Still holding the gun down between his legs, he chambered a round. Watching. Ready. Wondering what the hell was taking Asher so long.
Had he bailed? Was Harry a sitting duck? Was this a set up?
The boy at the trailer came around swinging a... window washer. He began cleaning his dad’s windshield, and Harry’s heart rate took a few beats to calm down.
And then Asher appeared, walking over as casual as anything, with a bag full of snacks.
For fuck’s sake.
Asher climbed into the car and dumped the bag of purchases onto Harry’s lap. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
Asher started the car and headed back to the highway. “Sandwiches, sports drinks, and water. There will be no dinner service on the boat to Morocco.” He rolled his eyes. “You’re welcome.”
Harry rifled through the bag, pulling out a chocolate bar and a small tin of mints. “And these?”
Asher snatched the mints. “These are mine.” He grinned. “And I don’t share.”
Harry looked in the bag. “There are three more packs of them.”
Asher shrugged as he popped a mint into his mouth. “Some people smoke. I eat these. Would you prefer I smoked?”
“No.”
“And I got ibuprofen for you. Reduces swelling. You’re welcome twice now.”
Harry hated that he felt gratitude toward him. “I’ll say thank you when you tell me what the fuck we’re doing.”
Asher laughed and merged into the fast lane. “I’ll take the pastrami.”
Rage burned in Harry’s chest. He wanted to punch that freaking smirk right off Asher’s stupidly handsome face. Instead, he unwrapped the sandwich and handed it to him. “Hope you choke on it.”
Asher bit into his sandwich and grinned around his first mouthful. “You’ve been alone too long. Your people skills are terrible.”
* * *
Harry hatedthat he really needed the sandwich, and the water, and the ibuprofen. He hated that his ankle hurt, that his whole body hurt. He hated that Asher drove for another five hours and barely even blinked when he, the infamous Harry Harrigan, had trouble keeping his eyes open.
He hated that he felt comfortable enough to sleep in Asher’s presence. He hated that he felt comfortable around him at all. Did he expect Asher to pull his gun on him at any second? Yes. Did he think he would?
No.
If Asher wanted him dead, he’d have been dead days ago.
Asher needed him for something. He’d tell Harry eventually. He’d have to. Or Harry could beat it out of him.
He wouldn’t mind going a few rounds with him.
Gibraltar came soon enough, and Asher drove them down to the fishing docks. The night was dark, the water inky black. “I will do the talking,” Asher said. “You try and not look so mean.”
“You want me to smile?” Harry gave a fake toothy grin that probably looked worse by the dashboard light.
Asher looked aghast. “Christ, no. Just don’t speak. And try not to look so big.”
Harry would have rolled his eyes if he didn’t spot a man approaching from the dock. “A friend of yours?”
“Not exactly. This is a transaction. He takes us to Morocco, he gets the car.” Asher popped the boot of the car and got out. Harry quickly followed and regret flared through his ankle like a knife.
Fuck.