by Sam Mariano
The rest of the ride is pretty quiet. My wheels are turning as I watch out the window, debating what to do. I’d like to make a break for it if I get a chance, but I don’t know how to go about it. Not the running part, that’s pretty self-explanatory, but where will I go that they can’t find me when I don’t even have any money?
Today isn’t about escaping, it’s about taking note of everything I can, seeing what kind of leeway Greg gives me. The thought of having to go back there tonight is absolutely withering, but I’m also aware that if I escape, Liam won’t know where I’ve gone and then I definitely won’t see him ever again.
It’s hardly a deciding factor though. A bummer, yes, but I don’t trust my mother or Pietro and I don’t know how long I’ll be able to keep up the pretense of being drugged stupid.
My plan at the moment is to figure it out as I go.
That’s the plan.
Until I’m walking through the mall toward the store where I’m supposed to pick a gift, and I spot Liam in the middle of the corridor, letting some young guy chat his ear off about switching cell phone providers.
My stomach sinks. My heart leaps. I miss a step.
But he’s here.
He’s here.
I’m afraid I’m dreaming. I’m afraid I’m drugged up and I just don’t know it. I’m afraid I’m at my mother’s house with a needle in my vein and none of this is real.
My feet struggle to maintain a normal pace when all I want to do is bound over to him and leap into his arms.
I can’t keep the grin off my face. Fortunately, it goes along with my happy-go-lucky little self, but every second that passes in such close proximity, but unable to speak to him, feels like an hour.
I walk into the store, heart slamming in my chest, and I try to act normal. I don’t know what his plan is anyway, and I don’t want to alarm Greg.
I can’t concentrate on the task at hand. I wander around looking at gifts, trying not to look out the window, trying not to draw attention.
But oh my God.
He came for me.
I could literally skip with joy. Greg, not so much.
I’ve been in the store for ten minutes and he’s already sighing impatiently at regular intervals.
“You ‘bout ready?”
“Nope,” I tell him, picking up a trinket box.
“I thought you said you wanted a frame. You looked at all the frames.”
I give him a mildly disapproving look. “What’s your rush, grumpy?”
“I gotta piss.”
“So go,” I say, bending to inspect yet another engraved box.
He doesn’t, but I keep lingering, looking at every damn thing I can, and finally he walks over to the lady behind the bathroom.
Jerking a finger toward the employee area behind her, he asks, “You got a bathroom back there?”
She smiles and shakes her head apologetically. “No, sir. The nearest one is the food court, just four or five storefronts down.”
He grumbles and makes his way over to me. “Are you done yet?”
“I’m not. Soon,” I tell him, smiling. “I need to ask the lady about engraving. Why don’t you just go pee so you’re not in such a hurry.”
I don’t expect this to work. I expect to be locked down better, guarded, but he thinks my brain is a soft boiled egg and has no idea I’m wily.
“When I get back, we’re buying something,” he tells me in warning. “Make up your mind.”
“I’ve got it narrowed down to three,” I assure him.
It feels like a box of butterflies has been unleashed in my gut as he meanders out the door, and I wait, because I can’t leave the store until I’m sure he’s not within range to see me.
I don’t have to.
Liam comes into the store and I can’t even stop myself—I run at him, throwing my arms around his neck. He grabs me, fisting a hand in my hair, not roughly, and lifts me against him.
“I thought I’d never see you again,” he says, burying his face in my neck.
I could actually die of happiness right now. “You came.”
He nods, pulling back to look me in the eye. “I came.”
I literally feel tears burning in my eyes, but my gaze jumps to the window. “We have to go. Now. He won’t be gone long.”
I lace my fingers through his and go to drag him out of the store, ready to run, but he doesn’t move.
“Wait.”
I turn back, eyes wide. “We need every second we can get. Where did you park?”
“There are things you need to know about me,” he says, meeting my gaze. “And one thing I need to know before we run.”
“What?” I ask, impatient, unable to believe he’s wasting time like this.
“Will they cancel the party if you go missing?”
With three days before the big event? “I doubt it. It’s too late now.”
He nods slowly, then squeezes my hand and takes the lead, pulling me along.
“Why?” I ask, confused.
“I can’t say here, too many people.” Then, glancing back at me over his shoulder, he asks, “Do you have any idea what I do for a living?”
Hesitantly, I say, “I have a few guesses.”
“Are any of them something you can’t live with?”
I glance at the people we’re moving past. He’s taller, so he has longer legs and is moving much faster, but I’m jogging to keep up.
I’m not positive what he’s getting at, but I sure have an idea. Everything Paul and my mother have implied about him circles my mind, but even with the evidence, it’s a hard thing to believe.
But it doesn’t matter.
“No,” I tell him.
“Are you sure?” he asks, still moving.
We’ve made it to an exit so he pushes open the door and we hustle out to the parking lot.
“We’re outside now, can’t you just tell me?” I say, since I’d prefer we speak plainly.
He yanks me up against him and my breath catches, my hands moving to his hard, muscled chest. My eyes melt with desire at the exact moment he states, “I’m a contract killer. I kill people for money. Good people, bad people, doesn’t make a difference. I’m supposed to kill you. I’m not going to. This is my car.”
He lets go of me and I stumble, my jaw slack as he opens the passenger door and heads around to the driver’s side, sparing me a glance once he gets there.
I haven’t moved. A lot to process in the space of a few seconds. I force my feet into motion, heart hammering, and fall into the passenger seat, yanking the door shut. I feel vaguely sick, but I don’t want him to see it and think… I’m not even sure.
He stabs the key into the ignition and fires up the engine. “Still want to go with me?” he asks one more time.
“Yes,” I say softly, though not without trepidation.
We’re on the road for a few minutes before I find my words. He’s preoccupied anyway, checking mirrors and changing lanes.
Greg will have made it back to the store by now. If he isn’t already, Pietro will be looking for me.
The first question I ask isn’t the one I was expecting to fall out of my mouth after such an admission.
“Where are you taking me?”
He glances over at me and looks a little unsure. “I have a cabin a couple hours away. It’s remote so it’ll be a good place for you to lay low.”
“Are you staying there with me?”
He’s quiet for a full minute. Finally he shakes his head no. “I can’t. I’ll come check on you as much as I can, but… I have some things to take care of first.”
I nod, thinking of what he said earlier. I don’t know what to ask. I don’t know what I’m allowed to ask.
“Who hired you to kill me?”
Liam sighs. It’s drawn out and tired, and I almost feel bad for asking, but then I don’t, because… well, it seems like the kind of thing I should know.
“It wasn’t specifically to kill you. I can’t give you all
the details right now. I don’t want you to worry about it.”
But I want to know. I really want to know. I want to know what job he is going to finish up, because if one of his ‘jobs’ was killing me, it’s not too hard to guess what that other one might entail.
“Who are you going to kill?” I ask quietly.
His gaze moves to mine wordlessly, and I can see the skepticism on his face. Normally he hides his thoughts, his feelings, so I’m not sure if it’s intentional or not, but I have a feeling it’s important either way.
He doesn’t answer me. His gaze returns to the road, and he checks mirrors a few times.
I accept that he won’t answer that one for now, but I have another one I can’t get out of my head.
“Can I ask you something else?”
“Yes.” He’s terse. It makes me nervous.
“When… when did you decide not to kill me?”
His silence stretches on for what feels like forever. My cheeks flush and I jump to conclusions like it’s an Olympic sport and I’m going for the gold.
Swallowing, I try again. “Did you decide before you kissed me?”
I think he isn’t going to answer me for another long moment, but then he finally utters a low, “No.”
That’s… not comforting.
I look out at the road ahead of me, thinking of where my head was then.
I trusted him already. I followed him out of my guarded house into a secluded, wooded area.
And he still planned to kill me.
Paul’s venomous words about how easy I was echo in my head and I hug myself protectively.
“I’m sorry,” he finally says. “I’m sure that’s not what you wanted to hear.”
I shake my head very slightly, but don’t look at him. “I wanted the truth. How were you planning to do it?”
He looks over at me again, and he still hasn’t gone back to his usual stoicism. I guess that’s a good sign.
“That’s why you wouldn’t have sex with me,” I realize, right then. Dull horror and abject humiliation wash over me and I can’t look at him.
Oh, my God. He must think I’m the biggest idiot in the world.
And for all the lost days I have and my trouble with timelines, that night I remember vividly. I know how I felt, how I thought maybe he felt. It’s not foggy or unclear. I was sure I was safe with him.
In the company of a man who still, in the moment he was kissing me and touching my naked body, planned to murder me.
I’m quiet for a long, long time.
He lets me stew and doesn’t bother me, but he keeps driving and doesn’t ask again if I want to reconsider. I’m not sure if it’s a good thing or a bad thing, but I’m thankful for it, because I’m having a really hard time processing what he just revealed.
It’s a little longer before I start to wonder what he’s feeling, sitting there quietly after spilling difficult secrets, waiting on my judgment.
I reach over tentatively and rest a hand on his thigh. His gaze jerks to mine, wary and untrusting, and I offer a little smile.
“I’m glad you changed your mind.”
I expect—hope for—some relief on his face, but none appears. His features are still taut with tension, and he doesn’t look at me as he says, “I’m not a good person, Annabelle. Maybe you thought I was because of everything with Paul, but I’m not.”
Even after what he just told me, I’m not so sure about that.
Remembering his interference with Paul is also a little confusing—why put any effort whatsoever into keeping Paul from hurting me if he planned to turn around and kill me himself? Wouldn’t Paul have just saved him some time if he killed me instead? Maybe he didn’t get paid if Paul did it. I guess that would make sense.
I want to ask, but I also don’t. I just want to drop this whole ugly topic.
The fact of the matter is, Liam is all I’ve got now. He’s a much better hand than Paul, and I don’t want to question him. It’s sad that all of my hands have wanted to kill me at one point in time, but maybe I’m more vexing than I realized.
I laugh a little at that, but the laugh verges on hysterical.
Liam looks over at me cautiously, and I smile. “It’s okay.” I pause, realizing I mean it, and then I repeat, “It’s okay.”
“What I do…?”
I nod, still touching him. This isn’t how I envisioned our reunion going in my fantasies, but to hell with it. I went all in when I ran with him, and there’s no point picking things apart.
“It’s okay,” I say again.
I try not to think about what I’m telling him I’m okay with. I try not to wonder exactly who he’s going to kill, or picture how it might happen.
I try to convince myself I feel cold all over because of the weather, despite my rosy cheeks and the toasty heat blowing out of the vents in his dashboard.
I can’t consider the possibility that I’m making a deadly mistake.
Liam
She hates me.
She’s afraid of me.
I’m not sure exactly which is true, but one of them must be.
This is why I didn’t want to tell her. Normal people aren’t okay with shit like this. She isn’t like me and Raj was right; she isn’t cold enough.
Her hand is still on my thigh, but I think she just hasn’t figured out how to move it.
I feel… uncomfortable. Like it matters more than it should that she’s judging me, and at the same time fucking idiotic for even imagining it might go any other way.
You can’t just tell a girl who’s romanticized you that when she was kissing you and begging you to fuck her, you planned to kill her. You just can’t do that. And if you do, you can’t expect her to still be psyched about you.
I knew that.
I knew better than to tell her, but I didn’t want to trap her, either. I assumed she had some fairy tale about me concocted in her mind, and I needed her to know how far off she was so she didn’t feel tricked when she inevitably figured it out.
I just wanted to be wrong. I just wanted her to accept the rotten parts of me and still look at me like her fucking savior. I feel stupid thinking that was a possibility, and even dumber for wanting it in the first place.
God, what a fucking sap.
It’s a long ride to the cabin. Annabelle doesn’t say much and I never do. Knowing it’s a long walk once we get there, I stop off at the last gas station before my exit.
“Last stop,” I tell her, pushing open the car door and climbing out.
She climbs out, stretching her arms above her head and looking at the grimy little gas station.
I don’t say a word to her, just head inside.
It doesn’t feel like she’s gonna stay, and I guess I don’t blame her.
I’ll let her get some sleep tonight, and then tomorrow when I bring her some more supplies, we can talk about her exit plan. Me, I’m not sticking around here after the job, but I’ll help her out, and she can stay at my cabin as long as she needs to.
I know there’s no meat at the cabin, so while she pees I grab a few sticks of jerky and a couple of candy bars to take to the register. My eye catches on a basket of fresh fruit on the counter. I grab a couple of apples in one hand, putting them down as I pull out my wallet with the other.
I go ahead and buy gas, too, since I have to drive back to the damn city tonight.
Back at the car, I drop the bag in the floor next to Annabelle’s legs. She spots an apple and pulls it out of the bag, smiling faintly as she drags her nails across a dimple in the skin.
“Who knew apples caused so much trouble,” she said lightly.
“I think God, or the serpent, or… some combination of biblical characters,” I return, starting the car back up.
She smiles faintly but doesn’t respond.
A short time later, I pull off the dusty road we've been traveling and roll to a stop in front of the barred metal gate. As I put the car in park, I notice Annabelle cutting glances at me out of the
corner of my eye.
"We're here," I say, reaching over and grabbing the bag from the gas station.
"Okay," she says, not sounding terribly confident.
I guess looking at it from her perspective, the guy who just told her he'd been contracted to murder her drove her out into the middle of nowhere and is now telling her to follow him into a wooded area with no cottage in sight.
"How far is it?" she asks as she closes her passenger door.
"About a half hour, maybe 40 minutes if you're slow."
That's what I told her, because that was the truth in my experience.
Over an hour later when we still weren't there, I learned Annabelle was not the outdoorsy type.
Stumbling over a branch that was camouflaged by wet leaves, Annabelle catches herself on the soggy ground and blows out a breath of frustration as she pushes herself back up. "Is it much farther?" she grinds out.
Cracking a smile, I glance back at her. She's frazzled and cold and sweaty at the same time. Her pale cheeks are flushed and she looks so damn cute, I kinda wish she didn’t hate me so I could give her a kiss.
Shaking my head, I continue on. "Should only be a few more minutes."
Luckily the path is a little clearer here, and we make it to the cabin about 15 minutes later.
It's a simple cottage—ramshackle wood construction with a stone chimney. There's no heat to the thing, so it's only warmed by the fireplace and lit by the candles and oil lantern. It has windows, but they're cloudy and the whole place is obviously dark, since I haven't been here. There's a small clearing in front of the house and a little creek with a crude footbridge.
I steal a glance at her and she looks nervous. When she notices me looking, her expression clears and she takes a few steps, heading over the footbridge ahead of me.
"We made it," she says brightly.
I wonder what she thinks about it. The house she grew up in was obviously nice and big, but then Paul bought them that little box. Still, it was probably twice the size of this cottage.
"It's gonna be chilly," I warn her, catching up and drawing the keys out of my pocket, working the cottage key off my key ring. There's not much point in a lock clear out here, but I have one anyway. Can't be too careful when it comes to being prepared for the unexpected. Suppose someone did find me out here—at least I'd have another minute to react.
