Ahead, a door stands slightly ajar, bright light and low voices spilling into the empty corridor.
I nudge it open with my hip and plaster a huge fake smile on my face as I enter. A soft pfft sounds as I brightly say “Hello,” and my world stops turning.
I blink a couple of times, the false lashes I’m wearing pressing against my cheek, the weight of them suddenly feeling too much. The way the uniform scratches the soft skin of the inside of my upper arms as I hold the tray is suddenly almost too much to bear. I can hear my heartbeat in my ears as my eyes try desperately to make sense of what I'm seeing.
A tall man, dark-haired and dressed in a suit cut to make angels cry, turns to face me. The only other person in the room is lying dead, face down on the floor, blood leaking from the fresh bullet hole in his head.
I lift my eyes to meet the shooters, and what I see there is as compelling as it is terrifying.
A silver coldness shimmers before turning assessing, and then quickly to something else.
I swallow, roll my tongue around my mouth, try to make my throat work.
Should I scream?
I feel like I should, but I can’t. His eyes hold me there, like a snake charmer with a cobra. One break in his stare and I know the spell will shatter and I’ll bolt.
He takes a step closer to me, and the realization hits that this might be my last moment on this mortal coil. That I’m spending it staring into silvery-gray eyes that have specks of blue in them if you look just deep enough. His mouth is moving, I can hear sounds, but words aren’t forming in my brain right now. I drop my eyes to his lips.
“What’s your name?” His mouth moves over the words, and years of having to interpret drinks orders in loud environments help me understand.
I lick my lips, let my eyes wander down the line of his throat, to the open shirt collar and the tattoos that peek from between the open buttons. At least if I die tonight, I got to marvel at this magnificent human being first.
Or monster.
Or demon.
Whatever he is, he has stirred up something inside of me that was long dormant or maybe never existed at all.
“Callie,” I say as his finger hooks beneath my chin and lifts, forcing me to drag my eyes back up to his.
“You shouldn’t be here, Callie,” he says, my brain registering words again. His voice is smoother than the scotch I’m carryingon this tray. There’s an accent just underneath the American that I can’t put my finger on because my mind is still short-circuiting. But my senses are slowly starting to return.
I can smell the blood and the acrid scent of gunshot. I can hear how silent this room is. Feel how cool it is. My arms erupt with goosebumps as though my skin has just figured out how to work again, and my teeth start to chatter. But that might be fear. I don’t know. Is this fear?
“I figured that out about a nano-second too late,” I say with a sad shrug.
I think of my grandma. Who is going to look after her when I’m dead? There is no one else. The nurses are borderline cruel in their boredom and neglect. Just going through the motions of ensuring my grandma doesn’t die in their care of anything other than natural causes. The thought is harrowing.
Anger burns hot and sudden. My grandma deserves more than a granddaughter who can’t even survive long enough to say goodbye.
“Juliet Hind,” I say, but it comes out as a whisper. “My grandmother. She is in York Bridgeway Care Facility. Please, just make sure she is okay. She hasn’t got long left.”
The handsome man-monster frowns, moving his finger from beneath my chin up and over my cheek. I let out a shuddering breath, refusing to acknowledge the way I lean into his touch. It’s been so long I’d forgotten what tenderness could feel like. It’s the only time I allow my eyes to flutter shut just for a second, so I can imprint this into my mind and let it be the thing that carries me to wherever you go when you die.
He drops his hand from my face, and I instantly miss the rough warmth of it.
I take the glass from my tray and raise it between us, “To what comes next,” I whisper. Then I gulp the scotch, letting it burn a trail down my throat before I place the empty glass back on the tray, and then carefully on the floor by my feet.
“You think I’m going to kill you,” he says. It’s not a question. I keep my eyes on his. I won’t die with them closed. He will damn well look me in the eye when he pulls the trigger.
I gasp when smooth, cold metal touches the outside of my thigh. He presses the length of the silencer just beneath the glittering beaded trim of my uniform. My thighs clench together, and I swallow hard, but I still don’t close my eyes.
“Promise me you’ll check in on her,” I say, even though I know it’s futile, because why would this stranger go out of his way for me? For my grandma who means nothing to him.
His gaze narrows, calculating something I can’t see. Then the gun shifts, not pressing against my skin anymore, but sliding away, disappearing into the back of his waistband as though killing me was never his plan at all.
“You’re coming with me.”
