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I trail over to the bed that Hades has claimed for himself. It’s the same one that we hooked up on.
I run my fingers over the downy comforter, tracing the place where I lay. Where Hades made me feel such extraordinary pleasure.
Heat shoots through me at the memory of it, so brief yet so exquisite.
The same place I was sitting when he turned cold as ice.
Yeah, I have to stop reliving those moments. I’ve been tormented by them for the last two days. My skin crawls.
I need to finish this goddamn artwork fast so that I can be rid of Hades forever.
I lean against the bed and hear a quiet crumple. I tilt my head, examining the side of the bed where my leg rests. A flash of colorful paper catches my eye. I see a thick stack of euros sticking out from under the mattress.
When I lift the corner of the bed, I’m stunned to see what a million euros is easily maybe, stacked under Hades’ mattress as cavalierly as one might hide a diary or a baseball bat. There are also three sleek, shiny guns.
I make a face. Wherever Hades is, he’s missing some hardware that I would rather not know existed.
I snag one of the stacks of money. The crisp bills smell new and are heavier than I imagined they would be, somehow. After a moment’s thought, I pick up a gun, too.
You can never be too careful when you’re a fugitive on the run from the whole fucking world.
It only takes about thirty seconds of hunting before I locate the keys to the bright red convertible parked outside the warehouse. Hades will likely be pissed when he realizes that I’ve taken the car… but he wasn’t here when I needed some aspirin.
My stomach gurgles faintly. Make that aspirin and something to eat other than stale pastries. I don’t need to go far… just the first gas station or retail pharmacy shop should do the trick.
I scoop up my phone, pocketing it and the stack of euros before I head outside. It’s bright outside, the day as hot as all the others. Dust clings to my stylish black booties as I strut out to the car.
It’s been years since I drove a car. Especially one as expensive and sleek as the little black two seater. I can’t help thinking about that as I start up the Mustang, revving the engine.
Excitement makes me shiver as I turn the car around and nudge it toward town. The first car I ever learned to drive was a stick, just like this. But I am a little rusty, especially starting out.
Yeah, I stall the engine a couple of times before I get the hang of it. The gears grind a few times.
But hey. It’s not like Hades will care… right?
No, I shouldn’t be worried about what he thinks. He deeply, truly sucks as a person anyway.
Gaining a little confidence, I zip along the highway and crest the last big hill separating us from the city. At the very top of the hill, the city spreads out below me like a pool of ink.
“Wow,” I mumble to myself. “People that said Monaco was dazzling weren’t lying.”
I plunge the car down toward the tall, white sandstone buildings. They are one a grid, each perfectly placed, not quite skyscrapers but impressively tall, nonetheless. Around them are clusters of squat buildings, dense at the center and growing sparser as the city fans out its hands toward me.
I feel almost giddy as I push the car faster and shift into fifth gear. It’s liberating, being free from Hades for a few minutes and flying down the highway at a breakneck speed.
I zoom right past a gas station without a moment’s hesitation. Forgetting all about people hunting me down, I make a beeline for downtown Monaco City.
No one that is looking for me will find me. Not in the short time it takes to grab aspirin and maybe a fresh baguette from a nearby corner store.
I grin to myself as I fly by most of the sparse clusters of gas stations and banks. At length though, I cut my speed down, twisting my mouth as I look around. I speak a little Cajun French. I know how to ask for the restroom or where the nearest library is.
oùsont les toilettes?oùest la bibliothèque?
Basic high school French taught me that. But I can’t for the life of me remember the word for pharmacy in French. All I can think of ispharmacia, which I’m almost certain is Spanish.
I stare at the signs as I pass them, slowing the car to a crawl. Horns blare behind me, making me panic a little.
Parapharmacie Édouard.
