Was she seeing someone? Slipping off to see some other guy on the nights she wasn’t all soft breaths and curves at my side.
“Actually, I really need to get going.”
I kept flicking my gaze between Mack and Misfit, waiting for something. A clue, a glance, a slip. Something to tell me what the hell was going on, but all I got was tension.
Misfit’s hand tapped my arm quickly and nervously before she moved toward the door. I followed because I had no better option. Should I ask in front of everyone? Try to understand what just happened while Mack grinned like a con artist and Jay coughed up blood in the corner? No. Not now.
The walk to the front of the shop felt heavy, like trudging through unseen mud. My hands stayed deep in my jacket pockets, fists clenched. I kept my gaze on the ground, not trusting my face not to reveal how fast my mind was racing.
Every moment replayed: Manic’s voice, her look as if I were a child with a bomb, the word 'veil' sinking like a coin into water. Misfit’s panic. Her silence. The quiet exchange with Mack, probably about the next job. Yet… she remained silent.
Myra gave a chirpy goodbye as we passed, and for a second, I wanted to grab her by the shoulders and ask, what the fuck was that back there? What am I not seeing? What am I not being told?
But I didn’t. I just followed Misfit out the door like a good little shadow.
Outside I stopped next to her, waiting. Maybe hoping she would start with an explanation, but she didn’t.
I moved to the car, unlocked it, and slid in. But I didn’t start it. I didn’t even reach for the key. I just stared straight ahead, hands on the wheel, like maybe I’d figure out what just happened if I stared long enough. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her still standing there. She didn’t leave, just hesitant to face the upcoming questions that wanted to fall from my face.
But if I did ask, I didn’t know what worried me more, the answer, or the way she might lie to keep it from me. Karma's a bitch, I guess.
After a beat, she climbed into the car, as if nothing had happened. As if we hadn’t just witnessed someone do something impossible. She didn’t speak, and neither did I at first.
I kept my eyes scanning the street, trying to anchor myself in something normal—streetlights, potholes, anything that made sense. I turned to her slowly, and she met my gaze with that unreadable look.
“What was that Misfit?”
“What was what?” Acting oblivious to my concern.
“I just saw a woman … one-handed pick up a guy by his throat … like it was nothing, what the fuck?”
All she could muster was a feeble shrug, “She works out.”
I scoffed, dry and sharp. It wasn’t even funny, but the absurdity twisted something in me. “She works out. Fuck off Misfit.”
I was losing my grip on calm, “That’s not working out. That’s … something else.”
She tried again, her voice too flat, too forced. “Well, I don’t know. Maybe it’s drugs.”
More excuses. More scraps of half-truths flung at me like breadcrumbs, and suddenly it was all too clear: she had a script. Maybe always had.
My gaze lingered on her while I processed, “And I suppose the red eyes were drugs as well?” A stupid comment, but one I knew showed I wasn’t buying what she was trying to sell me.
“No, don’t be stupid. She likes to wear weird contacts.” She was quick, I’ll give her that. But not fast enough to mention how they changed fucking colour.
“That was not contacts,” my eyes wide, eyebrows raised at the undeniable fact.
She snapped, “Well, what was it then Screech? Since you know more than I do. Go on.” She turned it around on me with such precision I stalled. The worst part was that I had no answer. Apart from Manic, another name kept running rings around my mind. I didn’t want to admit that it tugged on some strange jealousy within me.
“Who’s Omen? —”
“No one.”
“Are you seeing someone?” I asked, desperately disguising the fact that I didn’t want it to be true.
She looked surprised by the question, her brows raising as she locked eyes with me. “What? No.”
“Then why would he ask like that? ‘How are things with you and Omen?’”
