Page 10 of The Triangle

I keep the pistol and it jabs me in the back when I sink down into the soft couch cushions, aware that my body is bruised and achy and the gun isn’t helping matters, but the pressure of a gun against my lower back is something that makes me feel better. So I don’t care.

He comes out of the bedroom sans rifle, taking his heavy leather jacket off as he crosses the room, my eyes tracking him the whole way. It jingles from all the zippers and that’s all I concentrate on until he hangs it over the back of a chair at the small table next to the kitchenette and things go silent.

I look at him.

He’s nice to look at.

Dark blond hair, blue eyes, thick, muscular body, and a square jaw with at least a week’s worth of golden stubble on it. His arms are bare now but full-sleeved with tattoos. Skulls and skeletons, mostly. Which makes me think of the logo on the garage door.

“Danny Fortnight,” I say, putting two and two together.

He smiles, which almost changes him into a different person. “Christine Keene.”

“So now what?”

He sighs, shrugs, then walks over to the couch and sinks down into the cushion next to mine.

There is some deep desire hiding inside me. Something that makes me want to sink into him. Rest my head on his shoulder, wrap my hands around his upper arm, and just… forget about everything else but us.

But I don’t do that. I want to, but I don’t.

“I’d make small talk,” he says. “Ask you what you’ve been up to these past few years, but I’m gonna assume you don’t know. So…”

He lets the word dangle there. Waiting for me to pick it up.

“So…” I say, thinking. Thinking about what’s missing between us. Because clearly there’s a lot.

“So I got this place,” he says, saving me from myself. “It’s going pretty good.”

“You make bikes?” I say, staring straight ahead. Because something tells me if I look at him I’ll do something stupid. Like hug him. Or kiss him. Or something worse. Or better, depending on how you see things.

“I make bikes.” He sighs. And then he sorta chuckles. Which—I’m so fucking weak—makes me turn my head involuntarily so I can see him. “I sold one last week for a hundred and fifteen grand so I got money.”

That last part reverberates in my head for a few seconds. It implies whatever history we have between us didn’t involve a lot of money. “I don’t need money.” It’s true too. According to the text on the phone I’m rich in virtual currency. And the thing inside me says if I think hard enough about that little fact, I’ll know how to liquidate it into something real pretty quick.

“Maybe not,” he says. “But I got some.”

“Now what?”

“We wait, I guess.”

“For?”

He huffs out something that isn’t quite a laugh. “For fuckin’ Alec to call. Just like old times, right?”

“Is it?” I ask, still looking at him.

“Look,” he says, reaching for my hand. He folds his fingers over mine and squeezes. “Whatever it is he’s got you into, I’ll get you out. OK?” His blue eyes do that searching thing again. They scan me like a laser that knows how to read my barcode. “Don’t worry about what happens next. I got you.”

I want to pull away and make him squeeze me tighter at the same time. Both urges running deep. Both desires simultaneously confusing and comforting. His hand is so warm, his whole body radiating heat that calls my name.

He lets go of my hand and puts his arm around me and pulls me close.

I sink.

Absolutely sink into him.

And we just sit there in silence. For long, drawn-out moments. For eternity.