This is usually where things settle. Tonight, nothing does. The name she gave me sits on my tongue. Lena. A lie I swallowed without flinching. I just had the most honest hour of my life with a woman I can't even call by her real name. The adrenaline from the job cools by degrees, like metal left out in the dark. What replaces it is worse. A coil under my ribs, restless and ugly, that won't unfurl.
She turns in my arms, burying her face in my throat. I draw her in until we're flush, heart hammering into hers. Her breath rocks my throat; she fits against me in a way that makes me want to stay, and I don't stay.
Outside, the city hums indifferently. Inside, the room is sweat, cheap soap, and the sharp sweetness of her. I should be planning my exit. Instead, my hand spreads wide on the small of her back, a claim I don't have the right to make.
I close my eyes. All my training says get up, get dressed, disappear before she wakes. My body doesn't move. The coil tightens once more, then holds.
Chapter 2
Knox
Iwakeuptocold sheets and the wrong side of the bed already losing heat.
The space where her body was is empty, sheets smoothed like she ironed the memory out on her way. Her side is cooling, but her scent lingers. Warm, sweet, a little wild. My lungs pull deeper before I can stop them.
The bed creaks when I sit up.
For a second, half-awake, I think she's in the bathroom.
She's not.
No toothbrush. No suitcase. The chair where she draped her sweater is empty.
My ribs feel hollowed out, still carrying the way she looked at me when she came apart under my mouth. The way she whispered my name like it cost something.
There's no note. Not even a number or a lie she wanted me to keep.
Just the way she flinched when I pulled back and rolled away before I could stop her. Like last night was meant to be survived. My fist closes around sheets that smell of her.
"Lena," I mutter, testing the fake name. It tastes of sweat, skin, and something already gone.
I shower, then dress on autopilot while my brain plays a highlight reel I didn't ask for. Fingers in my hair, legs trembling around me, that little gasp when I pulled her closer. I take the stairs up one floor to grab my bag. Room sixteen looks exactly the way I left it: laptop dark on the desk, messenger bag packed. Laptop goes in the bag. I sling it over my shoulder and head down.
At checkout, I ask the clerk if the woman in 1512 left a message. He checks. She didn't. Didn't even turn in her key.
"Everything satisfactory with your stay?"
"Perfect."
Outside, Chicago's cold hits harder. Sharp wind, busy streets, too many people who don't look twice.
I flip my collar up, chin down, moving on instinct.
By the time I cut behind the chain pharmacy toward the nearest public lot, my mind locks into mission mode.
Check upload status. Wipe the burner. Route out. Dump car. Vanish.
Easy routine.
The lot is half-full, asphalt cracked, a graffiti mural giving too much away about the artist's lack of anatomy knowledge. My rental waits beneath a dying security light, windows fogged like it's breathing.
I thumb open the burner and shoot Malachi the drop link. His copy to pull, his problem now.
A confirmation flashes across the screen. Sent.
Job done.
I'm slipping the phone away when the air shifts.
