“Or maybe take that ‘Keep Out’ sign off the door when you go. Or… I don’t suppose you’d consider doing this somewhere we could lose the body? Like a river? So the police don’t confuse me with this world’s August?”
The shake of his head is strangely comforting. He’s felt so inhuman this whole time. It’s nice to think he might actually be a person in there. That he can hear me at least.
“Alright. I guess this is it. Sorry for the trouble I’ve put you through. And for what I did. And…” I didn’t want to show him weakness, but my voice breaks on my final request. “Please can you call the police after this? So August doesn’t find my body?”
His head tips in slow agreement.
And that’s it. We’ve agreed to the terms of my death.
I’m scared, but I watch anyway. Watch the barrel of the gun for the flash of steel that will take my brain all to pieces, his gloved, shaking finger just shifting the trigger.
A loud bang jolts through me like a bullet, and the door flies open. He flings around, the sound of the gun whistling in my ear, the graze of the bullet hot against my shoulder.
To my complete horror, the barrel of the gun finds August. But August’s hand snaps out, lightning fast, flinging it to the left where a second bullet flies into the wall, smashing off a chunk of brick. He lands a sharp punch to the man’s stomach, and as he starts to fall, another to his chin. His head flies back, the gun clatters to the floor, and August’s on his knees next to him. He smashes the killer’s shoulder down to the ground and clambers on top of him, wrenching his arms behind his back.
It’s all a muffle of groans and grunts, and it’s over in seconds, Jon standing uselessly in the doorway until August directs him, “Give me a belt to tie him with.”
I scuffle through my mess of belongings for one, while Jon fumbles with the three casually dangling around his waist, eventually deciding on a studded one, which he hands over before I can find anything of use.
The man grunts in protest, but all August’s lean muscle and skill make the job look easy, like he’s done this a thousand times before. When he’s got him bound tight, still straddling his back, he finally looks over at me. “What the fuck, August?”
I hold myself back for as long as I can. Maybe even three whole seconds. “I’m sorry.” Then I dash for him, scrambling across the floor to get my arms around him.
He wraps me tight, our chests meeting, his head falling on my uninjured shoulder, face nestling against mine. “I won’t let you go.”
“I can’t help it.”
“You’re not leaving me.”
“I don’t want to. August, you’re everything to me.” His skin beneath my hands is the most precious reprieve, the life I’m giving up, breathing beauty and wonder. My lips find his, the kiss of life, the kiss of death, my entire being in microcosm, the sum of aeons in one electric beat.
Until a sardonic voice cuts sharp through the lot of it. “Can you get off me if you’re going to do that?”
August pulls back, his expression of horror mingled with shock mirroring mine. In a heartbeat, we’re both on the floor, half lying on either side of the would-be assassin. August wrenches his ski mask off, and there’s…August, scowling back and forth between us.
“Really?” he says, one eyebrow angled sharply. “You didn’t see that coming?”
CHAPTER THIRTY
GOOD AUGUST
OKAY, BUT WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?
Two Augusts. My August, and whoever the fuck this August is.
And me, I guess.
Three Augusts!
My first instinct is to untie him. He’s us, and I feel terrible at the thought of being in his place, restrained on the short and ugly basement carpet.
But was he just about to shoot my boyfriend? “Did you just try to shoot my boyfriend?”
“Boyfriend?” he spits out on a mocking laugh.
“Boyfriend?” my August asks sweetly.
“Yes, you’re my boyfriend,” I hurl at him. “What are you even talking about? Of course you’re my boyfriend!”
