Fox said, “That was uncalled for,” his voice flat.
Tenny picked up his water bottle and scrubbed a hand through his hair. “It’s time to cut that one loose. He’s nothing but dead weight.”
Reese found himself frowning, as he thought of guys like Aidan, and RJ, and Boomer: brothers without special skillsets, but who were nevertheless loyal members of the club. He and Tenny – and Fox – all had elite training, and brought certain niche abilities to the table. Even Mercy and Michael had above-average willingness to commit violence. But most of the Dogs didn’t, and yet were still fully-patched members who sat at table and who voted on club measures.
“He’ll never best you in hand-to-hand,” Fox agreed. “Either of you. But it isn’t my decision to cut him loose.”
Tenny made a face.
“He can walk away before his prospect year is up, or he can stay. I will be recommending that he no longer train with us – with you, specifically, since you seem so hellbent on embarrassing him.”
Tenny spat a mouthful of water on the pavement and sneered. “He deserves to be embarrassed.”
“Right,” Fox said, dryly, “because it’s the nineteen-seventies and clubs are nothing but dick-swinging and pissing on prospects so they learn their place.”
Tenny stilled, expression frozen; deciding on a retort, Reese thought.
“Evan’s nothing special,” Fox continued. “He’s just a guy with shit luck who’s made bade decisions, and has nowhere else to go. Just like you.” He nodded toward his brother. Then climbed off the table. “You won’t have to train with him again.” He turned and walked off.
A sharp crackle of plastic drew Reese’s attention; Tenny had crushed his water bottle in his hand. He glanced down at it, expression disgusted, then chucked it away across the pavement.
He stalked over to the bench where Reese sat and threw himself down with a gusty exhale. “Fuck him,” he muttered under his breath, and began unpicking the tape from around his hands.
It was always one step forward with Fox and Tenny, and two steps back. Reese was starting to think that was just the way of brothers; with only a sweet-natured sister of his own, he had no real basis for comparison.
“He was trying to make you angry on purpose,” Reese said.
“I know that,” Tenny snapped, and then sighed. “I know that,” he repeated, softer. “He’s bloody good at it, the asshole.”
“You’re too hard on Evan.”
“Someonehas to be. Do you want that incompetent idiot at your six? Guarding your back? Would you trust him to do what we did the other night?”
“No. But he could have played Carter’s part. He can be useful without being like us.”
Tenny’s lip curled as he dropped the tape and started on his other hand. “Aren’t there enough idiots in this club already?”
“I think acceptance is based on loyalty and willingness, not on usefulness.”
Tenny snorted. “Yes. A wonderfullyefficientorganization, isn’t it?”
Reese shrugged. “It doesn’t have to be.”
He watched Tenny’s profile, the unhappy set of his mouth, and waited for another biting rebuttal.
Instead, Tenny flicked the last of the tape onto the ground and heaved another sigh; settled leaning forward with his forearms resting on his thighs. “Why would anyone design such a thing?” he asked, tone reflective, barely above a whisper. “Why would inefficiency be tolerated?”
“Because it isn’t a squad of assassins,” Reese said. “It’s a family.”
“Family.” He snorted. “Christ, how very mundane.”
“Mundane can be good.”
Tenny turned to face him, finally; his masked was coming loose at one corner, the true him struggling to shine through; a bit of real tension around the eyes, and his mouth. “Careful. You’re very much in danger of sounding like one of them.”
At first, Reese had wondered why Tenny would throw these fits of intense club resistance. They had frustrated him: it felt like whatever progress had been made would evaporate. Like Tenny would start to lean into the idea of belonging, and then reject it wholeheartedly – and Reese along with it. But he’d learned that, rather, these fits were mostly for show. Like Tenny felt like he had to justify his initial prejudices; like he had to fight to remain the detached, perfect, government-trained assassin he’d been before, and which, at least as far as detachment went, he certainly wasn’t now. It was the only life he’d known, that of unemotional efficiency and usefulness; letting go of it was difficult. And so he rebelled, like today; acted like the club and everyone in it disgusted him.
Usually, the fits were brought on by something Fox had said or done. An order passed down from Ghost, whom Tenny still didn’t quite respect as his leader. But this time – this particular fit – had begun a few nights ago, when Tenny sat up suddenly, launched himself from bed, and left the room in a hurry.
