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Out of town.
Bump! Bump! Bump!
We are no longer off the road, and it is only then I realize the bumping is my own heart as it accelerates in my chest.
A plethora of emotions lather the offending organ.
Even being kidnapped by John I cannot control how being back in his vicinity makes me feel. How dancing together had stirred up feelings I shouldn’t have. Hadn’t processed.
A memory flashes back to when we first met and walked Beanie to the park.
It felt like I had known John for years, but it hadn’t really been that long at all.
Except I still want him. Still dream of him. Still think about him every day.
A kindred soul.
Falling back on the seat, I give up the fight, accepting that this is where my insane life has decided to take me now.
My phone is a thousand pounds in my chef coat, and I consider taking it out…but what would I do?
“What questions?” I exhale, my hand clutching my chest as I watch John in the rearview mirror.
His glasses are slipping slowly to the brim of his nose, and just like before, I want to push them up for him.
Except this time, I can’t, the partition separating us.
“How do you know Orzo Roux?” John asks gruffly.
I meet his eyes in the mirror, they are darker than usual, overripe, swirling in discontent.
He pushes his glasses up, refocusing on the road.
My attention shifts to the window before I shut my eyes, and I watch as the past dances behind my eyelids.
“Sixteen years ago, my mom took me to score some drugs. Orzo was there, he kept me safe. I never knew his last name, or where he ended up. But then I ran into him again…” I trail off.
“Your mom. Did she die?” John’s tone twists, a cacophony of pain.
His agony is tangible, I can taste it as I inhale my next breath.
My eyes flash open in confusion. “Yes, but how do you—”
Air hisses between his teeth. “Listen Cinnamon, you haven’t been hired to cook meals, you were hired to kill people. Your website is on the dark web. Your clients keep dying.” There’s a crack as John’s grip tightens on the wheel.
It’s time for my mouth to open in shock. “What—no—how?”
I jerk forward, as if closing the space between us will solidify that he is telling the truth.
“It was me. I was the web designer. I was tasked to the digital defense team. Your request, .carrot, is a link to the dark web. I just”—he shakes his head—“I didn’t realize. I was so stupid. No wonder you didn’t know what a Bitcoin was. Or a VPN. Or anything else.”
Embarrassment.
Shame.
Regret.
Acceptance.
