And today of all visits, I’m not in the mood.
My body is standing in his living room, but my mind is thirty miles south-east of his grand estate in Franklin Lakes, back in New York with her.
It’s been days since I’ve managed to think of anything else.
“Yes, Atlas, you have been more than generous. But if you would just please sit down, we could work something out.”
He flinches at the sight of me reaching for my waistband. He squeezes his eyes shut when he sees it’s a gun. “Ashburn,” I sigh, lacking the adrenaline to enjoy any second of this. “Just let me know, right now. Do you have the money or not?”
“I—”
“No,” I interrupt him firmly. “I need one word out of your mouth. A yes, or a no.”
“No—”
One bullet, right through his third eye, and his brains are splattered on the beige couch behind him.
I stare at his lifeless body, numb to the blood pooling around his head and the glassy look drowning his eyes. “Fuck,” I mutter to no one.
It’s gonna be a pain in the ass explaining this to Romanov.
I’m not like this. I’m not impulsive.
Pulling a trigger is easy; it’s finding another way around the problem that is hard. It’s what makes me so good at what I do. I don’t think with my gun; I think with Romanov’s bank balance.
But her…
She’s thrown me off balance, and I have no one to blame but myself.
Forget about her, I scold myself, climbing back through the jagged window pane and strolling back to the Merc. It’s over.
I did what I had to do. I nipped it in the bud. The flower may have grown into something amazing, but its weeds would have pushed through the cracks of the foundation I’ve worked so hard to build.
It’s just a shame that Violet is one goddamn beautiful flower.
26
Violet
The anger turned into mourning real quick. Tears replaced the rage, and now, everything I do feels like I’m doing it in slow motion.
It was 3am when the switch over happened. I couldn’t sleep — I haven’t slept since I came back to my apartment — and the rain was hammering against my rickety window.
Alone with nothing but my thoughts and the repetitive leak from my ceiling, I realized that I miss him.
Yes, a man I spent less than five hours with. I miss him, everything about him. I miss the mix of excitement and fear I felt whenever I was near him; the smell of his oaky cologne when he got a little too close. How soft his large hands felt when they wrapped themselves around mine; how rough they were when they slid up my thighs.
It’s irrational. Ridiculous. But it feels like not only am I mourning him, I’m mourning what could have been.
The anger is still there. It just comes in waves, drowning me with its red-hot rage at the most unexpected of times. How could he do this? He used me, abused my body, and kicked me to the curb.
In my weaker moments, I’ve thought about calling him up and just asking him why? What did he mean by not wanting to give me the wrong impression? Sex aside, what type of impression does paying for my education, a new apartment, wiping all my debts, give?
I’m still wide-awake when my alarm goes off at 6am. Getting ready is an automated process; I shower, brush my teeth. No affirmations or mantras in the mirror for me today.
As I reach for the door to leave my apartment, something glints in my peripheral vision.
The macaroni bracelet daisy made me.The rings sparkling on my finger. A constant reminder of what I never had.
I slip one of them off and toss it on the coffee table.
***
“Soy latte, decaf, extra shot and cream?” This request doesn’t come from the other side of the counter, but from a few meters away by the pick-up station. It belongs to my boss, Meg, and judging by her pursed lips and hands-on-hips stance, it’s not a leisurely request.
“Uh, yeah,” I mutter, fiddling clumsily with the brewer. “Coming right up.”
“Yeah, we needed it three minutes ago, Violet,” she hisses through stiff lips, before throwing an apologetic smile towards a waiting customer.
The morning rush is usually my favorite shift to work; despite the assholes ordering complicated drinks, the quick pace makes it fly by. But today, the constant hissing of the steam pumps, the whirring of blenders, and the even the repetitive piano-music soundtrack floating through the shop is overwhelming.
“And the grande, quad, non-fat one-pump, no-whip espresso?” She’s looming over my shoulder now, staring at my shaking hands trying to put a lid on a takeaway cup.
“It’s coming,” I grit my teeth in an attempt to bite back what I really want to say. Fuck off and get off my case!
“People have jobs to get to, Violet, come on!” Her shrill tone is getting more and more irritating by the second. I’m one more decaf, dairy-free mocha away from chucking a hot pot of coffee in her face. “Pick up the pace.”
I try my best to drown her out, focus on frothing my latte and pumping the right amount of syrup into the right cups.
“Here,” I say, sliding the soy latte across the counter, flashing a customer-service grin to the man in a suit on the other side. “I’m so sorry for the wait, sir.”
He takes one sip and his face sours. “I asked for decaf,” he sighs, exasperated. The way he’s looking at me is how a teacher looks at their naughtiest student when they are extra disappointed. I want to reach over and rip that patronizing expression off of his—
Three loud claps interrupt my evil fantasy. My neck whips around to see Meg, her hands inches from my face. “Pick. Up. The. Pace.” She claps again, in time with every word that she spits from her mouth.
My reaction is instinctive; my anger is oozing from me for my brain can catch up and remind me of the consequences.
“You know what, Meg?” I yell, tugging at the knot at the back of my apron. “How about you make the drinks?” I ball up the apron and throw it with all the pent-up rage behind me. “I’m sure you’ll be able to do it better than all of us combined.” I turn away from her shocked face to gesture in the direction of the three other dumb-founded baristas on the line. “Come on,” I roar, clapping my shaking hands in her face. “People have jobs to get to!” Before the tears come, I spin on my heel and head to the staff room. “I quit!” I shout over my shoulder.
27
Atlas
I told myself I’ll check in once a week with Oisin. And even then, just in passing. Ask him how the job is going when he drops off paperwork to my office, or when he comes over for a Friday night beer.
But I’ve become obsessed.
I take a sip of coffee and refresh the only page I have open on my MacBook. I’m not expecting the blue dot on the map to move for another six-and-a-half hours, but it is. It’s already half way up 123rd Street, moving at quite a quick pace. “Where are you going,” I mutter to no one in particular, before pulling out my cell and tapping the ‘last called’ contact.
“Oisin,” I bark before my brother can even greet me. “Where’s she going?”