with the plates and the napkins that she forgot she was holding. “Ow—okay, right. I gotta get a grip here.”
“On what?” he asked.
Don’t say it, she told her mouth. Don’t you dare answer that question.
Delivering the eating accoutrements that had assaulted her to the coffee table, she opened up the pizza box and discovered that the pepperoni and cheese had had some very bad plastic surgery, all the features of the pie’s face horribly rearranged, the molten cheese and toppings slopping over part of the crust.
“Nico’s is just around the corner,” she explained unnecessarily. “It always comes superhot so that’s why…” She cleared her throat as she passed him two slices. “Do you want some water?”
Focusing on her empty plate, she put a slice on it and then cracked open her Sam Adams.
“Is there something wrong?” she asked as she realized he wasn’t eating.
“I do not start to eat until you do.”
She blinked. “A tradition of yours?”
“Yes.”
As Syn just sat there, she picked up her slice, nodded to him, and took a bite. When she swallowed, he finally followed suit, and the man ate like he’d been assigned the consumption of the pizza for a class he was taking: precise, controlled, neat, and efficient.
Unlike him, she only managed two bites before her stomach revolted. So when he asked if he could keep going on what was in the box, she nodded.
As Jo sat back and nursed her beer, she watched him while trying not to look like she was watching him. His jaw was going up and down, the hollow under his cheek appearing and disappearing. She had to admit she was surprised he ate all of it. Then again, with that body of his?
Well, actually, thinking of the utter, stupid perfection of his two-arms, two-legs and a torso routine, he should be taking Tren on a regular basis, eating lean meats and low carbs, and pumping weights at the gym twelve hours a day.
Jo took a deep breath. He was back to staring straight ahead, that haunted cast to his harsh face making her wonder what exactly he was seeing behind his eyes.
“Where does the PTSD come from,” she asked quietly. “Is it from what you saw overseas?”
As he glanced at her in surprise, she shrugged. “A lot of servicemen and -women have it when they come back from Iraq. Afghanistan. Wherever they’ve been. It explains a lot.”
When he lowered his eyes, she sighed. “Yeeeeeah, and here I am, talking like I know anything. I’ve never been in the military—”
“Do you always have that gun on you?” he asked.
You mean the one that you had me point at your chest? she thought.
“If I’m out on the street, yes.”
“Keep it with you always.” He looked at her with serious, steady eyes. “Don’t ever have it out of reach. Do you sleep with it next to you?”
She frowned. “Any particular reason why you’re bringing this up?”
“It’s a dangerous world. You need to protect yourself.”
She thought of Gigante. And the body she’d seen wrapped like a bow around that fire escape. “Yes, it can be. But I don’t believe in being paranoid.”
Liar. But she was trying to front so he’d respect her.
“Paranoia keeps you alive.”
“Has it done that for you?”
“Are you a reporter?”
“Nah, I just hang out at the CCJ office, twiddling my thumbs.” She smiled a little. “Actually, I’m in the middle of my first story now. I was doing online stuff before that. And I’m still doing the online stuff.” She tilted the beer bottle toward him. “How about some quid pro quo? And you choose the topic.”
There was a long pause.
“Well, tonight… I saved someone’s life for the wrong reason,” he said softly.
Jo felt the urge to sit upright and go Why? How? Who? Where? in rapid-fire succession. But she sucked all that back.
Keeping her voice quiet and level, she said, “How is it ever wrong to save a life?”
“I just did it because I wanted… to fight.”
“The end result was good, though. And how do you know it was just for fighting.”
“Sometimes that’s all I want to do.” His shoulders tightened, as if in his mind, he was remembering specific conflicts. “Sometimes that’s all I have in me and I have to let it out.”
Jo slowly sat forward, compelled by the mask that covered his face. She needed to know what was under there with an intensity that had bad idea written all over it.
“You can trust me,” she whispered. “With your secrets. I’m not a reporter in