Page 28 of Twisted Shadows
Reece: So there IS an answer, and you know what that answer is?
Grayson: I told you to be good and stop using those empath skills to guess national secrets.
Grayson: You’re not being very good.
Reece: Sure I am. Being bad would be completely ignoring all that stupid confidentiality crap around your location and asking for a picture of you lifting the weights that weigh a lot more than me.
Reece: Which you could send. Just saying.
Son of a bitch. Had Reece really just asked the Dead Man for a picture? Was he thinking any of these texts through or had his brain short-circuited somewhere back at the idea of getting tossed around in a friendly hypothetical hate-fuck?
Grayson: Pictures of me are classified.
Reece sat up, frowning.
Reece: What, seriously?
Grayson: The less people know about me, the better. I’m a weapon, remember?
Reece: No, you’re a person. You can’t take or share pictures? Not even with family?
Grayson: Haven’t you worked outthat there isn’t any family anymore?
Reece pressed his lips together.
Grayson: I know you’re an empath, but don’t get upset. It’s not a big deal. I don’t have family or friends. I don’t date. There’s no one to want pictures of me. I might as well be dead—and that’s the point of the Dead Man. It’s not like it bothers me.
It bothered Reece.
Reece: Send me a picture.
Grayson: I just told you I can’t.
Reece typed back so quickly his fingers stumbled on the letters.
Reece: I don’t care about some stupid policy or national security or whatever the bullshit reason is.
Reece: I want a picture of you, Evan.
He sent the text and then stuck his thumb between his teeth, chewing on the tip. The thought of Grayson being so isolated he couldn’t even share pictures of himself—
Grayson could saydon’t get upsetuntil his Texas cows came home. Didn’t matter; Reece was pissed.
He waited, but a couple minutes ticked by and there was no response. Maybe he’d pushed too hard—
His phone screen lit up, and there was the selfie of Grayson he’d asked for, of his reflection in the mirror in a small hotel gym. A water bottle and folded sweatshirt were set off to the side, and he was standing next to some cardio machine, maybe between reps or sets or the hell if Reece knew the lingo when the biggest weight he lifted was the spoon in the sugar bowl. Grayson had a towel draped over one of his shoulders, his sleeveless shirt damp and molded so closely to his torso that Reece could almost feel the contours of his body under his fingertips.
But his gaze was drawn to Grayson’s face. A picture couldn’t be read like a person anyway, so in a still image like this the lack of emotions could be mistaken for a blank expression. And without the distraction of the void of Grayson’s missing emotions, Reece could pick out little things he might not be able to notice in person—that Grayson’s hair still looked photo-ready, even mussed and damp with sweat. That his face was flushed, not red like Reece got but a tawny pink, and that he had a five-o’clock shadow a few shades deeper than his hair. That there were dark circles under his eyes, like most anyone would have when they hadn’t slept enough.
Reece’s gaze lingered on the dark circles, the reddish tint to the whites of hazel eyes. As far as he could tell, Grayson had been traveling since he left Seattle. Maybe he hadn’t had much time to rest. Did he ever go home? Where was his home these days? Still Texas?
Reece tightened his grip on his phone.
And then he hit Call.
It only rang once before Grayson picked up. “Hey, Care Bear.”
Jesus. Reecereallyliked that deep drawl.
