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Gabriel turns around and takes a hundred dollar bill out of his pocket and drops it on the table. He grabs his black duffle off the bench seat and then takes my arm.
“Let’s go.”
I don’t argue. He walks me out of the building and down the street a little way before stepping into a dark alley. He releases my hand, dropping his duffle, and starts pacing.
“I know that,” he mumbles as he pulls at his hair. “I know.”
I stand helplessly watching him battle whatever demon he hears in his head. I look to the opening of the alley. The thought of running hits me again, but it’s fleeting. I learned my lesson about running at Ace’s. Besides, I owe him to at least help. He saved my ass back at that diner.
“Gabriel,” I call his name. He stops pacing but doesn’t turn to me. “Look at me.”
His heavy breathing and the pounding of my heart in my ears are the only noises in our little bubble. Eventually, those extraordinary eyes I’ve grown used to, land on me.
“We’re okay. I’m right here.” I step up to him, not knowing if this move will end up with my head smashed against the brick wall or not.
Luckily, he doesn’t make any sudden movements. Reaching for his hand, I move slowly until I wrap my fingers around his wrist. The entire time our eyes are linked together. I move his hand from his head and place it against my chest. My heart is nowhere near as steady as his is when he does this.
His gaze falls to where his hand is pressed against my chest. For a moment we remain that way. It isn’t until we hear the sound of sirens passing by that the both of us turn toward the opening of the alley. Gabriel removes his hand and goes over to pick up the duffle.
“Come on,” he says over his shoulder. “I need to make a quick stop at home.” I step up beside him and he starts walking. This time he didn’t grab my arm. We walk side by side down the street, an assassin, and his victim.
chapter Seven
Withdrawals
Summer
We stand outside a typical brick walk up apartment building. The type where they can charge four thousand in rent for the location, but the apartments look no better than the shit in the projects.
“For some reason, I thought the killing business would be a little more lucrative,” I say, as I gaze up at the red brick building.
“No. It’s only a step up from homeless prostitute.”
I swing my head to look up at him. His face is stoic as he too looks over the building.
“That was a good one,” I say, chuckling. “You can add standup comedian to your list of things to do when the killing gig tanks.”
His green eyes land on me and his lips lift a minuscule of an inch upward. I guess that was as close to a laugh as I’ll ever get.
He turns back to the building and heads inside. I follow. We skip the elevator and go straight for the stairs. I think he gets a kick out of making me suffer. By the time we make it to the 8th floor my body is on fire and I’m sweating like I’ve been running a marathon.
Gabriel looks over at me and frowns.
“I’m alright. I just need to sit down,” I try to explain.
He opens the door to his apartment and steps aside for me to enter. The size of the place doesn’t shock me. I’ve lived in New York most of my life. I know how tiny these apartments can be. This is a studio no larger than 400 sq ft. As soon as you enter, you’re in the galley style kitchen. The dark oak cabinets and faux granite counters are bare.
The kitchen lets out to the main area of living space. A simple couch is placed against the wall with a plain rectangular coffee table in front of it. There is no other furniture in the room. Not a television, side tables, not even a plant in the corner. I would say it’s the bare minimum, but this isn’t even the minimum.
“Were you robbed?” I don’t turn to look at him, but I feel him pressed up behind me.
“No,” he replies, before walking past me to the folding doors on the other side of the room.
When he opens the doors, I can tell it’s a closet. A few measly shirts hang on hangers along with a large hoodie and some shorts. There is no way this is his true apartment.
Gabriel yanks his shirt up over his head, exposing his wide back with all its cords and muscles. Damn! I didn’t realize they made backs like that. Not even the crisscross of old scars can detract from the beauty of this man.
He quickly replaces the old shirt with a black long sleeve thermal. He grabs the hoodie off the hanger and then picks up a pair of black combat boots and turns to me.
