path that Nate favors and Brad spends his time focusing on not tripping over tree roots and rocks.
When he gets back to the house, there's a strange buzzing noise he can't identify. He ducks through the hedge and nearly gets beheaded by man welding a chainsaw.
Brad reacts first. Ducking around the back of his attacker, grabbing the chainsaw-wielding arm and applying pressure until he can feel bones shifting and the chainsaw is released into his own hand.
When his attacker goes down to his knees with a cry, Brad nails him in the kidneys and follows that up with a kick in the ribs for good measure.
Rudy and Mike would be proud.
"Stop! Stop!" a pale man with thinning hair gasps, clutching his arm to his chest. The man's wearing saggy jeans and a brown T-shirt that says SuperFly. He's got middle-age paunch and doesn't look dangerous, but he did just try to kill Brad.
"Who the hell are you?" Brad demands, holding a buzzing chainsaw in one hand while pressing his foot down on the man's windpipe.
"Care... caretaker!" the man wheezes. "Evan Wright!"
Brad removes his sneaker from Wright's throat and cuts off the chainsaw. "You're the caretaker?"
"Fuck." The man curses, rolling onto his side. "I think you broke me."
"Why were you trimming the hedge with a chainsaw?" Brad demands.
"Because I left my flamethrower at home. Why the hell are you running in the middle of the afternoon? Nate told me you all were working at the house all week."
Oh. Oops. "Failure to communicate," Brad explains. "You okay?"
Wright waves Brad off when he tries to help him up. "I think you've done plenty already," he says, getting to his knees unsteadily.
Brad watches him carefully.
"I think I'll finish this up another time," Wright says, holding his arm to his chest like it's broken. Maybe it is. "Like in the middle of the night, when you're asleep."
"We run in the middle of the night sometimes," Brad says.
Wright shakes his head and begins patting at his pockets with his good hand. "You guys need to get a fucking hobby," he says, pulling a joint and a lighter from his back pocket.
It takes Wright several tries to light the joint. He takes a long hit and seems to exhale forever. "You want some? You could probably use it."
Brad shakes his head. "I think my government frowns on paying me to get high, but thanks anyway."
"Your government must suck," Wright says, taking another toke. "My government subsidizes my habit just so I can pretend this place is a hallucination."
Brad gestures over his shoulder. "I should get back to the house."
"Yeah," Wright exhales. "You should. Try not to incapacitate anybody between here and there."
Brad flips Wright the bird as he turns on his heel and runs back. He enters the house through the kitchen door only to find Nate's still sitting at the table where Brad left him. He has a book open in front of him, but he doesn't seem to be reading it.
"I met Evan Wright," Brad informs him.
Nate doesn't even look up from his book.
Brad stares at the crown of Nate's head for several moments before he stalks through the kitchen and upstairs to his room to shower, change and regroup.
Lunch is just as quiet as breakfast. Nate ignores the sandwich Brad sets in front of him, and eventually he gets up and walks away. Brad follows him into the library, carrying his red metal box from last night. It was sitting on the table in the kitchen when he came down for breakfast.
He removes the straightened paperclip taped on top and goes back to work.
He opens two more boxes before he breaks. He sets down a blue box the size of a video tape on the coffee table and walks over to the wall of books. It takes him a while to find something he's happy with, but eventually it happens.
He takes the book over to Nate. "If you're not going to talk to me, read to me."
Nate looks up at him, eyes wide, but he closes his book and takes the one Brad's holding out.
Brad watches as Nate opens he book and pages through to the first page. Nate reads the opening line of David Copperfield to Brad without looking at the book at all.
"Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show."
Part III