Erasing Faith

by Julie Johnson

  “Goodbye, stranger,” I called. “And as a parting gift, from one serial killer to another, remember — always have an alibi, never talk to the police without your attorney present. ”

  He laughed and his whole face lit up. “You watch a little too much Law & Order. You know that, right?” he called back.

  I contorted my features into a look of disgust. “Law & Order? Psh. Never. I’m a Criminal Minds kind of girl, any day of the week.”

  His shoulders shook with repressed mirth. “You are a weird girl, any day of the week.”

  “I know,” I agreed happily, winking at him before I finally forced myself to turn on my heel and walk away. If I didn’t leave now, I never would.

  As I weaved a path into the crowd, I heard his voice yell out one last time at my back.

  “Weird is good!”

  My smile grew even wider.

  ***

  The rest of my day was spent rushing between classes, my apartment, and the Hermes Courier office. I kept purposefully busy, which helped push thoughts of my collision with the handsome stranger to the back of my mind, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t seem to keep my attention from straying to him.

  Sitting in my medieval history class, my note-taking on the Ottoman-Hungarian Wars was abruptly interrupted by a startlingly vivid memory of that megawatt, crooked smile.

  Dashing toward my apartment for a quick lunch break between lectures, I was nearly run over by a blue van when a flash of those intense dark eyes involuntarily popped into my mind.

  I knew I was romanticizing the encounter in retrospect. But could you blame me? I mean, it had all the makings of a whirlwind Hollywood romance: girl, literally swept off her feet by a mysterious, handsome stranger in a fabulous, fairy-tale city. Walking down the avenues, I could practically hear Celine Dion belting out the soundtrack to the romantic drama that was my life overseas.

  Wait, no… It wasn’t the sweet refrain of “My Heart Will Go On” that I was hearing…

  I was just nuts.

  All I could do was laugh at myself as I walked through the doors to the Hermes office. I’d always been a daydreamer, but this fantasy was rapidly spiraling toward the realm of ridiculous, even by my standards. I giggled as I made my way through the atrium. The space was serene — large windows let the mid-afternoon sun flood the white room, making it seem even more airy. Unfortunately, the heavenly atmosphere was darkened significantly by the presence of the woman sitting at the long, pale marble desk directly across from the entrance.

  Irenka.

  Secretary, schedule-master, time-keeper.

  Which essentially translated to: judge, jury, executioner.

  She ruled with an iron fist, guarding the entrance to the Hermes offices like a monstrous, mythological chimera, accepting parcels from customers, and depositing them onto the revolving conveyer-belt that whisked them into the back room for disbursement. As a side gig, she made it her business to manage each and every worker who came in for a shift, and was all too fond of letting us know whenever we were running so much as thirty seconds tardy.

  “Late,” she growled at me as I skirted the long, shiny counter she was perched behind and headed for the revolving door to the back.

  “I still have at least thirty seconds, Irenka!” I protested, glancing at the large clock on the wall over her desk. “That clock runs fast.”

  “You move slow,” she countered icily.

  After rolling my eyes so hard I was momentarily worried they’d become lodged upside-down in my skull, they landed on the novel in her hands. The front cover depicted a half-naked man in a pirate costume, and I was sure she was reading about his prominent sword at this very moment.

  “Good book?” I teased sweetly, a knowing smirk on my face.

  Marko, the security guard stationed at the front doors, burst into choked laughter but quickly managed to suppress it into a low cough. Irenka narrowed her eyes at him, harrumphed, and turned back to her romance. Shaking my head back and forth, I smiled merrily at Marko before pushing my way into the back room.

  I navigated down a short hallway, bypassing the bike-rack and loading rooms on either side and hurrying for the end of the passage, where the employee locker room was located. Each worker here was assigned a small, wooden cubby to store their street clothes and other personal belongings while they were on shift. When I walked inside, several other girls were already there, changing into uniforms and lacing up their tennis shoes.

  I spotted Margot in the back. As my roommate, workmate, and classmate, Margot had become a fixture in my life in Budapest during the month we’d been here. The petite, pixie-like blonde’s angelic exterior was no match for the amount of sass and snark she managed to pack inside her short frame, but I loved her all the more for it.

  I’d known her mere weeks, but we’d connected on a level I never had with my biological siblings. In a way, Margot had become the sister I’d always dreamed of. A Colorado native and language-studies major, she’d applied to learn Hungarian abroad through her Denver-based university. We’d ended up with several overlapping general-ed classes at Corvintas as well as identical housing assignments, sharing a small apartment just off campus. It was lucky we got along so well — there wasn’t a whole lot of room for drama in our tiny loft.

  Margot was the one who’d convinced me to apply at Hermes when I’d been understandably resistant to the idea of working as a bike messenger during the summer months in a city I was almost entirely unfamiliar with. She’d had an answer for my every objection.

  We’ll get to sightsee the whole time we’re working, she’d argued.

  But I’ll get lost every single shift!

  You’ll have GPS. Plus, what better way to get to know the city?

  It’ll be 90 degrees outside — you really want to ride a bike in that heat?

  We’ll meet so many cool people while we’re out making deliveries!

  No way.

  We’ll be in the best freaking shape of our lives! Riding for five hours a day will make you so fit.

  Five hours straight?!

  The pay is insanely good. You’ll make more money cycling than you would at any entry-level office job.

  Well…

  You’ll thank me later. Just apply and see what happens…

  Given the fact that I was about to start a shift at Hermes, it wasn’t too hard to figure out that I’d caved to Margot and conceded to interview for a position. After several rounds of questions and the most thorough background check I’d ever been subjected to, we were both offered jobs the following week. I’d had no good reason to turn it down – it wasn’t like I had seventeen other offers waiting. Plus, I could really use the cash. After two weeks of nonstop shopping and indulging, my tourism funds were rapidly dwindling.

  As it turned out, the job wasn’t so bad. I didn’t love it, but Margot had been right — I did get to see the whole city, and I certainly met some interesting characters while out delivering parcels. Plus, after only three weeks of work, my legs had never been more toned — Carrie Underwood had nothing on me, now.

  We’d lucked out and snagged adjacent lockers. As I approached, I could see she was already in uniform, the bright green, form-fitting Hermes t-shirt doing nothing to flatter her porcelain complexion. Her yellow, spandex bike shorts weren’t going to win any fashion awards, either.

  “You’re late, loser,” she called, grinning at me.

  “Not you too,” I moaned, spinning my locker combination.

  “Let me guess…” Margot said, raking her short blonde hair into a mess of spikes. “Irenka already bitched you out?”

  “Mhmm,” I hummed, whipping my sundress over my head and sliding the strappy espadrilles off my feet. Within seconds, I’d traded my cute summer outfit for the garish lemon-lime uniform we were forced to wear. Lined with multiple reflective patches that caught the beams cast by street lamps and car headlights, the ghastly getups also prominently featured the company logo — winged sandals — on
the shirt-back. Matching, fluorescent green helmets and neon yellow tennis shoes completed the look.

  I could only imagine how Anna Wintour might describe it.

  “What’s your guess? How many today?” Margot asked, tying her sneakers into neat bows so they wouldn’t get caught in her gears. I slammed my locker closed and spun the lock, deliberating for a moment before giving an answer.

  “Hmm… maybe forty?”

  We played this game before every shift, each guessing how many deliveries we’d have that day. Whoever picked the closest number won — and loser bought post-work drinks.

  “Final answer?” Margot asked.

  “Yeah, I think it’ll be pretty busy tonight.” I sighed as I scraped my hair into a low ponytail that would fit beneath my bulky helmet. “You?”

  “I’m gonna one-up you and guess… fifty-five.” She grinned. “Go big or go home, right?”

  I winced as we headed for the doors. “Let’s hope not. If I have to do more than fifty deliveries tonight, I’ll be going home, all right… in a wheelchair.”

  Margot laughed as she shoved me out of the break room and we headed to pick up our bikes.

  Chapter Five: FAITH

  A LITTLE FAITH

  I wrung out my soaked hair as soon as I darted through the café doors.

  The storm had come out of nowhere. One minute, there’d been nothing but blue skies and balmy heat; the next, lightning was flashing and rain was pouring down in sheets, immediately drenching my thin cotton blouse and sending me rushing for the nearest open coffee shop. Sunday was my only day off this week, and Margot had picked up an extra shift, so I’d been sightseeing alone at the historic Parliament building. The guided tour had lasted about an hour, but I’d lingered long after, exploring the huge basement-level library, taking pictures of the distinctive architecture and lamenting the fact that I’d forgotten my sketchbook at my apartment across town.

  Praying my camera hadn’t been destroyed by the sudden deluge, I used the semi-damp hemline of my shirt to wipe at the screen, but it didn’t seem to do much good. I cradled my Canon in one hand and ferreted out my wallet with the other as I approached the counter and ordered a cappuccino.

  A few minutes later — steaming cup in hand, camera strap slung over one shoulder — I was making my way to an unoccupied table by the window, when I heard it.

  “Do I need to upgrade you from stranger to stalker?”

  Chills licked down my spine as I turned toward the sound of his voice. In the instant before my gaze swung up to meet his, I found myself hoping it would be him – my stranger, as I’d come to think of him during the past few days while replaying our first interaction over and over in my mind. I wished, with every part of my being, that he’d be the one sitting there, taking shelter from the rain.

  And, as fate would have it, he was.

  “Twice in one week? That’s definitely crossing the line from stalker to serial killer, if you ask me,” I countered, smiling at him despite myself.

  “Well, you’re the expert,” he murmured.

  I couldn’t help but notice that he was even more jarringly gorgeous today, with his dark eyes locked on mine, that cap of close-cropped black hair, and two twin tendrils of ink snaking up the back collar of his shirt, hinting at tattooed skin beneath. I found myself wondering what his naked back looked like, and instantly banished the question to the far recesses of my mind, horrified I was even entertaining such thoughts.

  But, looking at him, it was hard to stop myself. He was just so… raw. So male. There was no other way to explain it. From the top of his head to his littlest finger, his every part exuded sensual energy, as though he was putting out some kind of invisible pheromone-enthralling, ovary-ensnaring tractor-beam that lured in women against their better judgment. As I stared down at him, my mouth going dry at just the sight of his face, I knew I wasn’t entirely unaffected. In fact, I was pretty sure I was entirely screwed.

  And yet — sitting there with his bicep muscles straining against the sleeves of his plain black t-shirt, leaning over the small table with a book clutched in his hands — he was also a total contradiction. Men who looked like him rarely sat alone in quaint coffee shops, reading Joseph Heller’s Catch 22.

  From the looks of it, he’d been there a while. His coffee cup was half-empty and the leather jacket slung across the back of his chair wasn’t dripping water onto the floor, so he’d likely been inside when the skies opened up. We stared at one another for several seconds in silence, mirrored smiles on our lips, and I couldn’t help but think that this was fate, pulling us together again. That it was somehow my destiny to keep running into this beautiful stranger, against all odds, in a city of nearly two million people.

  There was a name for it.

  Kismet.

  That moment when stars align and things that are just meant to be come to pass.

  My mother always told me, fate was a force to be reckoned with. Some encounters were just destined to happen in this life, and you stood little chance of avoiding them. Certain people were simply meant to cross your path — to reach into your chest and leave an irreversible handprint on your heart, on your very soul.

  Then again, my mother also believed that loose tea leaves at the bottom of her mug foretold the future and firmly insisted that she could see peoples’ auras, so I tended to take everything she said with a grain of salt.

  “Are you going to fall into my arms again?” my stranger asked, smiling crookedly up at me. “Should I be prepared for a dead faint, or do you intend to remain conscious?”

  “You make it sound intentional.” I rolled my eyes. “I tripped. You just happened to break my fall… with your face. Did the impact of my head against yours do permanent damage?” I asked sweetly, fighting off a grin.

  “Well, if you’re going to be ungrateful, next time I’ll just let you collapse to the ground unassisted,” he said, his dark eyes warm on mine.

  “How charming of you.” I snorted in a truly ladylike fashion. “Chivalry isn’t dead, after all.”

  “Not dead, just passed out somewhere without a handsome stranger to revive it.”

  I rolled my eyes a second time.

  “Want to sit?” he offered, gesturing toward the empty seat across from him.

  My eyes flickered from his face to the chair, undecided. I felt a blush stain my cheeks. “Oh, no. I wouldn’t want to interrupt your reading.”

  “You’re not,” he said softly, closing his book and nudging the free chair away from the table with his foot. A clear invitation.

  My eyes moved back to meet his.

  “You already know I’m a psycho, stalking serial killer,” he pointed out. “What else do you need to know before you’ll agree to have coffee with me?”

  I laughed lightly and could almost feel those intense eyes watching my mouth as the sound escaped. It should’ve alarmed me, but instead I found it oddly comforting.

  “True enough,” I agreed, some of my trepidation fleeing. “But, if I sit, there are some rules you have to agree to.”

  His head tilted in an evaluative stare and he forcibly suppressed his smile into a serious expression that had me fighting off another laugh. “Terms are open to negotiation,” he said formally.

  “Good.” I grinned. “First rule of stranger club…”

  “Let me guess,” he interjected. “Never talk about stranger club?”

  My laugh escaped. “No, Brad Pitt. The first rule of stranger club is no names.”

  “I can deal with that.” He shrugged. “Second rule?”

  “Questions are fair-trade. You ask one, you answer one.”

  “Sounds good to me, Red.”

  “Red?”

  He eyed my hair pointedly and the skin around his eyes crinkled in amusement.

  “I am not a redhead.” I crossed my arms over my chest and glared at him.

  His lips twisted in a repressed laugh. “Whatever you say.”

  “My hair is clearly brown.”

&
nbsp; “Uh huh,” he agreed, grinning.

  “Ugh!” I groaned, craning my head back so my eyes were on the ceiling. “I don’t even know you and I can already tell you’re impossible to reason with.”

  “There’s that redhead’s temper.” He laughed. “Now are you going to join me, or are you planning to let your caramel latte get cold while you list a whole bunch of rules I have no intention of following?”

  “It’s actually a cappuccino,” I corrected, narrowing my eyes at him. “And you better follow my rules.”

  He leaned back in his chair and unleashed that crooked grin once more. “You have any more excuses left in your repertoire? Or are you fresh out of reasons why you can’t sit with me?”

  I sighed and set down my mug. Pulling out the chair across from him, my eyes dropped to the table as I settled in. My sassy, smart-talking bravado seemed like a pathetically thin shield, now that I was seated directly across from this beautiful man. I felt my confidence fleeing as I sat beneath his steady gaze.

  “Suddenly shy, Red?” he asked, his voice wry.

  My eyes lifted from their intent study of the wood-grained tabletop. “No,” I objected a little too defensively. “I’m just thinking of my first question.”

  “Who says I’m letting you go first?”

  “It’s the gentlemanly thing to do,” I pointed out.

  “Who says I’m a gentleman?” he asked, his eyes flashing. I suppressed a shudder — not one born of fear, but of something far more startling: desire. It was like nothing I’d ever felt. Perhaps because I’d already had a perfect gentleman in Conor, and it hadn’t satisfied me.

  One glance at this man, at the promise in his dark eyes, was enough to assure me he was nothing like any of my well-mannered ex-boyfriends.

  I ignored the sensation, as well as his words.

  “So…” I took a swallow of my cappuccino before forcing my eyes up to meet his. “You’re American?”

  He nodded. “Yep, born and raised on Cape Cod.”