Perhaps that’s my mistake: running away from the past instead of confronting it. Fleeing the dragon instead of slaying it.
Confusing hiding with moving on.
I look at the gun I stole from Killian’s guest room resting on the nightstand. I remember the knife stashed in the pocket of my coat. I think of all the ways I’ve trained to save myself from danger, all the ways I’ve contorted myself to make up for the sins of a single man, and wonder if the point of all the training and striving hasn’t been safety or penance, but preparation instead.
Every warrior has to go to battle. Everyone who trains with a sword must eventually use it to fight.
Max says, “Hello?”
“I’ll go back to the apartment. For the time being, you and Fin stay out of sight.”
“Jules—”
“I won’t risk your safety.”
She chuckles. “That’s a sweet thought, babe, but it’s not your decision. Wherever you go, we go, too. Without the other Musketeers, D’Artagnan was just a wannabe in a dumb cape.”
A wave of emotion overwhelms me. I don’t deserve this kind of loyalty, but damn, it sure is great. “I love you. You know that, right?”
She’s silent for a moment. “Jesus. Don’t make it sound so awful.”
“What do you mean?”
“You saying ‘I love you’ sounds like anyone else saying, ‘The dog’s dead.’”
When I laugh, swiping at my watering eyes, Max says, “That’s better. I’ll see you at home.”
She hangs up before I can make any more depressing statements.
Two hours later, Fin, Max, and I are standing together at the big bay window at the front of our apartment, looking down onto the street below.
Fin says, “What is he doing?”
We watch Killian stride back and forth between two parked SUVs. They’re his, obviously, the big ones with blacked out windows, shiny rims, and general air of menace. He doesn’t stop to speak to the men inside, he simply walks the half block distance between them then turns around and goes the other way.
Max says, “He’s pacing.”
“Why?”
“Maybe that’s how he gets his exercise.”
I know better.
I know that right now he’s down there doing battle with himself. I recognize the signs. Hands flexing open and closed, thunderclouds gathered over his head, jaw muscles jumping.
He’s trying to restrain himself from running up the steps, kicking down the front door, pulling me out of the house, throwing me over his shoulder, and taking me back to his bat cave. Even from a distance, he looks like a man obsessed.
I can’t decide if I’m flattered or if I should call the police.
Without breaking his stride, he glances up at the window. Our gazes lock and hold. Heat flashes over me. I exhale a soft, mystified laugh, wondering how it’s possible that merely looking at him could raise my temperature by several dozen degrees.
Fin elbows me in the side. “Don’t be rude. Wave.”
Max says, “Judging by the look on his face, a wave isn’t what he wants from her. Dude is intense.”
Fin makes a noise of agreement. “Maybe you should call him, hun.”
“What would she say to him, Fin? ‘Hi, I can see your boner from here. Looks majestic. Send it on up.’”
“I’m just saying that he might calm down a little if he heard her voice.”
“Or he might explode into a million superheated mafia king pieces.”
“We can’t let him stomp back and forth across the sidewalk all night. You know Mrs. Lieberman downstairs is already on the phone with 9-1-1.”
“I’m not calling him,” I say quietly, watching him turn on his heel and go back in the opposite direction. “I’m not doing anything with him. He said he’d protect us from the Serbians, and if his way of handling it is to wear a groove into the cement, so be it. He won’t get a reaction from me.”
Fin’s whistle is low and impressed. “Play on, player.”
“No games. I just have to disengage, not escalate.”
Max snorts. “I’d escalate it all the way to a hundred screaming orgasms, myself.”
Fin says drily, “Gee, what a shocker.”
I say, “To what end? It would be a disaster. A stupid, dangerous, and completely preventable disaster.”
A man steps out of one of the SUVs. I recognize him. It’s Declan, the handsome one who called me Your Highness and got a sharp rebuke from Killian over it.
Spotting him, Max says loudly, “Holy crap, what is this? The Evil Supermodel convention? The first annual Criminals Who Can Cut Steel with Their Cheekbones event?”
Declan approaches Killian. They share a few words, then Killian starts his pacing anew. Declan heads back into the car, shaking his head.
As for me, I turn away from the window and lie down in the middle of the living room floor. Staring up at the ceiling, I say, “Someone please bring me a Xanax. I have to get up for work in a few hours. At this rate, I’ll have a heart attack before then.”
Fin says, “Oh, shit, that’s right. Tomorrow’s Monday. It seems like lifetimes ago since we broke into that diaper warehouse.” She turns, looks at me on the floor, and smiles. “Since I broke into that diaper warehouse.”
I say without heat, “You suck. Also, you’re wrong. I’m the one who used the bolt cutters to get through that chain, remember?”
“What I remember is you flailing around like a newborn giraffe until I handed you the bolt cutters. Which I brought.”
I entreaty the ceiling, “Why must everything be a competition?”
Max chimes in, “Because you were Ms. Crabtree’s favorite. She’s never forgiven you for it.”
I remember our glamorous ninth-grade teacher at boarding school, and say, “Oh god. Carolyn Crabtree. I wonder what she’s doing now?”
Fin says, “Still slaying young men with her crystal blue eyes and masses of wavy red hair, no doubt.” Her smile falters. She says more softly, “Young men and women.”
Gazing at Fin fondly, Max says, “You always were a sucker for a ginger.”
“And you always were a sucker for anything with a dick.”
“They do have their charms.”
“Name one. I’ll wait.”
Fin and Max grin at each other, while I lie on the floor, emitting plaintive moans. “Xanax!”
“You know we don’t keep Xanax in the house, dummy.” Max comes to sit cross-legged on the floor next to me. She takes my hand and pats it. “But I’ll let you borrow my vibrator.”
I close my eyes and heave a sigh. “So gross.”
Fin sits down on my other side and takes my other hand. I say warily, “Are we about to start a séance here, or what?”
“More like group therapy,” says Max, making me moan again.
“No. No therapy. I don’t want to talk about this. About anything!”
No one says a word for a while. Fin starts to brush her fingers through my hair. The silence is heavy with anticipation.
I insist, “I’m not talking about him. I don’t even want to say his name.”
“Hmm,” says Fin, exactly like a therapist would.