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We say our goodbyes and I toss my cell on the passenger seat. It’s times like this when I consider if I’ll even start my own institution at all. Being a freelance hitman means no turf wars, no treaties to abide by. All I have to do is start the fire and sit back and let it burn.
I’ll always have Lorcan’s back, but because I want to. Not because I’m contractually obliged to suit up, strap up, and hit the trenches to fight a war I don’t give a flying fuck about.
I switch on the ignition and pull out, heading towards Route 1. He’s right though, I need to lay low for a while, and not just for his sake. My head has done nothing but swim with thoughts of Dahlia Rose and I need to reset. Get back in the game.
There’s only one place I go to when I need to do that.
My finger hovers over the turn signal, but I don’t hit it. I don’t turn either, passing the sign for the highway and staying on the road.
If I’m going away for a while, I need to go with a clear head. Nothing, or no one, lingering around in the fucked-up part of my brain.
The last vow I made to leave her alone was silent. I broke it.
If I speak it into existence, then I know there will be no turning back.
Dahlia
It’s pathetic how often I twitch my bedroom curtains, hoping to see a pair of white headlights winking back up at me. Especially since I have so much other shit to worry about. Like, you know, coming up with eight million dollars for a local gangster in two weeks.
Yep, two weeks. When I spluttered “one month” at Lucky, I was more concerned with getting him out of my apartment, rather than striking a logical deal. But fourteen days have passed in a blink of an eye, and I’m barely closer to coming up with the cash.
Well, I’m a little closer.
I twist around on my bed and look towards the dresser, where my knight in shining armor-slash-almost-punter slammed down a wedge of cash. Twenty-three-thousand dollars. It’s sat in the same place he left it, collecting dust, as I ponder what the hell to do with it.
I know what I should do, really. I should give it to Lucky to show him that I’m really trying to chip away at this debt. I should probably give it to him at the same time I head down to his club and ask for a job, which was my original plan all along.
Girls like you don’t belong in clubs like that.
That’s what the mystery man said when he blocked my path and strong-armed me down an alley. My face prickles at the memory of his forearm pushing against my stomach. His hard chest against my back.
Girls like me. He doesn’t know what kind of girl I am, just as much as I don’t know what type of man he is.
I’d love to find out though. Which is why there’s a hollowness in my heart since he turned and stomped out of this apartment. I’m craving his attention, his touch.
I just wish he’d come back.
I’m curled up in a ball at the bottom of my bed, wondering if twenty-three-thousand dollars is enough for a convincing fake ID and a year’s rent anywhere in California. UCLA has a good psychology program, and I wonder if the entrance exam is easy enough for me to pass within the next couple of months. I’m daydreaming of a life away from this shitty apartment when a flash of light floods my room.
I’m instantly breathless, jumping to my feet and crossing the carpet to the window in half a stride.
The lights flash. Once, twice in quick succession, and then again. In a way that can’t just be a coincidence.
Oh my god, he wants me to come down.
Panic rises in my throat as I tug on my jeans and stick my feet into a pair of flip-flops and dash out the door. Billie’s room is silent, so she’s probably still at work or watching her fuck-up boyfriend play a gig in a dumpster somewhere. I’m worried he’ll be gone by the time I get down there, so I take the stairs two at a time, twisting my ankle underneath me in these stupid flip-flops. My heart does a double beat when I see his car is still waiting for me.
I’m wheezing by the time I slip into the calm serenity of his car. He doesn’t look up.
“Why are you following me?”
The muscle in his jaw contracts, and he tightens his grip on the steering wheel.
“I don’t know.”
“You must know.”
He turns to face me, pinning me with that stone-cold stare. “Do you want me to stop following you?”
