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As they exited the train car, Jono slipped his hand into Patrick’s and tugged him through the crush of people ready to get their Saturday night started. Jono’s hand was warm in his, the strength in the hold impossible to miss.
“You nearly got your head blown off by that fucker and you didn’t even fight him. You and your suicidal tendencies can sod off with me letting you go,” Jono retorted.
The feel of heavenly magic was a sharp juxtaposition against the ugly burn of hell currently suffocating the beach.
He took a breath and let himself fall into darkness, somehow knowing Jono would catch him in the end.
“Is it too late to eat my gun?” Patrick asked no one in particular.
“You’re drooling,” Nadine said. “Liar,” Patrick said.
If there was one lesson Jono had learned on the streets of London as a child that had followed him through the years, it was this: you didn’t get to keep the things you wouldn’t fight for.
“Your planning skills still leave plenty to be desired.”
“Are you going to monologue at me?” Patrick asked incredulously. “I don’t got time for that bullshit.”
“Is this a bribe? Are you bribing me? Wait a minute. Shouldn’t I be the one bribing you to keep the press at bay?”
“I’ll be your weapon if you’ll be my pack,” Jono whispered against his lips, echoing Patrick’s thoughts.
“Just tell me it’s someone who knows your heart attack-inducing, near-suicidal habits in the field like I do. Mulroney doesn’t count because she’s just as fucking crazy as you are sometimes.”
