“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Riley grumbled. He still dug out one of the magazines and the box of ammo from their respective nooks and loaded the clip slowly, muttering under his breath as he pressed in the rounds against the resistance of the spring. “This is all your fault. You make me jumpy.”
Yeah, McClane snorted. This is definitely on me. You totally weren’t hotfooting it out of San Antonio when we met. Don’t forget the permit.
Riley located the CCW{9} permit and slipped it into his jacket pocket next to the full clip. He verified that the gun really was unloaded and the safety on before he stuffed it into the back of his pants. The last thing he wanted was to end up shooting himself in the ass by accident. The weapon felt awkward and obvious pressing against the small of his back, but McClane assured Riley that it wasn’t noticeable if you didn’t know what to look for.
“Okay,” Riley sighed. “Let’s go eat.”
BY THE time Riley pushed open the door to the diner, the cool metal had warmed up against his skin and he’d adjusted to the bulky shape pressing into his back. Nobody looked at him strangely, either, so he guessed McClane had been right about the jacket hiding the weapon. He still felt like a villain in a bad movie. It made him wonder if you ever got used to this kind of shit. Had Misha carried a gun whenever he hadn’t been with Riley? It would’ve explained his nervous habit of touching a hand to his side, to the place where a shoulder holster would’ve rested had he worn one. Could you get so accustomed to being armed you felt uncomfortable when you weren’t? Riley wasn’t sure he wanted to know, and afraid he already did. Just one of the many things he’d preferred not to think about, because it would’ve meant questioning Misha and likely losing him. He’d been a fool. Still was, apparently, because it hurt to remember the look in Misha’s eyes just before Riley had slammed the door shut. He felt it bubble up again, self-recrimination and shame and longing, black and searing as hot tar, knew he couldn’t deal with it—too raw yet, too recent—so he swallowed it back down like bile, refused to acknowledge it.
McClane must’ve picked up on his mood because he stayed still and quiet in Riley’s mind while Riley chose a corner booth and settled with his back to the wall. Riley took off his hat, laid it on the bench seat beside him, and ran a hand through his hair with a sigh. He should’ve known the day was going to suck when he’d woken from that nightmare. Dreaming of Misha and blood was never a good sign. It meant thoughts of what he’d lost would pop up at the most inconvenient moments, Misha’s ghost walking beside him until he managed to distract himself.