Dorado

A/N: Another chapter! Just as a note, I don't particularly like replying to review questions in author notes, and I don't think I'm supposed to? If you're just leaving a general review, thank you! If you've got a crushing question, direct it to: misol. tumblr. com. So far there's only been 1 reviewer, so this isn't really too big an issue...

Lisa: I think most of your questions will be answered here! :) Hope you enjoy and thanks for reviewing.

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chapter three
  

           The city was cast in a gloomy shadow as rain hammered down onto the concrete surfaces. It was appropriate, in Beck’s opinion, that it had been raining for five days straight. He leaned against the glass while perched upon the window seat cushion, tracing the outline of a neighboring building through the curtain’s sheer fabric. The only light in the room trickled in through the window. Everything was grey, but in a way it was a refreshing sight from the usual acid glow of the polluted sky.

           A low rumble made Beck glance toward the skyline. December’s weather sucks, he concluded as a flash of light lit up the city.

           “I hope the lightening strikes Santa out of the sky,” he muttered to himself, kicking a pillow off of the seat.

           “What did Santa do?”

           Beck continued to stare out of the window. If he strained his eyes, he could make out a trail of smoke in the distance.

           “I knew I shouldn’t have given you my key pin,” he turned slightly. “What brings you here?”

           George chuckled, his massive frame shaking as he stepped out of the shadows and joined Beck on the window seat.

           “Not much,” he said with a sigh and toed off his shoes. “I know I told you to take some time off, but I haven’t seen you outside this apartment for the past two weeks. Have you even been eating?”

           Beck waved the question aside. “I’m alive, aren’t I?”

           George snorted but didn’t pursue the topic. They sat together in silence, watching as lightening lit up the sky again. The rain fell in torrents now, ricocheting off of every surface and creating the illusion of a thick grey mist. It looked as though the whole city was going up in smoke.

           There had only been one question on Beck’s mind the entire week: why? Why had there been another bombing, now, here? Thirteen years had passed since the second, final Pulse. A series of bombings, it had devastated the last remaining major cities and landmarks and corrupted the environment permanently. But there was hope afterwards: hope in a new world, in new lives, even when smaller explosions continued to destroy the vague shapes of a new humanity.

           Even then, the last blast he had heard of happened six long years ago.

           None of it made sense. Why this city? Why Hill’s Pharmaceuticals? Was God so cruel as to deign Beck worthy of only fleeting happiness?

           There is no God, a voice hissed at him. There is only Man and his cruelty. You will find the men who did this, and you will break their fingers, cut off their-

           A loud clap of thunder shook Beck out of his trance. He realized he was sweating and wiped his palms across his thighs. No, he decided, that was not a road he wanted to follow.

           Not now.

           Beck shook himself mentally, waiting for the rage that had been caressing his heart to disperse before he turned to consider George. The man was leaning against the window, eyes trained on the sky, and Beck had an absurd notion that George’s weight would crack the glass.

           “She’d want to have a traditional burial,” Beck said. There was no need to clarify. George turned and regarded him with a somber look.

           “I’m sorry, Beck. You know that’s not possible.”

           He frowned, plucking at a loose string in the curtain. “In a few weeks it’ll be twenty thirty-seven. I don’t want her to be alone in a morgue over Christmas and New Years. It’s not right.”

           A heavy silence followed. “She’s in a better place now, Beck.”

           Better place, my ass, he thought in contempt but kept his mouth shut, turning instead to glare at the rain. It was hard factoring in someone else’s grief when all he could feel was his own.

           “They’re going to cremate her.”

           Beck whipped around so fast he nearly fell off of the window seat.

           “Cremate?” he snarled. “She’s already burnt to a crisp!”

           George flinched back and Beck immediately felt guilty. He kept taking out his anger on the wrong people. There was an uncomfortable pause.

           “She was my friend, too,” George said quietly. Beck stared down at his lap, ashamed. “There’s no discussion in this, Beck. I came here to explain why.”

           The sun had drifted below the horizon now and Beck had to strain his eyes to make out the contour of George’s face. There was pain and exhaustion evident in the lines of his expression; at thirty-four, he could already pass for Beck’s father.

           “Why?” he echoed in a whisper.

           George scrubbed a hand over his face. “You know that virus going around?”

           He nodded. “Break-bone fever. Or at least a variation of it.”

           “With the shitty sanitation and sewage in this world, God knows what it is now. That last Pulse really fucked it up.” George produced a crumpled carton from his pocket and offered it to Beck.

           He shook his head. “But what does that have to do with Samantha?”

           George lit his cigarette and took a few puffs before answering. “You know that as a core member of HL-81’s research team, she was working with some pretty heavy stuff.”

           “I thought they only had her making meds and Micol.”

           George exhaled. The thin stream of smoke glowed faintly in the dying light. “She never told you because she knew with your pathophobia you’d never want to touch her. And I never told you because I agreed.”

           “I like being clean. I would have touched her regardless,” Beck bit out, fingers digging into his legs.

           “Either way,” George said, dismissing the argument. “She had been working in a contained lab with live stock of the virus when the explosion happened. The microbiologist at the hospital confirmed that the entire area, including Samantha, was contaminated. They don’t want to risk anything. This thing can already travel from person to person, but we’re lucky it’s only possible during a certain time frame. Or, in this case, from a direct, concentrated source.”

           Beck moved to speak but George held up a hand. “Beck, please. No interruptions. Just let me get this out.”

           He huffed in irritation but waited for George to continue.

           “Most of the staff at Hill’s Pharmaceuticals is dead. That means a majority of HL-81 is dead from this attack. The rest, those who survived or weren’t at work, have gone missing. I’ve consulted with the other two organization leaders this morning, and we all agree that it seems like HL-81 is on the verge of disbanding, if it hasn’t already.” George pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t even need to tell you what a shittin’ problem this is. But I’ll tell you why we’re so close to being royally screwed up the ass.” He paused to take another drag.

           “Last year, Samantha and the research team developed what they think might be a cure for the virus, or at least a treatment. They hadn’t sent it to be approved by the WHO because they wanted to continue testing it to make sure it wasn’t a fluke. Just a week before the explosion, they decided they were ready. That’s not the only problem,” George sighed. “We think KING is involved in this.”

           “What?” Beck hissed. This was turning into something a lot worse than he had expected. “The rebel group? Why are they involved in all this? What kind of idiots bomb the only known cure for a fatal disease?”

           George tapped the filter of his cigarettes against his lower lip. “That’s what we’d like to know. All we know is that someone got in, things were missing and the whole place was in a mess before the bomb went off. Right now, we’re guessing that they stole some of the new doses and research and are going to use it as a bargaining chip to gain a lot of power. Especially over our organization.”

           “They don’t know where we are, though, right?”

           “We’d already be dead if they did.” George straightened and pulled a metal case from his jacket, grinding his cigarette into the portable ashtray. “As a more immediate problem, our Micol supplier is gone. Seeing as how HL-81 was the only organization with the equipment and research to make it, we’re pretty much fucked. A huge source of our revenue is out the window. I don’t even understand why we agreed to let them keep all the research,” George groaned.

           “Damn scientists and their copyrights. We’re sure they took a great deal of HL-81 Micol equipment and research, too. Since they’re a much larger organization, they’ll be able to start mass producing in no time. Top of the line stuff, too. We’re too ill-equipped to even hope to make something close to Micol. It’ll take our scientists at least four to five years just to reach the purity and skill level of HL-81.” He turned towards Beck with an air of severity. “As an official ally and affiliate of HL-81, we, MH-6, must undertake retribution. Our plan is simple: recover the cure, manufacturing machines, and all the research. In the meanwhile, we burn down a few of their buildings and help a few KING members go ‘missing’.”

           Beck was never the friendliest child in the class, but that didn’t mean he advocated murder in its most seemingly righteous form. But every time he closed his eyes he could feel his feet lift off the ground. He could smell the acrid stench of smoke. Most importantly, he had no peace. It had been three days since he last slept properly, two since he bathed and one since he ate. There was no sense of order left in his life.

           “I want to help,” Beck said quietly but firmly. Maybe this will chase the demons away.

           George’s teeth gleamed under the moonlight when he grinned.

           “I know.”


&


           Beck drifted into work a week later, looking like shit. He had tried to hide it, but the dark bruises under his eyes couldn’t be covered without makeup. Instead, he added another sweater to his usual attire to compensate for his gaunt figure. It was winter, so no one would question the extra bulk.

           He passed through the double doors at seven thirty, startling more than one colleague. Beck had been up since…technically, he didn’t get up since he had never actually gone to sleep. After three hours of watching a blazing sunrise, Beck rode the lift down to the studio for an early start. He could smell the bland aroma of coffee and followed it to the staff lounge. All chatter immediately stopped the instant he stepped inside but Beck ignored it, opting instead to get a cup of steaming hot, watered-down crap. There were eyes drilling into the back of his head and he plucked a porcelain mug off of the rack while giving the others a one-finger salute over his shoulder, never once turning away from the counter.

           This is really shitty coffee. Beck took a sip while the angry muttering resumed behind him.

           “Look at the poor dear,” a soft, feminine voice said. Beck snorted to himself, reaching for the cream. They really had no idea how to keep their voices down. “He looks like a wreck! He must be so devastated.”

           “What are you talking about?”

           “Didn’t you hear? His fiancée died three weeks ago in that blast. It’s just absolutely heartbreaking.” A chorus of sympathetic cooing followed.

           Beck tore open a packet of sugar a little more viciously than he wanted, spilling the fine grains across the counter.

           “Where do you get that from? Look at the guy; he looks perfectly fine.”

           He felt a twinge of anger at that but lifted the cup to his lips instead. After all, he did try to fix himself up before coming to work.

           “That’s ‘cause he’s a cold-hearted fag,” a harsh voice snorted. “He’s probably glad that bitch is dead ‘cause now he ca-.”

           Beck slammed the mug down onto the counter, not noticing when the porcelain shattered and pale, brown coffee cascaded over the edge. He whirled around and stalked towards the group who was circled around one of the tables in the lounge.

           “What. Did. You. Say?” he snarled, slamming his hands down on the table in front of the man.

           It was Tom. No surprise there. He took every opportunity possible to take a jab at Beck, oftentimes loudly insulting him from across the set while safely in the center of a simpering crowd. If they were alone in a room, however, Tom kept his distance and a wary eye on Beck.

           Coward. Beck’s lip curled in disgust.

           Tom was leaning back in his seat, obviously terrified but trying not to show it in front of his fans. He rose to his feet and glared weakly down at Beck.

           “I said your girl was an ugly, old whore who sucked any-,” the man yelped as Beck launched himself across the table, knocking them both over onto the cold floor. He ended up straddling Tom and grabbed his collar.

           “Fuck. You!” he growled, punctuating each word with a fist to Tom’s face. The man grunted as his head whipped back but managed to land his own punch into Beck’s jaw, knocking him to the side. His back collided painfully with a counter edge and he slumped over momentarily, stunned. One of the women screamed and there was the sound of scattering footsteps. Tom had taken the time to jump to his feet and planted a kick into Beck’s chest.

           His ribs bent unnaturally under the force but didn’t crack. How like Tom to kick a man when he’s down.

           Tom wound back his leg for another kick, but this time Beck was ready. He grabbed Tom’s ankle before his boot could connect with his stomach and tugged as hard as he could. Tom fell backwards with an angry shout, his flailing arms knocking over a chair. He leapt onto Tom’s chest and wrapped his hands around his neck. Tom pried at Beck’s fingers, trying to free himself, but Beck only lifted his grip and slammed Tom’s head into the ground. His grip slipped, however, on the sweat that had formed on Tom’s neck, and Beck found himself on his back with Tom looming overhead.

           “Bitch,” the man snarled and smashed a fist into Beck’s nose with a crunch. His head snapped back but Tom continued pummeling him until suddenly his crushing weight was gone.

           Beck groaned quietly, raising himself up on his elbows. Two stone-faced men ead had a grip on Tom’s arms, holding him back as the cut on his lip oozed blood.

           Fuck, he gingerly touched a hand to his nose and winced. His fingers came back slick with blood. Someone called security.

           As if on cue, another man crouched beside Beck and tugged him to his feet. Wordlessly, they were led out of the ruined lounge. A crowd had formed outside the door and whispered none too quietly amongst themselves as Beck passed. He could feel the tips of his ears burning but he held his head high. All that did was allow more blood to drip from his broken nose and he cursed, cramming his sweater sleeve under his nose.

           Goodbye, sweater, he thought forlornly as the blood seeped through the fabric. Their ragtag team left the set and entered the lifts. Beck stood rather uncomfortably in front of the lift doors, glaring back at the reflection of Tom’s murderous look from behind him.

           The group separated after leaving the lifts; Beck was dragged to the left and Tom to the right.

           “Cunt,” Beck mouthed over his shoulder at the retreating man. Tom’s face turned a deep, angry red before he disappeared around the corner and Beck snickered. The idiot looked like he was going to explode.

           He turned back to the man leading him down the hall.

           “Here.” They stopped in front of an all too familiar door. The security guard knocked on the door impatiently and opened it without waiting to be answered.

           George looked up from his work in surprise and then alarm as he took in the blood staining Beck’s sweater and face.

           “What the hell happened?”

           The guard shoved Beck into one of the armchairs and stood stiffly beside him.

           “Mr. Carson was fighting with Mr. McGrath in the staff lounge.”

           George sighed and closed his folder. “I see. If you’d be so kind as to call up the nurse.” The man nodded and left

           Beck ducked his head and slid down in his chair, feeling much like a child about to be scolded by the school dean. He surreptitiously wiped a sleeve across his face again.

           “McGrath started it,” Beck muttered before George could ask.

           “I know,” he said, holding out a tissue box to Beck. “But you didn’t have to act on it.”

           “Yes, I did,” Beck crumpled a few tissues in his hand. “He called Samantha a whore.” He chucked the box onto the other seat and began to scrub at the blood on his hands. It had dried on the web of skin between his fingers and he scraped a nail against it, frowning when dark red chips flaked off.

           Beck looked up at George. “Do you have any water? ‘Cause this…” He trailed off at the thunderous look on George’s face. Even though he knew it wasn’t directed at him, Beck couldn’t help but slide a little lower into the chair and shut up.

           “I see,” George repeated. “I will visit Mr. McGrath later to reeducate him on…appropriate conduct.” He continued glowering for a while until he seemed to realize Beck was also in the room.

           “After you get patched up, just take the rest of the day off.” George sighed and leaned back in his chair. “I know this is hard for you, but just concentrate on yourself for now. If they step out of line again, just let me know.”

           “Thanks,” Beck said tentatively. “But I can handle it.” George shot a pointed look at his broken nose.

           “Lucky shot,” he grumbled and George laughed.

           “If you say so.” There was a momentary pause. “You know, Christmas is in two weeks.”

           “I can count.”

           George rolled his eyes. “I was wondering if you wanted to meet up for our usual drink?”

           “Don’t you have some work to do?” It’s not the same without Samantha.

           “Yeah,” George admitted with a sigh. “I’ve got to fly out a few days before for some organization work, but I could always come back. It’s not much trouble.”

           Beck cracked a few of his knuckles. “Thanks, but I don’t want to make you run back and forth.”

           George frowned and opened his mouth to protest but a soft knock sounded on the office door.

           “Come in!” he called out a little more harshly than he probably wanted to. “Let’s get you patched up, eh?” George’s voice was cheerful but his worrying gaze fell heavily on Beck.

           Beck simply nodded, glad for the interruption.

  
&
  

           By the time Christmas holidays started, Beck’s nose looked relatively normal. Sore, but normal. The bruises had faded into a mottled mix of yellow and brown. He tugged the edge of the scarf further up his face, trying to ward off the winter cold. The foul rain had given way to a bitter chill that seemed to eat its way through his clothing, no matter how much he wore.

           Beck passed a few shoppers desperately trying to get in some last minute Christmas shopping before they lost limbs to the cold. It was nice to see that some things never changed. Admittedly, there weren’t many stores left to shop in, and gifts nowadays were essentials rather than luxuries.

           George had already left days ago, stopping by briefly to offer Beck holiday wishes and questioning looks. The rest of his colleagues had gone home to families and friends, blissfully lazing about until the New Year. Beck felt an indescribable pang in his chest and hunched his shoulders. There was nobody waiting for him at his apartment, where the large empty space only reminded him of what he had lost.

           He turned sharply on his heel and headed in the direction he’d just come from. The only café in the city was thriving, with a constant stream of people coming and going. Beck rubbed his hands together and slipped inside, desperate for some company or even to just sit among strangers. The shop wasn’t particularly large, but Beck was able to find an unoccupied booth. Unwinding his scarf, he glanced around. Most of the customers were simply ordering steaming cups of coffee or tea before scurrying back out into the cold. An overweight woman sat in the booth beside his, looking harried as she tried to keep an eye on her bags while stopping her children from running wild. Beck smiled faintly as one red-headed child escaped from her mother’s grasp and nearly plowed over the waitress that was heading in his direction.

           “Hi,” she said, slightly out of breath. “What can I get ya?”

           “Mug of coffee, black.” He smiled his thanks when she returned with his order shortly, wresting her way through the crowd.

           Stirring the coffee, Beck fixed his gaze out the grubby window next to him. As his thoughts often did nowadays, his mind drifted back to Samantha. George seemed convinced that Samantha had passed through the pearly gates, but nothing about religion made sense to Beck. He’d asked George on multiple occasions what exactly allowed him to believe in a supreme being, but the man never said much.

           “I just do,” he said simply, and refused to expand no matter how much Beck nagged him.

           Beck tapped the metal spoon dry against the cup and set it on the table. His mother had been a devout Christian. She had also been part of the Air Force reserve. If he closed his eyes, it wasn’t hard to remember. The year was twenty eighteen, and Beck was nine. School had abruptly let out mid-May, but he wasn’t about to complain at the chance of an early vacation. When he returned home, however, he realized it wasn’t going to be the summer he imagined. For weeks his parents would stay up late at night, huddled together in front of the TV when they thought he was asleep. He would crouch down on the top step and watch with them, the soft blue light washing over their forms. For weeks, the news showed cities and towns reduced to smoking rubble, children and adults alike screaming and bleeding. He recognized the cities that the agitated reporter named: Los Angeles, Chicago, Houston, Memphis. After a while, the names blurred together. His parents watched this in a tense silence, cradled protectively in each other’s arms.

           His mother shook him awake one July morning. He glanced up and regarded her through bleary eyes.

           “Hey, baby,” she said in a hushed voice. “Mommy’s got to go.”

           Beck sat straight up, all traces of sleep gone. She was dressed in her olive green uniform, freshly pressed, and her dark hair was done up in a bun. Her smile was sad yet comforting and he wrapped his small arms around her neck, holding on for dear life. The tiny cross around her throat was cold against his cheek.

           “I’ll be home as soon as I can, Beck,” she whispered into his hair. “And we’ll go to the park and watch the sky for as long as you like.” His father stood in the doorway, watching them with a blank face.

           He followed his parents down the stairs and to the front door. She gave his father a long kiss and picked up the brown duffle at their feet.

           “Pray for me,” she said, cradling Beck’s cheek with a hand before disappearing into the still dark morning. And he had. He prayed every day with the pure desperation only a motherless child could manage.

           Her death came in the form of a letter, officially stamped and sealed.

           “Sir?”

           Beck jumped, nearly knocking over his coffee. The waitress stared at him with an alarmed expression.

           “Are you all right?”

           “Yes, I’m sorry.” He breathed deeply. “I got lost in my thoughts.”

           She grinned. “Happens all the time. Just thought I’d let you know, the café is closing soon. You know, Christmas Eve and all that,” she added apologetically.

           “No problem.” Beck left a few bills on the table and rewound his scarf.

           The year’s first snow was falling heavy and fast, but Beck felt no joy from the sight. The flakes turned dark as soon as they touched the city streets, lining the sidewalks with a filthy sludge. He trudged his way back towards his apartment.

           Religion had failed his mother, and at nine, Beck decided the throne upstairs was empty.

           His apartment was dark when he stepped inside. After scraping his shoes against the mat, Beck wandered in towards the living room, shedding his scarf and coat on the way. He didn’t bother turning on the lights, navigating around his sparse furniture instead. The liquor cabinet was dusty in its corner, but well stocked for occasions like these. Beck popped open the door and withdrew a bottle of whiskey, not bothering to reach for a glass.

           He sat gingerly on the couch, tucking his legs beneath himself. The leather squeaked unattractively as he shifted.

           Beck stopped then, suddenly hyperaware of everything. He could hear the kitchen clock tick faintly and the wind whistle outside the window, but it was the deafening silence that pounded against his ears. Beck reached across the arm of the couch to flick on the small radio switch.

           Soft, warm music filtered through the speakers and he relaxed into the couch, spinning off the cap of the whiskey bottle. He chucked it to the side, ignoring the loud clatter, and took a swig straight out of the thing. The liquor burned a pleasant path down his throat.

           ‘More than you could ever know, make my wish come true…’ a soft voice crooned. Beck threw his head back and downed another chug.

           “Whoa”. He shook his head slightly. Too fast.

           ‘All I want for Christmas is you…’ Beck glanced up and found Samantha’s welcoming face smiling down at him.

           Her eyes crinkled with never-ending laughter as her image remained frozen and framed. What he wouldn’t give to be there with her…

           “Merry Christmas, babe,” he tilted the bottle towards her in a toast and proceeded to drown his sorrows in the comforting embrace of whiskey.

  
&
  

           Holy-

           Beck covered his head with his pillow, desperately trying to ignore the phone. The ringing felt like shards in his brain and he groaned, reaching a hand out to snatch the phone off of the receiver.

           “What?” he growled, running a hand through his hair.

           “Well, Princess, what’s up your ass?”

           “Dammit, George, not now.” Beck massaged his temples, willing the pounding to disappear.

           “Ah-ha!” George crowed into the receiver, making Beck wince and draw away. “That’s a hang-over bitchin’ if I’ve ever heard one. Geez, Beck, it’s been three weeks since New Years, how’re you still partying?”

           “Ask yourself,” he snapped. Why George thought it was fun to constantly call him early in the morning was beyond him.

           “Sorry to wake you up so early, sunshine, but you’re going on a trip.”

           Beck sat straight up. “What?”

           “Yessir, a nice long trip. Sponsored by yours truly.”

           “Bullshit. What’s going on?”

           “Appreciative little snot you are, huh?” George snorted. “You’re getting shipped out today with the rest of the crew. Actually, you’re already running late so get going while I talk.”

           Beck sprang from the bed, wobbling slightly before struggling his way into his pants. “So talk.”

           “A director in Europe wants to hire one of our camera crews to film a movie. We’re sending a few MH-6 members mixed into the group, and that includes you.”

           “Europe…near KING headquarters?” Beck tugged a shirt over his head.

           “That’s what we’re hoping for. Now, while you’re there, we need you to locate their headquarters, find the cure, and identify key members. It’s fairly straightforward, so I'll brief you more when you get there.”

           Beck paused mid-brush and spat out a mouthful of toothpaste. “How long am I packing for?”

           “A very, very long time.”

  
&
  

           “Tell me again why the hell I agreed to this?” He regarded the noisy crowd in front of him with a disdainful sneer.

           “Stop complaining,” Jonathan said, hefting his duffle onto his shoulder. “You knew what you were getting into.”

           “Fuck me if I care,” he grumbled, dragging a hand through his cropped, blond hair. “What the hell are we supposed to do now?”

           Jonathan shifted his weight from side to side while looking around.

           “I have no idea.” He tapped a passing man on the shoulder. “Excuse me; are you from Mather’s Media?”

           Mason watched as the harried man turned to face them. His curly brown hair seemed knotted yet well cared for, but the bags under his eyes gave him an exhausted look.

           “Yes,” the man said shortly, brown eyes landing on Mason briefly before he turned to leave again.

           “Hey,” Mason snapped and the man stiffened. “Don’t walk away from us when we’re talking to you.”

           Jonathan shot him a scathing glare and Mason snorted, but kept his mouth shut otherwise.

           “I’m sorry; he’s always grumpy after a long flight.” The man looked distinctly uncomfortable.

           “That’s all right. Did you need something?”

           “Yeah, uh, who do we check in with?”

           “The director. I was actually just heading over to her,” he nodded his head towards the crowd, shifting his grip on his own duffle.

           Jonathan smiled. “Great. Mind if we follow?” The man only shrugged and started to walk away.

           Mason dragged his suitcase along as they followed him at a short distance. “What a dick,” he muttered quietly under his breath.

           Apparently not quietly enough. Jonathan turned slightly and frowned but didn’t comment.

           The three came to a stop in front of a small woman whose grey hair was pulled back in a braid. Her muddy brown eyes regarded them with interest.

           “Afternoon, gentlemen. My name is Cynthia Martinez, but you can call me Cynthia. I’ll be your director during your indefinite stay. Make sure you meet me here in the hotel lobby every morning at eight, after you’ve had breakfast.”

           Mason grumpily nodded his head along with the others. This day was just getting better and better.

           “All right, if you give me your names I’ll mark you down and give you your room keys.”

           The stranger answered first. “Beck Carson.” Mason watched as a slim hand reached out to accept the slip of paper.

           Cynthia offered Beck a smile before turning to Mason.

           “Mason Moore,” he grumbled, nearly snatching the paper from her hand. He looked down at the sheet, reading over his room number and key pin.

           “Jonathan Butler,” the big oaf said next to him, bending slightly at the waist. The woman’s face lit up and she shook his hand enthusiastically.

           “The star of the show,” she grinned. “I apologize for not recognizing you earlier.”

           “Not at all.”

           Oh God, Mason nearly gagged. He’s turning on the charms for this old hag. He risked a glance at Beck, who seemed to be almost grinning at the exchange. He caught Mason’s look and the smile immediately dropped away.

           “Excuse me,” Beck interrupted, and left towards the lifts.

           They watched him depart for a few moments, dumbfounded, until Jonathan found his voice.

           “We should get settled in, too. If you’ll excuse us?” Cynthia nodded faintly and Jonathan grabbed his arm, tugging him along after Beck.

           “What the hell?” he snapped. Jonathan ignored him and instead stopped beside Beck.

           “Hey,” he said and the man glanced up briefly before returning to stare at the lift doors. “My name’s Jo-.”

           “Jonathan. I know.”

           Jonathan stared at the man for a moment, puzzled, before trying again. “What room are you in?”

           Mason nearly snickered at the poorly concealed irritation on Beck’s face. At least he wasn’t the only one having a shitty day.

           “Four-oh-three.”

           “Really? Wow! I’m right below you then: I’m in three-oh-three. Mason’s in three-oh-two.”

           Now he’s going to come kill us in our sleep.

           The lift doors slid open smoothly and they crowded in. Mason stared at the metal walls, rubbing a hand across his neck rather uncomfortably. Jonathan was still trying to strike up a conversation with Beck.

           Mason scowled to himself. The man is obviously an uptight bastard, he growled mentally at Jonathan. Why are you trying so hard to be friendly?

           The lift chimed and opened to the third floor. Mason stepped out quickly, glad to be free of the metal cage. He held a hand over the doors, waiting for Jonathan to follow.

           But the man remained standing next to Beck.

           “We’re going down for dinner right after settling in. Would you like to join us?”

           Mason nearly bashed his head on the wall.

           “What are you doing?” he hissed none too softly at Jonathan, but neither man appeared to have heard him.

           Beck regarded Jonathan with a contemplative look and the lift chimed again, almost impatiently.

           “Sure. Sounds good.”

           Jonathan cracked a wide grin and finally stepped out of the lift. Mason withdrew his arm and began stalking away, more than irritated that his evening meal was going to be interrupted by a stranger.

           “Great! Come down in about a half-hour and we can leave together,” he heard Jonathan call out as the lift doors shut.

           “Jesus Christ!” Mason called over his shoulder. “Are you trying to bag that ass or what?”

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