Page 83 of Theta

"Try a lifetime."

My stomach lurches at this. "Killy," I breathe.

“Too much too soon?"

"Stop the car."

"Story—"

"Just stop the car for a second, Killian."

He yanks his hand free from mine and scans our surroundings for somewhere to stop; he makes a sharp, abrupt left into a narrow space between buildings—I'm uncertain whether it's a road, an alley, or just a liminal space created by an accident of the urban topography.

He brakes to a halt and puts it into park, twists in the seat to face me. "So what's—"

I knot my fingers in his shirtfront and yank him toward me, crash my mouth onto his with a soft breathy grunt.

He's shocked into momentary motionlessness at the suddenness and intensity of the kiss, and then his hands slide over my cheeks and ears and frame my face, and he's kissing me back with equal ferocity. It's a war for supremacy, then, each of us leaning into the other, pushing and pulling, deepening the kiss and softening, teasing and demanding.

I pull away first, just enough to meet his eyes, my fingertips perched on his cheekbones. "A lifetime sounds perfect."

"Is it nuts?" he whispers. "To think I know that that's what I want? That I want it with you? That I know I'll never want it with anyone else?"

"Maybe," I whisper. "But we can be nuts together. Because same."

"Story, I—" he searches my face from a distance of inches. "God, I've loved you for so long."

I quest my lips against his again, my hands trailing down his cheeks and then curling into the hair at the base of his skull, and then I'm clasping the back of his head and cupping him closer, daring my tongue against his and leaning into him. "I'm about to climb over this damn console."

He glances into the rearview mirror and frowns. "We can't get a single fucking moment alone, it feels like."

A policeman patrolling on foot is standing in the alley-mouth, watching us.

"It'll be worth the wait," I tell him, giving him one last quick soft kiss before sinking back to my seat. "C'mon. Let's find a good place to ambush these goons. I'm getting irritated."

Killian snickers. "That sounds hazardous to their health."

"Very much so," I mutter.

He puts the car in reverse, and the patrolman continues on his way as we back out of the space that's barely wide enough for the car. By now, we've been aimlessly perusing the streets of Olbia for almost an hour, and we spend nearly that long again making our way to the outskirts, and then he cuts through the center directly again to the docks; I know Olbia almost as well as Minneapolis, by now. He finds a parking spot near the docks, and we stroll the waterfront area, ending up at the Olbia archeological museum, a large concrete structure on a mini-island nestled between a longer and a shorter section of pier. We spend some time there, browsing the artifacts, and then we find a restaurant within walking distance and take a long, leisurely meal. We talk about nothing in particular and spend a lot of time simply sitting together in companionable silence. We spend more time strolling hand in hand as if we're merely tourists. We don't have much of a plan, to be honest—we've parked the car in an obvious, open place, away from other cars and with no obvious cover right nearby—it's just a big, open parking lot.

As two hours turn to three, I can tell Killian is starting to question the plan, such as it is, to lure in and ambush the goons. By the time four hours have passed since the last batch of killers appeared at the hostel, the late afternoon has turned to evening, and we’ve had dinner, espresso, and cannolis, and have walked what feels like several miles at a slow, seemingly aimless strolling pace.

Killian turns my wrist so he can check the time. "We should get into position where we can see the car."

We've discussed the plan ad nauseam while walking, and the best course of action so far as we can discern is to get them as they swarm the car itself. The pier—or dock, I don't really know the difference, if I'm being honest—is nearly a mile long, a widening rectangular wedge of concrete with rows and rows of semi-trailers parked in serried ranks; it's a large enough area with enough industrial traffic to warrant a traffic circle, of sorts. The port authority office is a rectangular stack of concrete blocks and windows, and clustered directly nearby is the maritime station—a series of circular structures. Above all of this rise the superstructures of two cruise ships.

Even from the distance of nearly a mile, the cruise ships are so massive as to defy my brain's ability to accept the scale.

"You don't realize how big those things are until you see them in person," I remark, as we approach the car so we can collect our things from it—we couldn't exactly carry a backpack full of guns and two compact assault rifles around Olbia.

Killian snorts. "Story, the freighter we were on was bigger. Well, longer, at least."

“Yeah, but I didn’t really see the damn thing, did I?” I say. “I sat in the dark, and then I was frog-marched the length of it and shoved into a rubber dingy in the middle of a freaking hurricane. I only have a vague impression of falling a long way, hitting the water, and then feeling like I was on a very wet rollercoaster."

Killian blinks. "Oh. I mean, when you put it like that, yeah, I guess you're right—I'm only going based on what I already know about freighters. Having lived in the Caribbean my whole life and growing up within paddleboard distance of a major shipping lane, I've been around freighters and cruise ships since I could swim. Let me tell you, you can get some serious air jumping a jet ski over a freighter's wake."

"Isn't that…dangerous?" I ask.