Damn that boy, Chris Larabee snarled to himself over his
second glass of Jack Daniels. The commanding agent of Team Seven of the
Denver branch of the ATF had been in the bar three hours, nursing the
alcohol in front of him instead of getting stone drunk the way he
actually wanted to. He'd have to drive back to his ranch alone, that
was a certainty, after the way he'd yelled at Vin earlier tonight. He
growled at himself that just the thought was a sign he was growing soft
on his decision. He wouldn't think about it. Hell, he'd been
right, damn it all!
Chris told himself he could have moved out of the way of that fucking
bullet, easily, that Vin could have simply called to him and he would
have sidestepped. It had been a routine assignment; take down a
gunrunner in the suburbs, a cakewalk, really. One of the perps, though,
after they'd assumed the whole situation was under control, pulled a gun
he'd been secreting in an ankle holster. While J.D. had been trying to
disarm the man, the gun misfired, and Vin had thrown himself between the
bullet and Chris.
Typical of Vin. Chris aimed his eyes at the bar's ceiling as
if something there was particularly interesting, since he had no one
convenient nearby to glare at. When he's not in any kind of trouble
that just happens to stumble across him, he's actively pursuing it.
The wound, as per Vin's usual luck, had been pretty serious. The bullet
had broken his arm, and it would keep him out of active duty for a
while. Yeah, right, as if that made any difference to Vin, Chris
thought ruefully, and he almost laughed. Almost.
At the hospital, Chris had blown up at his friend, barking at him for
taking an unnecessary risk. What he counted on his vicious gaze to
normally take care of, he did with words this time. "Dammit, Tanner,
you didn't need to nearly get yourself killed for me!" was the least of
what he'd lambasted Vin with. The worst part of it was that Vin hadn't
protested, hadn't gotten angry, hadn't done anything. Vin had simply
looked at him. His eyes had gone very wide, and their color had
dulled, almost paled. In fear? Resignation? Whatever it had been, it
had kept him quiet and very still.
Too still.
Stop that, Chris mentally gave himself a slap in the face.
He did something stupid, and he knows as much. The truth was,
even though he had stopped truly wanting to die since he'd taken command
of Team Seven, he would rather it be him that was put in danger than any
of the others, especially Vin.
And you don't think the others all don't feel the same way?
Especially Vin?
He's wasting his time.
If you keep treating him the way you did earlier, you'll definitely
prove yourself right, Larabee.
Dammit, I know I'm right in trying to protect him. Chris, weary
of his one-sided argument, turned toward the stage where the band had
been playing for the past half hour.
The Firebrand Prophets was a good band, which was primarily the
reason Chris had chosen this bar tonight. He usually stopped by to
listen to the Prophets when he had the chance. If he hadn't felt the
need to drown his emotions, he might even have brought Vin. Stop
that!
Another dream that ended way too soon
Left me lonely way before dawn
Searching for the strength to carry on . . .
Typical fluffy love song stuff, originally about a girl, but with all
the "she's" changed to "he's" because the lead singer was a woman.
Chris had met her once, after a set, and she was a pleasant, though shy,
girl named Roz Kelling. Plain-featured, a little overweight, which was
probably the source of her timidness, but she had a knockout voice. The
Prophets' number was atypical of their usual fare - classic rock and
80's rock covers - though. It was a country song, as he remembered it.
Nothing to be concerned with except for the fact that the selection was
a little out of the ordinary.
The chorus was what made Chris nearly gag on his whiskey, though.
The bluest eyes in Texas
Are haunting me tonight
Like the stars that fill the midnight sky,
his memory fills my mind
Where did I go wrong?
Did I wait too long?
Or can I make it right?
The bluest eyes in Texas
Are haunting me tonight.
Just a coincidence that Vin is from Texas, and his eyes are that
color, Chris assured himself. The bluest eyes? Nah. Hell, no,
well, maybe. Vin's eyes were something Chris generally didn't
notice, but when he look directly at someone, whatever was in them was
difficult to miss.
After what he'd said, it had been pain. Fear, too, a look that spoke
volumes: Where has my friend gone?
He'd never abandon Vin. Never. Because his younger friend would
never do that to him. Never had. Chris wanted to protect his tracker,
though, would rather himself be shot than Vin harmed at all. Hell, he'd
sooner see himself dead than any of his team hurt, and he'd had the best
intentions. He wasn't ungrateful for what Vin had done, just . . .
afraid that one of these days, Vin would put himself in some danger on
Chris' behalf that he wouldn't be so lucky with.
You know what they say about good intentions, Larabee. And you
sure as Hell acted ungrateful.
I'm wrong, aren't I?
But your heart is in the right place. Swallow your pride.
Chris swallowed a swig of whiskey down, instead, letting the burning
assuage his confusion.
The delicate voice drifted to his ears again, repeating the lines
from the previous verse, but adding,
For every heart you break you pay the price
But I can't forget the tears in his blue eyes.
Vin hadn't cried. At least, it hadn't come down to that when Chris
was still at the hospital. Close, though. That's what he hadn't
recognized. That blue had been close to becoming liquid right in front
of Chris. Tears, because Vin felt he'd disappointed his superior, his
friend. Tears at feeling betrayed. Maybe they were falling now that he
wasn't there, maybe Vin had dismissed the others so he could let them
fall.
If that look in his eyes is haunting me, I think I need to lay
this ghost to rest. I owe him as much. Hell, I owe him more.
Chris wiped his lips with his knuckles and took one last look at the
band, not knowing whether to thank Roz or strangle her. A moment's
internal debate, and he turned away, leaving his whiskey on the table.
He knew what he had to do. There was still time enough to make it
right.
The End
