Rare Vigilance (Whitethorn Agency)

The remaining two hours of his shift crawled by. There weren’t enough visitors to their booth to keep Greasy Ferret, Jr. in check. The crowds were changing from families to teens and college kids showing up for the evening’s events. One of the night’s bands was starting to warm up at the amphitheater. They attempted to play classic rock covers. What they lacked in talent, they made up for in volume, and Atlas’s migraine dug in a little deeper.

He was full out nauseous by the time Ferret called it quits for the night.

“I think it’s time to mingle,” Greasy Ferret, Jr. declared as he walked away from his booth. He didn’t bother to clean up anything and Atlas sent up a prayer for whatever poor assistant was saddled with the rancid carbuncle.

“Have a good time,” Atlas replied. It was time to escape at last.

“Hey, wait,” Ferret protested. “You’re not done yet.”

Atlas checked his watch. “That’s incorrect. My shift ended three minutes ago.”

“I hired you to protect me today,” Ferret said. “I’m not leaving yet, so you aren’t either.”

Here we go, Atlas lamented silently. There was something uniquely disgusting about the arrogance that came with privilege, even more so when the privilege wasn’t earned and had been bought and paid for by the hour.

Out loud, he said, “Thank you for working with Whitethorn. Have a nice evening.”

He turned to leave, desperate to get to the parking lot and relative silence of his car. A hand settled on his shoulder, digging into his jacket and the scarred skin underneath. He reacted without thought, spinning free of the grip and landing a quick jab to the diaphragm of his attacker to gain space. A half second too late, he remembered who had grabbed hold of him. There was nothing he could do to take it back though.

Greasy Ferret, Jr. staggered away, gasping and choking. “You—fucker,” he wheezed. “I’m reporting that!”

Goddamn it. Bea was going to be pissed.

“That’s your prerogative, sir,” Atlas said, channeling the few remaining ounces of patience he had left. And then, because Ferret made a rude hand gesture at him, he added, “But in the future I would suggest taking greater care when physically interacting with discharged service members who saw active combat. Not all of us can handle our PTSD like you did in that movie.”

He walked away then, waiting until he was out of Greasy Ferret, Jr.’s line of sight to pull out his cell phone. He grimaced, but hit Bea’s number and waited for her to pick up. The moment she did, he said, “I need you to know, he started it,” before settling in for the lecture he was about to get.

* * *

He shouldn’t have been surprised to find Bea in his apartment when he got back. She had a key, after all. They’d agreed that she should be able to access the apartment in case of an emergency and, to her credit, she rarely visited without warning. She’d been actively working to give him more space during his recovery.

She still slipped sometimes. Now, for instance. She must have headed over as soon as they hung up because she’d clearly made herself at home while he was gone. Her purse and heels were abandoned by the door and her nylon-clad feet were tucked up under her as she sat in the corner seat of his ancient couch. Her short, dark hair was swept away from her face and she was still wearing her power makeup, which meant she’d had an important meeting earlier. It made her narrowed-eye inspection of him a little more intimidating.

“Food’s on the counter,” she said.

He grunted and toed off his shoes. Bea had already drawn the blackout curtains, so his eyes didn’t have to strain so hard against the fading sunlight outside. He peeled out of his jacket and tie on the way to his tiny kitchenette and draped the clothes on the lone chair of his flimsy dining room set, but bypassed the open containers of takeout in favor of his migraine meds. Bea said nothing as he took the rest of his dose. She waited for him to turn around and take in the spread before warning, “If I’d known you were feeling this way, I would have stuck to something less aromatic.”

Atlas shook his head and grabbed a plate. “I could be dying and I’d still try to eat this.”

The lamb kofta called his name. He served up a small portion. He wasn’t sure if he’d be able to keep it down, but it had been so damn long since he could afford takeout, and Bea had even sprung for his favorite restaurant. He glanced over at her. “Don’t take this the wrong way, because I’m really glad you brought this with you, but it seems a little odd to reward me for today’s fuck up.”

“It isn’t a reward,” Bea assured him. Once he sat, she headed over to grab her own meal. “And I haven’t fielded a call from him yet.”

“That’s a relief,” Atlas mumbled. Louder, he said, “You’ll want to add him to our blacklist.”

“Oh?”

“He’s an asshole. And he tried to manipulate the contract at the end of my shift.”

“I’ll make a note of it tomorrow,” she promised. A few minutes later, she’d resettled in her seat with her dinner.

They ate in comfortable silence for a while before Atlas actually processed Bea’s earlier statement. “Wait. This isn’t a reward, so what is it?”

His older sister gave him a sweet smile and sucked some borani off her thumb. He wrinkled his nose in distaste, which made her laugh, and got up to grab her a napkin. She caught it when he tossed it to her, then made a show of wiping off her hands before admitting, “It’s a bribe. Is it working?”

“Why would you need to bribe me?”

“I need you on a temporary contract.”