Текст книги "Hero"
Автор книги: Leighton Del Mia
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Hero
Hero – 1
by
Leighton Del Mia
1
As quickly as it starts, it’s over: a flash of snowy screen and a brash assault of noise that sounds the way ripping off a Band-Aid feels. Then, a video plays.
Frida and I lean forward at the same moment, our heads tilted and our bodies at the couch’s edge. The onscreen figure is shadowy, but I can just make out the signature charcoal-colored armor that’s the rubbery second skin of a towering, powerful frame. At his boots kneels a silver-haired man, his brown skin lined with experience. Despite the man’s age, he is solid and sturdy, even with his hands knotted behind his rigid back. He lifts his face skyward, and where fear should be, there is only defiance.
There have been impostors before, but there’s no mistaking who commands him to his knees. Even in the haze of falling dusk and grainy footage, Hero is raw. His movements are deliberate and calculated as he closes a merciless hand around the man’s neck. I’ve never watched a man die, but I know that’s what I’m seeing. Life seeps away in dreamlike slow motion, his struggling and bound body growing slack.
Hero’s head turns toward us. I squint to see better the eyes behind the thick, dark mask, but after his short nod, the camera falls to the ground. All we see is pavement until the lifeless body drops into the frame, and all we hear are retreating footsteps.
The television screen rips to snow again. Black and white pixels dazzle as seconds tick by, the noise still grating but somehow appropriate. Finally I glance at my roommate with wide eyes. Orange embers flare as she sucks on the joint pinched between her fingers. She reclines lengthwise on the sofa, tossing her sharp, black bob over the arm and crossing her ankles in my lap. “Damn,” she says on an exhalation.
The anchorwoman on screen wears a dour expression, but excitement sparks in her eyes. “You’ve just watched footage recorded yesterday evening. Witnesses attest New Rhone’s own Hero took down renowned drug lord, Ignacio Riviera, and two members of his crew without a single weapon. Riviera was the head of the Riviera Cartel, an association known for their drug dealings south of the border and whose presence in the city has recently increased. Their leader’s death comes weeks after the discovery that the Cartel has been recruiting American youth into their developing prostitution ring.
“To date, it’s only the third time our masked avenger has been caught on camera since it’s known he prefers to work under the cover of darkness. Even with protests earlier this week, the police force continues to call for the unveiling of Hero, labeling him a bad example and a disruption to their efforts to clean up New Rhone. We go now to Police Headquarters for a press conference with Police Chief Strong.”
I don’t even breathe as the woman disappears from the screen and is replaced by a statuesque, older man. “The removal of Ignacio Riviera from New Rhone’s streets is a step in the right direction,” he says, “but no matter Hero’s intentions, the fact is that three men are dead by his hand. He’s a citizen who’s not above the law and who’s not exempt from punishment. We’ll be offering a reward for tips that lead to his arrest.”
A woman’s voice comes from off screen. “Chief, you’ve been after the Cartel ever since they started dealing here. The FBI has called Ignacio Riviera ‘untouchable’ and ‘one of the decade’s most dangerous men.’ Shouldn’t you be thanking Hero for completing a job no one else could?”
“If every citizen took justice into his or her own hands, we’d have chaos. The FBI has spent years quietly gathering intel on the Cartel to lower the hammer of justice. Now we’re all back to square one. Hero may have solved a problem temporarily, but the Cartel will thrive regardless. As it is, Riviera leaves an heir behind. Hero sets a poor example—”
“Is it that he’s a bad example, or that he’s once again highlighted NRPD’s incompetence?”
“As I was saying, Hero has been a presence in New Rhone for long enough. The eyewitnesses we’re currently interviewing and the video you’ve just seen cannot be ignored. Hero will be apprehended because he’s a criminal.”
Injustice burns through my veins. “How can they do that to him?”
Frida shakes her head slowly against the arm of the couch. She aims the remote at the TV to mute it. “I know you don’t want to hear it, Cataline, but they have a point. When everyday citizens take things into their own hands like Hero, avenging every injustice they encounter, it creates problems. Last week is proof of that.”
“That was a fluke.”
“A man went to the East Side dressed as Hero to find the gang member who mugged and beat his wife. He’s not the first person to pull that and end up dead.”
“The answer is not removing Hero. He’s good for this city. Not only does he keep criminals in line, but he also puts fear into would-be criminals.”
“Look at the facts. Hero may be the good guy, but he’s an outlaw. He just murdered a man on camera. That wasn’t self-defense, and he’s not law enforcement. He’s just a guy.”
“He’s not ‘just a guy,’” I retort. “He risks his life daily for this city. They should show some gratitude for his service, not crucify him.”
“Okay, fine,” she says. “Just be prepared if they catch him.”
“They won’t,” I say.
Frida takes another hit of the joint and studies me from across the couch. “You were quiet on the walk home. Everything okay?”
“Same as usual.”
“How was work?”
My head rolls along the back of the couch, my gaze fixing on the ceiling. “I’m grateful to have a job, right?”
I can hear the smile in her voice. “Yes. Especially at Parish Media. For not having a college education, the salary’s pretty generous.”
“And yet, I’m still indebted to you.”
“Once your credit cards are paid off, we can figure that out.”
I smile at her, and she shrugs.
“You’re too good to me,” I say. “Hale, on the other hand, seems to hate me a little more every day. Maybe he’ll promote me just to get rid of me.”
She starts hacking without warning, waving her joint in the air as she gasps for breath. Finally, she wheezes, “Good luck with that.”
“One day the landlord’s going to smell that and call the cops,” I say.
“You think they give a shit about a stoner like me? This city is huge.” She half nods at the TV. “And they got bigger fish to fry. Want a hit?”
I purse my lips at her.
“Right,” she says through a grin. “More for me.”
She flips through the channels with the TV on mute. Images flash by, but I’m not watching. Frida tells me all the time I can talk to her, yet I still find it difficult to open up. No matter how many times I swallow, my throat feels dry as a desert. “Calvin Parish is sleeping with Lyla.”
“Oh, shit,” she says, looking at me with huge eyes. “Wait—who’s Lyla?”
“She works in accounting. I overheard her bragging in the break room about ‘boning the boss.’”
“Crap. That sucks.” She pushes her big toe into my side. “But how’s he supposed to know you want to sit on his face if you won’t even talk to him?”
I simultaneously laugh and cringe. “I don’t want to ‘sit on his face.’ Anyway, he’s the one who won’t talk to me. I’ve been there a year, and he’s hardly ever said a word to me.”
She drums the fingers of one hand on her stomach. “I think this is a good thing. From what you’ve told me, the guy sounds like a jerk. Plus, I have a beef with him. I got all dressed up for your lame office party just to catch a glimpse of this supposed god, and he didn’t even have the decency to show. His own company’s party.”
“He’s private.”
My answer gets me a raised eyebrow, but it’s the truth: Calvin Parish likes his privacy. If it weren’t obvious from his permanent scowl, it is in the way he tenses when anyone gets too close to him.
The fortieth floor reeks of stale coffee and is congested with half-walled cubicles, but none of that matters during Calvin’s daily visits. I work hard. I run every morning and attend Mass most Sundays. I’ve never smoked pot, despite the fact that Frida offers it weekly. I only allow myself one vice, and it’s Calvin Parish. Thick, wavy brown hair that falls over his forehead, even though he constantly brushes it back. His expression is perpetually grim, and his eyes permanently hooded, like there’s an entire universe behind them. Even shielded by bulky, black-rimmed glasses, his olive green eyes smolder. I’ve imagined that looking directly into them is such an experience, I’d come out a different person. I’d do it anyway, even knowing it could be my undoing. Just to see what would happen.
“I’m sorry about Lyla,” Frida says. I wonder how long she’s been watching me with her inquisitive look.
“It’s okay. I should concentrate on other things right now anyway. No time for boys.”
“Boys? Isn’t Calvin in his thirties?”
“Okay, no time for men,” I say. “For now, I’ll have to settle for appreciating his beauty from afar.”
At some point she’d stopped switching channels and unmuted the TV. Bugs Bunny is on the screen, sleeping and snoring though his rabbit hole floods. Even focused on the cartoon, I sense the disapproval in Frida’s glare, as though it’s a thing that might reach out and knock me over the head. Finally she says what I already know she’s been thinking: “I’m going to get you laid.”
“Nope.”
There’s frustration in her sigh. “You need this. You know I think it’s sweet that you’re holding out for the right guy, but that’s fairytale stuff, Cat. This is real life, not one of your books. I promise, your first time is not as big a deal as you’ve made it out to be. It’s just messy fumbling in the dark.”
I look at my fingers, picking at the chipped, midnight blue polish. “Waiting until I’m in love is not making a big deal out of it.” I drop my hands back on the couch and look at her. “You act like I’m some kind of freak for wanting that.”
Her feet wiggle in my lap. “You’re a twenty-two-year-old virgin. Nowadays, that makes you a freak.”
I laugh and roll my eyes. “I admit, it’s a little old-fashioned, but when I meet ‘the one,’ he’ll appreciate it.”
“Screw ‘the one.’ Here’s what you do: bang a lot of guys before you find the love of your life. That way when you finally meet him, he won’t be able to resist your sexpertise.”
I giggle. “That’s messed up, and you know it.”
She giggles too, and her head falls back toward the TV. A green-skinned evil scientist with an oversized head enters the frame. “Oh, dear, delays,” he says, “delays, nothing but delays.” The scene cuts to a steel, blue dungeon door with “MONSTER” stamped across it. It rattles with beastly growls, but the scientist unlocks the door calmly. “Come, Rudolph,” he instructs as the looming, heart-shaped monster is revealed. His pulsing, vermillion fur is marked only by large, scowling eyes. “There is a rabbit loose in the castle, Rudolph. Return him to me, and I shall reward you with a spider goulash.”
Frida bursts into a seemingly endless fit of laughter. She points at the screen as Rudolph grins and disappears on his rabbit hunt. “Cataline,” she sings madly at the screen. “My virginal Cat-uh-leen, who walked into my life at eighteen, with just a single bag, what a terrible drag.”
As I watch her laugh so hard that she almost falls off the couch, I’m only thankful. Four years earlier I boarded a bus alone from my high school graduation ceremony to this doorstep knowing only the grand things I’d heard about the big city. I dragged a bag in one hand and in the other, clutched New Rhone’s “Classified” section with this address scribbled across it in red pen. Frida opened the door, all jet-black hair, piercings, and bossy attitude. But it was only minutes before my shoulders relaxed, and she was gossiping about Russ across the hall’s affair.
Tonight as I fall asleep, thoughts of Lyla from accounting plague me. She has fine blonde hair and yellowish skin that stretches over high cheekbones. Her eyelids sag under periwinkle eye shadow that gathers in the creases around her eyes. She is things I'm not: brazen, pushy, confident. She finds cheap thrills in alcohol and late nights. She doesn't seem to have trouble finding men, only keeping them.
Men like Calvin, who would take her home and bestow her with a smile I’ve never seen, something sweet and personal. A smile just for her. He’d trail his fingers through her hair and down her naked back. I shiver wondering how his touch would feel against my skin, and suddenly I’m Lyla. It’s my spine his fingertips drag down and then back up until reaching the ends of my long, murky mane. He’d remove his glasses to look into my blue eyes and take my jaw in both palms. I can almost feel his lips on mine now, opening me up as his fingers slide into my hair to play in the tangles. His kiss would mean something. Behind his glasses, as I stripped away the brusqueness of him, the curtness of his every move, I’d find tenderness. People like him are hard because they have something to protect. Even from a distance, I know that something is worth protecting. Goodness that’s buried like treasure.
2
There are two things that get me through my workday—meeting Frida for lunch and staring at Calvin Parish. Currently, I’m doing the latter. The office is my dreamland and Calvin, my star. At the moment, he’s sexy-prowling toward my desk, irradiated by ribbons of sunshine as he passes by each window.
“Cataline,” Mr. Hale hisses.
I jump, and my chair groans as I whip around to the cracked door. “Yes?”
“I’m not here,” he says before disappearing back into his office, locking the door after him.
My fantasy disintegrates. Calvin is striding in my direction, and since the sky is currently overcast, any sparkling sunshine was merely a figment of my imagination.
“Mr. Hale isn’t in right now,” I say barely in time.
Calvin grunts, sparing me no glance as he continues forward.
Fear propels me out of my seat to block the door. I splay my arms across it just as he reaches for the handle.
“I need to leave this for him,” he says to a spot above my head. He slices a Manila envelope in front of my face. His body heat practically fuses my back with the door. I’m spellbound by him, his scent, the proximity of him, all the while seeking out his eyes. Just as I open my mouth, his gaze drops. His glasses slide a millimeter as his head tilts, and for one vibration of a second, our eyes connect. Even behind the glass shield, I see the worldliness in him—a soul that seems equal parts calm and stormy. I have no breath, though my lungs burn for it. His glance is so quick that it ricochets off me, but it leaves me heady nonetheless. “Do you mind?” he asks, anger edging his voice.
“I’ll see that he gets it, Mr. Parish.”
“He’s not in?” Calvin asks. “You’re sure?”
His hand dashes by me, brushing my waist to turn the handle. The lock breaks with a loud snap, and the door swings open.
Mr. Hale’s voice comes from behind me. “Mr. Parish. Can I help you?”
I shrink down as Calvin glares over my shoulder and then at me, this time holding my gaze. “No. I’ll just leave this with your secretary.”
“Executive assistant,” I correct automatically.
“Mouthy for someone who just lied to the man who holds her fate in his hands.”
“Fate?” I repeat.
“Your job.” He says job as though I’m the most incompetent person he’s ever encountered. He pivots away, tossing the envelope on my desk without a backward glance.
My muscles liquefy, a belated reaction to being within inches of the subject of my frequent daydreams. His scent lingers in my nostrils, intoxicating my already whirring mind. Or perhaps it’s just the memory of him? My urges morph between laughing and crying with each rapid heartbeat.
I might’ve stood there all day if not for Mr. Hale’s barking. “Miss Ford. Come in and shut the door.”
My shoulders square before I turn around and seal myself in his angry bubble.
“What the hell was that?”
“He wouldn’t listen to me.”
“He waltzes in here all the time unannounced. Just because he owns the company doesn’t mean he can do whatever he damn well pleases.”
“Actually, I think it does.”
“Then I guess I don’t need an assistant, do I? If you’re not there to take my messages or to prevent people from treating my office like their own, maybe I should just manage the desk myself.”
I cross my arms behind my back because my hands involuntarily curl into fists. “Yes, sir. You’re right. I won’t let it happen again.”
I meet Frida downstairs for lunch, gasping for lungfuls of air like they’re my last. Smog suffocates, and the sky has been clouded grey for a week, but I’m thirsty for all of it after the stifling fortieth floor.
“Let’s eat somewhere new,” Frida says. “I’m tired of Armando’s.”
“But I really like Armando’s.”
She takes my hand and pulls me in the opposite direction. “Didn’t you move to the big city to experience new things? Get away from suburbia and that awful excuse for a family?”
I hurry to keep up. “They aren’t as bad as you make them out to be.”
“Yeah, yeah,” she says. “Putting a roof over your head and making sure you didn’t starve to death wasn’t doing you a favor.”
My sideways glance is reproachful, but she doesn’t see it. “You’re exaggerating. Things could’ve been much worse. The Andersons were a gracious foster family.”
She snorts. “Graciousness cannot replace love.”
“I wasn’t their own,” I say.
She squeezes my hand in hers. “Here we go. Taco Shack. Still Mexican for you, and something different for me.”
The wait is longer than Armando’s, and it’s twenty minutes before we’re finally making our way to a booth in the corner. Mouth open wide, I lean in to take a bite of my chicken taco. Before I can, I meet a pair of clear blue eyes across the restaurant. They’re openly staring, which turns my cheeks warm, but I can’t look away. It’s a moment before I notice the vibrant tattoos that sleeve his arms. Sculpted arms, actually, that strain the sleeves of a button-down shirt the same golden-khaki color of his hair. Another man nudges him while balancing a tray of food.
Frida’s words snip the moment in half like scissors. “I’ve been thinking about our conversation a couple weeks ago. You know, where you admitted you needed a good lay?”
I scoff. “Might want to take it easy on the pot. Your memory seems to be failing you.” I take a mouthful of taco.
“I worry about you,” she says. “You’ve been in this city for years, and I’m your only real friend. Your last date was, like, six months ago.”
I roll my eyes at my taco as I chew. “Feigning an emergency and ditching me with a co-worker is not a date.”
She smiles proudly. “But it is sort of brilliant.”
“You don’t need to worry,” I say, ignoring her. “I just do things differently. Dating for the purpose of dating doesn’t appeal to me.”
“Your confidence is low, and your standards are high,” she continues. “You’re making excuses so you don’t have to put yourself out there.”
I bristle and drop my taco into its basket. “That’s not true. I am ready for a relationship, I just haven’t met anyone decent.”
“What about Cal—”
“Shut up,” I say, ducking my head and scanning the room. “What if someone from my office is here?”
“That’s it,” she says, shaking her head. “I’m setting you up with this guy from work who—”
I straighten my shoulders when I spot the blond man weaving his way through the tables, a tray in one hand and a soda cup in the other. “Hey,” I call to him, shooting Frida a triumphant glance. “Looking for a table?”
Frida follows my gaze and mutters, “Holy fucking bad boy.”
His blond hair is long enough to slick into perfect obedience, contrasting the chaotic colors that paint his tanned olive skin. Liquid blue eyes are soft, kind even, as they meet mine, but there’s something unsettling in the slow spread of his smile. Before I can decide how to feel about it, he’s nearing the table with his friend close behind.
“Nowhere to sit,” he says.
I nod, sliding deeper into the booth and gesturing next to me. “Lunch rush. Sit with us.”
Frida finally shuts her gaping mouth and smiles at the other man. “Please,” she invites. “We know what it’s like to spend half the lunch hour waiting for a table.”
“This is Juan,” says the man with mesmerizing blue eyes, nodding across the table. “And I’m Guy.”
I wipe my hands on a napkin to take his outstretched one. “Cataline.”
“Cataline.” He smiles as if the name itself is inherently amusing. “I don’t believe I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing a Cataline. Do you work around here?”
I nod, swallowing my mouthful. “A media company nearby. How about you?”
“Finance,” he says, adjusting the knot of his invisible tie. They both belly laugh over the hum of the crowd. “I’m kidding. We deal in body parts.”
“Body parts?” I exclaim.
“Yeah, the auto industry. Fenders, radiators, bumpers—boring shit like that.”
“Do you eat here often?” Frida asks while I stare at him.
“First time,” Guy says, winking at me. “Something on the menu caught my eye.”
Frida is watching my every move, so I hold Guy’s gaze, despite the heat creeping up my neck. “You seem a little out of place,” I say.
“Cat,” Frida admonishes.
“It’s cool,” Juan says. “She’s right. We’ve got business in the area.”
“You’re not from around here, Cataline, are you?” Guy asks.
“I grew up a couple hours away, actually.”
He leans back against the booth, studying me. “What brought you to New Rhone?”
I gesture toward the large window behind Juan and Frida. “I love this place. My whole life I’ve watched it from the outside, wishing . . .” I shrug. “I don’t know. Who wouldn’t want to be here?”
He inclines his head toward me and grins. “The crime rates don’t scare you?”
I shake my head. “We walk through downtown every night to get home. Never had a problem. We just steer clear of the East Side.”
His answering chuckle coats my skin with goose bumps. “Pretty girl like you ought to be more careful.”
“And there’s Hero,” Frida says.
Guy’s smile falters with a twitch. “Hero?”
“She’s sort of got a thing for our masked avenger.”
“Interesting,” Guy says.
“You see that thing on the news recently where he killed the Cartel guy?” Juan asks, his eyes darting between each of us. “That was fucked up.”
“Cataline didn’t think so. Justice being served makes her hot.” Frida looks at Guy. “Maybe over a dinner date she can tell you all about it.”
I mutter under my breath, and she scowls when I kick her shin.
“So men in masks do it for you, huh?” Guy asks.
“Don’t tease her. He’s her knight in shining armor. If you, say, ever wanted to see her again, I’d recommend playing nice.”
Guy holds his palms up and this time his laugh is lighter. “Message received.”
“We should get back or we’ll be late,” I say.
Both men stand from the booth. “Thanks for letting us crash your lunch.”
I smile at Guy. “No problem. Enjoy your meal.”
Outside the restaurant, the early-fall breeze is nothing compared to the icy look on Frida’s face. “Goddamn it. What was that?”
I squint at her. “What?”
“You’re all talk, Ford. You should’ve asked Guy out.”
I glance back through the glass doors of the restaurant, but I only see my own reflection. “I don’t know. There’s something a little off about him, don’t you think? Did you see all those tattoos?”
“They’re super hot.” She leans in and lowers her voice. “Also, I need to switch professions. He was wearing a Rolex.” She raises her eyebrows. “Go back in. Get his number.”
My teeth imprint on my bottom lip as I consider it. “Really?”
“Definitely.”
I sigh. Before I can decide, the door flies open so I have to jump out of the way.
“Sorry,” Guy says, running a hand through his hair. “I came out here to ask you on a date, not knock you down.”
His candor leaves my mouth hanging open.
“She’d love to,” Frida answers for me.
I snap my jaw shut. Guy is laughing melodically, showing off a perfect row of white teeth. The smog breaks, and the gilded undulations of his gelled hair glint under the sun’s attention. Time seems to stop as we all look at each other, appreciating the moment, and then the sun disappears again behind its black cloud.
Guy clears his throat. “I’m not in the business of forcing dinner dates on girls, no matter how pretty they are. I’d like to hear it from Cataline.”
That’s twice he’s called me pretty, and twice more than I’ve heard it in a long time. It makes me smile. I’m having a hard time deciding if he’s just what I’ve been looking for or if he’s something to run from. Frida’s voice is in my head, telling me I’m making excuses.
For no reason at all, I tilt my head back and look up. Three enormous crows are making a leisurely circle above us, evaporating behind the smog, then reappearing. Three black silhouettes of flapping wings and pin-sharp beaks. I glance over my shoulder expecting something, but nothing’s there.
Frida’s watching me with an eyebrow raised as Guy waits patiently.
“I don’t even know your last name.”
He smiles. “Fowler. Guy Fowler. So, what do you say? Can I take you out?”
Frida sighs.
“Sure,” I say finally. “I’d like that.”
“I’ll call you,” he says with a warm smile as he backs away.
“But you don’t—” I stop when he disappears into the restaurant and look at Frida. “He doesn’t have my number.”
“Hale’s going to go ballistic if you don’t move your ass.”
My entire body freezes suddenly as a chill runs down my spine. I’m motionless and braced for whatever’s behind me, but nothing happens. Frida’s already halfway down the block, so I run to catch up with her without looking back.
* * *
I’m shutting down my computer when my desk phone rings. I debate sneaking out, but it’s still two minutes to five o’clock. “Mr. Hale’s office.”
“Cataline? It’s Guy Fowler.”
Stunned, I don’t answer right away.
“You there?”
“Yes,” I say. “I’m impressed with your stalking skills.”
He laughs. “Fortunately, there’s only one major media company near Taco Shack. I won’t keep you. I wanted to tell you that I enjoyed meeting you, and I hope to take you on that date very soon.”
“Oh. Thanks.”
His voice drops suggestively low. “If it didn’t go against conventional dating rules, I’d take you out tonight.”
“Tonight?” My hand is sweating around the receiver when my eyes are drawn up from the desk. Calvin is standing rigid near the office entrance, glaring coldly in my direction, maybe even at me.
“Don’t worry,” Guy says. “I can be patient. I’ll see you again soon.”
There’s a click, but it takes me a moment to hang up. The conversation leaves me unsettled, but it’s Calvin who’s making me squirm. Lyla approaches him, waving her hands in front of him, almost blocking him from my sight. I keep staring, feeling as though I’m trying to receive whatever message he’s sending.
I faintly register an echo, a blurred-bokeh din. It’s a rude disruption to my moment with Calvin. By the time I feel for the receiver, I have no idea how long the phone’s been ringing. “Mr. Hale’s office.”
“Cat, it’s me.”
“Frida?”
“Going to happy hour, want to come?”
“It’s a work night.”
“Hey, guess what? You were right about Guy Fowler.”
“What? Why?”
“At lunch I thought the tattoo on his forearm looked familiar—a small rose. Well, just now I remembered where I’ve seen it. All the Riviera Cartel members have that—”
A finger drops in front of me, landing squarely on the phone’s hook. “Frida?” Mr. Hale asks, cocking his head. “I realize it’s after five, but do you think that allows you the luxury of personal calls?”
“No, sir. It was my roommate about something important.”
He lifts his finger, and I replace the phone in its cradle. “Your roommate?” he asks, scratching his chin with a crooked index finger. “The girl from the holiday party?”
I nod, and he grunts. “So what was it? What did she have to say?”
“I’m not sure. She didn’t finish her sentence.”
“Was it about her latest crush? Or maybe she bought a new lipstick?”
I stare at him dumbly. The word unemployed lights up in my mind, a flashing reminder of what will happen if I react how I want.
He sighs, clearly frustrated by my lack of response. “Save the girl talk for your living room, okay?” He thumbs over his shoulder at the clock. “You’re free to go.”
I take my purse from under the desk as Hale watches. On my way to the exit, my eyes go automatically to Calvin, whose back is to me. That feeling from outside the restaurant is back, a shift in the air while Guy waited for my answer. Even turned away, he draws me. The day almost calls for something as tragic as me finally approaching Calvin Parish. I swivel and push my shoulder into the office door, heading for the elevator.
Night falls all at once. Oncoming pedestrians with downcast eyes and shuffling feet force me to weave down the sidewalk. White steam ghosts from manholes, deceitful cottony clouds masking my surroundings. It becomes so unusually thick that for a moment, it’s all I see. When it dissipates, the slick streets are yellow again with the reflection of streetlamps. As I get further from downtown and closer to my apartment, people darken into silhouettes.
My heels puncture the night, a mocking clickety-clack that echoes off the concrete. I’m about to cross the street to my building when I stop mid-step. My heart flurries into a rapid beat. Our corner is oddly empty, not a person to be seen. Just this presence I’ve been feeling all day.
I fumble in my purse and whip around, pepper spray raised to attack. I heave a deep breath when nothing’s there and wipe my forehead with the back of my hand. When I call out, it ricochets off the buildings. “Hello?”
The street glistens with recent rain, and pockets of amber light spot the sidewalk. Nothing feels real. Even the sky, black and starless, seems to end beyond my sight as if I’m under a dome. I step backward and connect with a wall that wasn’t there a moment ago. Arms of steel surround me, squeezing my breath away. My scream is silenced by a damp rag and an inconceivably large hand. Something harsh and chemical fills my nostrils when I inhale. My heels thrash as I’m lifted in the air and spun around. The last thing I see before everything dissolves into black is the door to my apartment building, just outside my grasp.
