Page 54 of Chasing Kit

“I haven’t talked to Leland, either,” Kit added. “Not since I found out he was spying for Dad. He sent me a meme last night and I blocked him.”

“If that’s what you need to do.” I squeezed his hand even though I didn’t fully agree with what he’d done. Leland cared for him. Anyone with two eyes could see that, but it didn’t change the fact that Leland was paid to babysit Kit. “You deserve the best.”

Kit shot me a look, a hint of a smile returning. “You mean you?”

I smirked. “I’m nobody’s best. Just ask Nitro.”

Kit laughed again, softer this time. “That man respects you as much as you respect Dad, by the way.”

“I’m glad I could give him a way out.”

He reached for my hand, intertwined our fingers. “I told Dad I’m not going to stop seeing you. I told him if he tries to keep us apart, I’ll leave for real. No more bodyguards, no more spying. He can’t leave me in the dark anymore.”

I let that sink in. Kit was drawing the line. Something shifted in my chest, intense and comfortable even though I didn’t have a name for it.

“What did he say?” I asked.

“Nothing.” Kit smiled. “He just got really quiet and nodded. I think he understands the stakes now. I get to be with you. I’m yours more than his now.”

I pulled him closer and pressed a kiss to his temple. Love burst behind my ribs, somewhere deep inside me in a spot I hadn’t known existed. I’d thought I had a frozen heart, but maybe it was in hibernation instead. He shivered but didn’t pull away.

“I missed you, War,” he whispered.

“Missed you more.”

He nudged my shoulder. “Take me to your place?”

The only people who’d been to my house were me and Nitro, but even I was barely there. The more I stayed away from a place that made me stop moving, the better. It existed for the sole purpose of sleep. Nothing more. Nothing less. Still, I needed to give him this.

“Yeah, let’s do it.” I started the engine, the low growl filling the car. “Whatever you want.”

Kit leaned over, pressed his mouth to mine again, this time softer and slower, like we had all the time in the world.

We pulled out of the lot, heading nowhere fast. For the first time since I’d come back to New Gothenburg after deployment and Eric’s death, I wanted to be alive.

15

KIT

I’d never seen where War actually lived, so when we parked in front of the modest clapboard townhouse, I realized that for all the hours I’d spent watching War, I’d never really glimpsed him outside the tight focus of my own needs.

He unlocked the door with his keys and scanned his thumb on a keyboard in the entryway. I trailed after, waiting for the alarm chirp and the sound of War’s shoes thumping on the cheap fake wood. I walked past him, and he let me while he stayed at the door.

The interior wasn’t big. Maybe nine hundred square feet, split into a two-story rectangle with stairs right inside the door. The whole place was painted that bland landlord white, like someone had walked through with a spray can and tried to erase all evidence of emotion. But there was a faint trace of something good in the air—like fresh coffee grounds and lemon zest, and the musty nostalgia of old paperbacks.

For some reason, I expected it to be sterile—military clean, spartan, and with nothing personal. Instead, the first thing I saw was a row of framed photographs lining a battered wooden console by the stairs. Most were the matte-finish kind you got from drugstore kiosks—no fancy studio shots, just little moments frozen on paper. I paused, forgetting myself. War left the door open behind us, watching in silence from the threshold.

The largest frame was a horizontal, weather-blasted snapshot of two boys standing shirtless on a dock, both holding fishing rods while making faces at the camera. One was obviously War—maybe thirteen or fourteen, already sturdy and suntanned, arms banded with ropey muscle. The other kid looked just like him, only smaller and cockier, his hair sun-bleached almost white, all teeth and mischief.

The next frame had a faded color Polaroid of a woman in a loud floral sundress, her mouth stretched mid laugh. She had War’s cheekbones and eyes, but the smile belonged to the other boy. Eric, I assumed. They all sat around a splintery picnic table with a metal mixing bowl heaped high with something gooey, everyone clutching gigantic spoons, their faces smeared with frosting or peanut butter. The woman’s arms were thrown wide as if she’d just finished telling a huge lie, daring the camera to challenge her.

The last one stopped me cold. It was just the brothers again, a few years older. They were in navy camo, side by side and unsmiling. They stood at attention in front of an American flag, their boots planted and hands behind their backs. This time, Eric’s expression was almost as hard as War’s, the fun version flattened into a soldier.

War made no move to rush me, though the nape of my neck prickled with his watchfulness. I’d been standing there so long my shoulder started to ache from holding my cotton bag. I set it down and traced the edge of the fishing photo.

“Is this your brother?” I asked. Dumb question. The resemblance was uncanny, almost disturbing—like seeing a ghost cloned from War’s DNA, then forced through a funhouse mirror that stole away all the seriousness and left only mischief behind.

War’s mouth twitched. He hung back in the entryway. “Yeah. That’s Eric.”