Join the Club (SWAT Generation 2.0 7)

Had it just been a few hours ago?

I mean, it felt like a lifetime ago that he’d said the words.

I’d talked myself around and around all day today.

“I’m not going to be hungry for a while,” I murmured softly. “I think that I want to go run around all those downtown shops for a bit until I am… is that okay?”

He shrugged and pulled over at the nearest street, once again parking where he’d have to feed the meter.

“I don’t see us being any more than an hour,” I said. “The shops close at six.”

He pulled out a stack of change from his glove box and shoved the roll of quarters into his pocket after pulling five off the top.

“Lead the way, my fair lady,” Bourne drawled in his deep voice.

It sent shivers down my spine.

Grinning, I reached for his hand.

The fact that he didn’t hesitate in giving it to me spoke volumes.

“Come on.”

***

Two hours later, and after feeding the meter two more times, we finally made our way to the truck.

My hands were full of bags, as were one of Bourne’s.

He was carrying twice the amount as I was, but he’d transferred it all into one hand to keep his gun hand free.

He hadn’t exactly been open about why he was keeping the hand free, but I knew.

Bourne always kept his hand free, even when he was holding mine.

I always held his left hand, never his right.

Not that I was complaining.

Two days ago, I wouldn’t have gotten any hands to hold.

“You hungry yet?” he asked curiously.

I nodded my head. “I’m thinking chicken wings. Is that okay with you?”

He gave me a look that clearly said I was off my rocker if I thought that wasn’t okay with him.

“I’m pretty sure all men like chicken wings,” he told me teasingly.

I grinned.

I thought about what he said and realized that was likely true.

There was always a plethora of men at my favorite wing joint in town.

“Chicken wings are my favorite,” I told him. “The hotter the better.”

He raised his brow at me. “Like how hot?”

“Like burn your mouth, you have to take a drink of milk between bites hot,” I told him. “I’m excited, because I’ve heard that Austin has one of the best chicken wing joints in the state.”

We passed an alley, and since it was getting dark, I didn’t see what was waiting down it as we passed.

We were a few feet past it when I heard the scuffle of shoes.

Bourne had already heard them, though.

It took him two seconds to figure out what was going to happen. To my more like thirty seconds.

I was just swinging around, bags in hand, when Bourne had the first attacker on the ground.

Bourne caught the second one before he could make a run for it, catching him around the ankle and yanking him backwards while he put his knee into the first guy’s back.

I gasped at the show of strength, blinking fiercely.

“Wow,” I said.

“Hey!”

I looked backwards to see Bourne’s ‘rent-a-cop’ dude from earlier barreling down on us.

“Oh, shit,” I said, moving over slightly so that Bourne could get the guy on the ground without the cop seeing.

He did right around the time the cop shouted at us not to move.

Thank God he didn’t have a gun, or he might very well have shot Bourne just because he looked suspicious.

“Let me see your hands!” the cop ordered loudly, waving his ticket book around as if he was going to brandish it as a weapon.

He depressed the button on his radio and started shouting that he needed backup.

I looked over at Bourne to see him whispering to the two men that were now lying deathly still.

“Don’t. Move.”

Those two words came out of Bourne’s mouth, and I couldn’t help the small smile that lit my face.

“Let me see your hands!” the cop yelled again.

I held mine up, bags and all, which only helped block Bourne all the more.

“Move!” he ordered.

I moved, this time revealing Bourne who was sitting on the ground, his elbows on his knees, while he raised his hands lazily.

“What do you think you’re doing? On the ground. Face on the concrete,” he ordered, pointing at Bourne.

Bourne started to do as requested just as an officer rolled up in his patrol car.

He took in the scene at a fast glance, looking at the two goons on the ground, Bourne who was about to lie onto the ground, and me.

“Marty,” the man said that took in the scene. “Do you know who that is?”

Marty the ticket writer shook his head. “He’s the guy that I saw beating those other two guys up.”

I snorted.

“He wasn’t.” I crossed my arms over my chest tightly, the bags bumping against my thighs as I did.

“He didn’t,” the new cop said, looking at Bourne, the bags spread all over the ground, and the two guys that were too scared to run away in fear that Bourne would retaliate like he said he would.